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"Xtreme"
Chapter Twenty-two of a novel
by Claude Hall
When someone has died, death hangs on in the house.
You can almost see it, like a thin fog of gloom,
drifting from room to room and face to face among the
people who have gathered in silence or almost silence.
Because everyone whispers, if they talk at all. The
body has long been gone, but death has not left yet
and everyone is afraid of it.
She had known, of course, that Chase Dudley enjoyed an
enormous number of friends. Business acquaintances,
too. But mostly friends. Gary Owens, Roger Carroll,
Casey Kasem, Humble Harve, Peggy Lee, Dwight Case,
Norm Pattiz, Russ Regan, Joe Smith, Jac Holzman,
Mickey Dolenz, Sonny Bono and Cher, Bill Ward, Bobby
Ocean, Harry O'Connor, Ted Randal...dozens upon dozens
more...were there staring at each other, sad. Henry
Mancini, Dick Haynes, Mel Blanc who had trouble
talking in his own voice while the voices of Bugs
Bunny and Sylvester were shelved for the moment, Rex
Allen, Mikel Hunter, Bob Hope. Everyone who was
anyone and a lot of people who'd been someone once but
now were ghostly figures. They all mourned the
passing of someone who'd been a part of so very many
lives, including their own. Some chemistry had told
them of Chase's death and they'd come here, like
surfers gathering at a beach with high waves.
While she stood on the sidelines, people came and
people left. Mrs. Dudley, Jean, welcomed them all and
said goodbye to them all, sipping at a glass of wine
someone had handed her out of kindness. Because of
the wine, perhaps because she'd had a little too much
of it, she was the happiest person there and still her
face showed no humor and only a little life; her
husband of years had died and took some of her with
him.
Susan was surprised that Bob Belser was there with his
brother, all dressed in dark suits with dark ties and
all wearing sunglasses; she was surprised again when
Bob took off his dark sunglasses to wipe away tears.
This made her feel even kinder toward the man.
"You got the cap?"
"Yes. Thank you."
He shuffled his hands in the air. "It's nothing,
believe me. Nails mentioned that you're, well,
seeking more gainful employment. You want me to put
in a word at some of the record labels?"
"No."
"Good. I hate that sort of thing. You ask a favor
and they always want a favor back. I'll do it,
though, if you want me to."
"Thanks," she said, "but I'm thinking about an
entirely new line of work. Not in the industry. You
want me to return the cap?"
"Of course not! That's yours. You will still need it
sometime, I assure you."
"Thanks again," she said, although she still had no
idea of what the cap was actually for. "You knew
Chase very long?" Susan asked quietly
"Yeah," Bob replied, also in very low voice. "Just
like everyone else here, he was almost an uncle to me.
To my brother, too. Loved the man. Loved him. I
will miss him greatly."
"They've arrested Lee Brown of Songdust for his
murder," she said. She didn't know why she told him
this. It might not be appropriate. And, to tell the
truth, she didn't know if the arrest had actually been
made yet.
"Ridiculous," said Bob. "Stupid."
"Then you don't think Lee did it?"
"No way," said Bob. "People I've talked to think it
was suicide."
"The police found out that Lee Brown bought those
pills Chase took."
"Chase asked me and some others first. We all
refused. I'm definitely sad to hear that Lee Brown
obliged him. I am not happy about that."
"Why would Chase kill himself?" she wanted to know.
"Ah, perhaps it was his time to go. You know? And
when it's your time, there's not much you can do about
it but git."
Bob quickly drifted away, almost as a business thing,
a man making the rounds of the tables at a nightclub.
She saw him talking with the president of a major
record company, then he moved on to say hello to Barry
Fiedel, then, only nodding in the direction of Joe
Isgro who was being talked about as in trouble with
the law regarding payola, he moved on to say hello to
Julie London and her husband pianist Bobby Troup. Bob
seemed to know everyone. He was gracious with the
women, chin up with the men. She soon lost sight of
him among the crowd.
Susan noted that someone was providing wine. But she
didn't feel like drinking at the moment. It was not a
desire, or even a need, to keep her mind clear. Just
that she didn't feel like celebrating the death of
Chase in even a mild sense. Some of the throng,
however, now mellowed out, were leaving. She, too,
would soon be gone.
She wandered about the house, brushing past people she
didn't know and those she didn't want to know and many
that she would have enjoyed talking with, but this, of
course, was not the time or place. The house was
early valley, built obviously soon after F. Scott
Fitzgerald left the San Fernando Valley for good and
the orange groves disappeared, one by one, to make way
for people. The kitchen had been remodeled recently.
And a swimming pool had been added to the backyard at
some point. It was not a very big pool, nor very
pleasant.
In the study, she found her article lying on Chase's
desk. Obviously, the police had been there. Maybe
even Detective Raul Cardenas himself. Perhaps the
detective hadn't noticed it. But it was in plain view
on the desk just as if Chase had finished reading it
before he took a handful of pills, decided that
nothing was happening, and took some more. Like Bob
said, he'd killed himself. Why?
She felt very strange. Her story had done this?
She picked up the three pages of copy by the corner,
almost afraid of it; it no longer seemed to be her
story. Evidently, Chase had brought it home to edit;
some copyeditor marks had been made, an entire line
had been slashed out, with a red ballpoint pen. Then
she remembered that Chase didn't use a ballpoint pen.
Carefully, she found a couple of blank pages and put
one on front, one on back of the article and placed
the article in her purse.
Susan found it very difficult to say goodbye to his
widow, Jean Dudley, but performed the ritualistic
chore with stone face and soft words, praising the
image of the man rather than his sad, farewell act.
Mrs. Dudley took all of this bravely, but Susan
thought that her eyes were trying to hide a great
sense of relief.
"I can't believe all of these people!" Jean Dudley
said. "I think Chase would have been pleased. He
never would have expected all of this, though."
"That's the way it is sometimes," Susan said. "We
never really suspect the truth about ourselves until
it's too late."
"The joke was on him," Jean Dudley said. "He thought
there was no place for him anymore. He was quite
depressed, you know, about losing his job."
"Losing what job?" Susan asked.
"You didn't know?" his widow said.
As soon as she was in her car, Susan phoned Bill
Ferguson and told him that Chase Dudley hadn't been
murdered, but had taken his own life.
Bill told her that no arrest had taken place.
"Brown had an alibi," Bill said. "According to the
coroner's report, Chase Dudley died about midnight.
Lee Brown and your publisher, Zeus McRae, were sitting
in his office talking with the door shut about that
time."
"Meet me at my office," she said.
"You don't have an office," he pointed out.
"At the Songdust office," she explained patiently.
"And bring Detective Cardenas with you."
"What for? I just told you that Lee Brown has an
alibi."
"You want my help. Here's some help. Does Lee Brown
have an alibi for the night the Mojo Man was killed?"
asked Susan.
There was a brief silence on the other end of the
telephone.
"Well, well," said Bill and hung up.
She enjoyed the ride back to the Songdust office. It
was sort of a victory march, like a gladiator
returning home with the spoils of war. Some spoils!
She hadn't planned to go there again. Never. But,
here she was parking in her usual spot, draping the
Mexican blanket over the two seats, taking her purse
and walking toward the elevator. En route, she
checked that her gun was in reach. Knife, too. Bill
and Detective Cardenas were just inside the doorway
waiting out of the heat of the afternoon sun.
"Do you know what you're doing?" the detective asked.
"No," she said. "Wouldn't be much fun if I did."
Bill did the old coughing tango.
"Too much Camus," Bill said. "I knew it. I knew it."
It was yet early afternoon and even though the week's
deadlines had come and gone, there was always the next
issue. A job on a newspaper or a weekly publication
such as Songdust never ended; the cycles of other
deadlines were always lurking just beyond reach. As
expected, both Zeus and Lee were still there, busy in
their offices, according to Tammy. She wanted to know
how Mrs. Dudley was taking everything. Susan told her
okay, "but not really okay, if you know what I mean."
"Did Lee kill him like the police think?"
"No. Chase was a victim of circumstance," Susan said.
"What does that mean?" Cardenas asked Bill.
Bill just shook his head.
"I do not know," he said.
While quite a few people still were at work in the
office, they moved around very cautiously, as if
expecting the worse to happen, avoiding each other,
avoiding any necessity to explain what they were doing
and why.
Susan went over to Zeus McRae's office door, which was
closed as usual, and turned the doorknob. That is,
she tried. The door was locked.
"This is the police!" she said in a loud, commanding
tone. That is, it was as commanding as she could make
it.
After a moment, the door opened. Once Zeus spotted
Detective Cardenas, he came further out of his office,
did a "ha, ha" and told Tammy "perhaps you should call
my lawyer." But he was looking at Detective Cardenas
as he said it and said it as a weak joke and Susan had
no intention of letting him off the hook like that.
"Good idea," Susan said to Tammy over her shoulder as
she brushed past Zeus.
She strode defiantly into his office, followed by the
others, and thought for a moment about sitting in
Zeus' chair behind his desk, but already, just halfway
across the room, the odor of pipe tobacco was
overwhelming and so she walked over and sat down on
the leather couch as far from Zeus as she could get.
She placed her purse in her lap and unzipped it so she
could reach her gun. There was something ominous
about the man. Always had been. Always would be.
She could easily fancy him as Bob's so-called "black
sheep" mafia. But, of course, he wasn't. She already
knew who that was. And so did Zeus in all
probability.
Bill came over and stood beside her, though he only
glanced disdainfully at the couch.
"Why are we in this office if we're here to arrest Lee
Brown?" he asked.
At this, Zeus perked up slightly. The glum lines on
his face disappeared as he realized that he was not
exactly the person in jeopardy.
"This is a better couch. Actually, Lee doesn't have a
couch in his office because he doesn't even have an
office, just a cubicle," said Susan and smiled
brightly at Bill.
He just quickly looked away, his jaws clinched.
Detective Cardenas, however, was not going to let her
play games. He came over, stood in front of her,
looked down menacingly. "Is Mr. McRae the killer?"
"I don't think so," said Susan.
She watched Zeus very carefully, waiting for a
reaction. He walked over to his desk and took his
pipe up, but hesitated with one hand at his ornate
tobacco canister and then set his pipe down on its
tray.
"Then who did?" Detective Cardenas demanded.
"Why, it was Lee Brown, of course," she said. "Zeus
McRae merely held the Mojo Man while Lee stabbed him.
With my knife, I might add. Lee found the knife when
he was prowling around my desk, as he usually did
after I left work. He persuaded Zeus to hold him.
Then stabbed him."
At that point, Zeus McRae's face changed color
rapidly, first to red, then to a pale shade of blue as
he tried to breath and talk at the same time and
didn't have enough air in his lungs for either chore.
"I did not! That's a lie!" he shouted. "You have no
proof!"
"Tsk, tsk!" Susan said. "Me thinks he douth protest
too loudly."
"I would, too," Bill said, then demanded of Susan.
"How do you know all this?"
"Logic," she said. "I'd heard that Zeus was planning
to fire me and hire someone else for my job. The Mojo
Man evidently got word about it and came to demand he
get the job. He knew that Zeus was involved in a
payola scam with the record charts and threatened to
expose everything if he didn't get the job. He was a
creep of the first order. Zeus knew that he could
never keep him quiet for long and he'd demand more and
more money. The only thing to do was quiet him
permanently. I'll bet you'll find Lee Brown's
fingerprints all over my desk. He may have wiped them
off of the knife, but he would have overlooked those
on the desk and the desk drawer. Ergo, proof of the
pudding. I figure the Mojo would have gotten away,
prevented himself from being killed, unless there was
at least one of possibly two extenuating conditions:
First, he didn't know he was going to get stabbed;
second, someone held him. I figure that Zeus there
helped hold him."
"I knew nothing about it!" Zeus shouted. "I don't
know anything about any killing."
"What about the crooked charts?" she asked.
Zeus tried at first to respond, to deny any knowledge
of that, too, but floundered and, trying to hide
again, he began to furiously pack his pipe and didn't
do that too well either, but quickly lit the pipe and
tried to get some smoke billowing about the room. He
plumped into his soft desk chair and continued to puff
with great aplomb at his pipe, looking out the window
at the Hollywood sign on the height of the hills.
Once, he glanced at Bill Ferguson, but quickly turned
his attention again to the hills. You'd have thought
he was deeply engrossed in thinking.
Cardenas, however, was more active. He left Zeus'
office with pounding strides. He returned almost
immediately.
"This Brown fellow has taken a hike. The receptionist
says he left quickly right after we came in. Guess he
has a guilty feeling about something."
"Imagine that," said Susan. "Do you have a guilty
feeling about anything, Zeus?"
"No," he said.
"Why did you fire Chase Dudley?" she asked.
"He wasn't working out," Zeus said defiantly.
"Seems as if I've heard that somewhere," Susan told
Bill.
"Why did you fire Chase Dudley, Mr. McRae?" Bill
demanded of Zeus.
Zeus puffed at his pipe like a runaway freight train.
"He wasn't working out. Didn't fit the image of the
magazine."
"What image precisely was that?" Susan wanted to know.
Zeus refused to answer the question. He picked up his
phone and pressed a button.
"Has my lawyer got here yet?" he asked. He hung up
and turned to Detective Cardenas. "My lawyer should
be arriving shortly. I will not answer any more
questions except under his advice. He's a very good
lawyer."
"Not good enough," Susan said.
But he was. Unless Lee Brown confessed, there was no
evidence that actually implicated Zeus McRae in the
murder of Edgar "Mojo Man" Sprague. He might be
indicted later in the government's investigation into
payola, but that was another matter for another day.
The man was so smug! He sat there in his small cloud,
confident that he had not only cheated the world, but
had done so successfully.
Susan simply couldn't stand the utter gall of the man!
"You must have a cap," she said suddenly, rising from
the couch, which had been indeed comfortable, and
confronting Zeus directly in front of his desk.
"What cap?" he asked, his face moving away from his
pipe slowly, his eyes dim and half closed because of
the smoke.
"A Giants football baseball cap!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Zeus said.
"Like this one," Susan said. Her purse was already
unzipped. She reached inside and pulled forth the
baseball cap that had been presented to her from Bob
Belser.
"I would never wear one of those things!" Zeus said,
then he looked directly at Detective Cardenas and
remarked, "This woman is quite mad, I assure you. All
of these ridiculous charges of payola, murder. I've
had nothing to do with any of it."
"It's some kind of mafia protection device," Susan
said. "Something like that. I was given it by
someone in the mafia who said I would know when to use
it."
Zeus nodded.
"Quite mad. Quite!"
"Who gave it to you?" Bill wanted to know.
In the short story she'd written that long ago Friday
night, the editor of the magazine, stepped in front of
a speeding car on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was
never known, in the short story, whether he was
executed by the mafia who thought he'd doubled crossed
them or had become so burdened with guilt and fear of
eventually being exposed that he'd committed suicide.
She thought of that now.
"I can't tell you," Susan said. "But I'd like Mr.
McRae here to know something for damned sure. He may
escape the law with his bigshot lawyer, but he won't
escape the mafia. If it's any comfort to him, they no
longer shoot people or place them in concrete booties
and toss them in the bay. One day when he isn't
paying an awful lot of attention, he'll step out into
the street in some place like Santa Monica and he'll
never see the car that hits him. The mafia cleans up
its messes. And this magazine and Zeus McRae and Lee
Brown are a mess. If they don't get him for something
like that, they'll take care of him because of Chase
Dudley."
"What did he have to do with Chase Dudley's death?"
Detective Cardenas wanted to know. "I thought you
told Bill Ferguson that Chase Dudley committed
suicide."
"He did, but it was because of the payola
investigation and because Zeus McRae fired him."
"Mad, I tell you!" Zeus said. "Completely mad!"
Shortly after the lawyer arrived, a laboratory crew
arrived from the Los Angeles Police Department and
began to go over Susan's office. It didn't take long
for them to find Lee Brown's fingerprints scattered
throughout her desk. He must have gone through her
desk at least once a night. What he was searching
for, she had no idea. Incriminating evidence of some
kind? The strong possibility, just as she'd surmised,
was that he stumbled across her knife and made use of
it and wiped it clean of all fingerprints. She hadn't
known that for a fact. It just made sense in a crazy
sort of way.
She gave her article to Detective Cardenas and
explained about the red ballpoint pen marks. She told
him about Chase Dudley being of the old school, a man
who used pencil so he could erase in case he changed
his mind or made a mistake.
"Check Lee Brown's office," she suggested. "I would
be greatly disappointed if you don't find one or two
ballpoint pens with red ink."
Yes, there were several cheap ballpoint pens in the
middle drawer of Lee's desk, all with red ink.
"How did the story get from Chase Dudley's desk here
at the magazine to his study at his home?" Detective
Cardenas wanted to know.
"That would be one of the questions I'd ask Lee Brown,
if you catch him. I surmise that he realized Chase
Dudley had been with the mafia as a young man and
confronted him with that information and fired him.
Knowing the information might get out, Chase killed
himself."
"Oh, we'll catch Brown," the detective said, running a
hand through his white hair. "Impossible to get lost
in this city. It's really a small town and I imagine
that it suddenly gets a lot smaller if you're trying
to hide."
Susan grinned at him and shook her head.
"I'm not the only one who's quite mad around here."
The police did their magic, but the magic fizzled and,
somehow in some way, Lee Brown wriggled through a
far-flung communications net and by the end of the day
was nowhere to be found.
Yet, Susan knew he was out there. Her father's genes
and her uncle's sass and intimate knowledge of sass,
her training under these two men who were geniuses in
their own fashion, told her that Lee Brown might run,
but not without some form of revenge. She could
virtually feel him lurking in every shadow, in every
dark doorway.
She mentioned this to Bill.
"I'm sure you'll be able to handle him without much
trouble," Bill said.
"Right," said Susan.
But inwardly, she doubted her ability when it came to
Lee Brown. Amidst rattlesnakes, he was more of a
sidewinder. They are smaller than the ordinary
rattlesnake, which can grow as long as six feet back
in the Hill County of Texas and around Sweetwater and
Big Springs. But a diamondback will usually give you
some kind of warning with that bone-chilling sound of
his rattle. The sidewinder, on the other hand,
usually is only two or three feet long and they strike
without warning. Vicious! She had a suspicion that
Lee Brown had no intention of facing her in
hand-to-hand combat, that all of her HCX training and
experience would be useless against him.
That's why she kept her gun in reach, her handbag open
on the seat beside her, as she drove home that night.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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August 2, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
The subject is Jerry Wexler. I respect him
greatly,
although I actually know very little about the man.
Yet, I find it fascinating that some of our heroes in
the long ago--and Jerry Wexler was certainly a hero to
many and may have contributed vastly to the careers of
countless recording artists--have grown nebulous in
the media world of today and, perhaps, even slightly
vague in the memories of us who knew him then.
Does anyone know him now? Quien sabe? A recent
Commentary featured a letter from Novella Smith, now
Novella Smith Cromer,
novellasmith@yahoo.com. She
mentioned a Miami convention at which "the gangsters
came to take over (The Fair Play Committee, the ones
in robes) and all white people were in trouble! They
were looking for Jerry Wexler!" To become fully aware
of what was going on that evening long ago, checkout
Commentary for Sept. 1, 2003. Anyway, both Novella
and I received an email recently, to wit: Ibeeda
MANN, voxpop@ev1.net: "i
knew a jerry wexler in los
angeles years ago who now be around 72 years
old..could it be he? thanx, chet norris."
Novella and I both were a little confused about the
source of the email. Two names? Novella wrote him
and copied me: "The Jerry Wexler I am speaking of was
head of Atlantic Records. He is 87.
http://www.rockhall.com/hof/inductee.asp?id=209
http://www.alamhof.org/wexlerj.htm
http://discover.npr.org/features/feature.jhtml?wfId=1128236
So....who be you, Ibeeda? or Chet?"
Thus, mysteries still grow up like weeds around the
man Jerry Wexler. Even down these long years. How
really well did any of us know the man? Is he really
87 years old now? Hard to believe. The man I knew
was ageless. More important: Why was he important
enough for a bunch or robed thugs to want to kill him
as an example approximately 30 years ago? At that
point--the days of the convention in Miami--Jerry
Wexler had achieved no real fame. He wasn't even the
most successful record producer at the convention.
That nebulous honor would probably have to be hung
around the neck of Shelby Singleton who'd produced a
rarity in the record business--a runaway hit with
"Harper Valley PTA" by Jeannie C. Riley. "Harper
Valley PTA" at one point was selling so fast that
Shelby was using more than one record pressing plant
and they still couldn't press 45 rpms fast enough.
Shelby phoned me at Billboard to plead, "Claude, don't
let the charts lose this one." I had nothing to do
with the charts; Shelby was probably phoning everyone,
including the doorman of the 146 W. 46th Street
building where Billboard was located, as they said in
those days, "behind the Palace Theater."
Now it is true, if memory holds firm, that Shelby was
attacked during that convention and put in the
hospital for a day. As I recall Shelby telling me,
someone phoned his suite to warn him that some guys
with guns were coming up and he replied, "Tell them to
bring big bullets." Shelby, incidentally, had several
black friends at the suite who at least prevented him
from being killed. From Louisiana, Shelby probably
didn't even think black friends or white
friends...just friends. Once, he invited me out for
soul food. In Manhattan! Shelby, you see, took his
background and his culture with him wherever he went.
He was then, and I suspect now, nothing more than
Shelby Singleton. The Shelby Singleton, if you
prefer.
It was a much different story regarding Jerry Wexler.
Jerry Wexler, by the time of this particular
convention, had produced a few hits, including "The
First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" with Aretha Franklin
that literally made her entire career. I seem to
remember we were at lunch--Paul Ackerman, Jerry
Wexler, and me--and Jerry said he'd just produced a
"hit record" in, of all unlikely places, Muscle
Shoals, AL, a recording studio literally handmade by a
guy named Rick Hall. Jerry said that Rick had nailed
cardboard from egg crates on the walls to control the
acoustics. Jerry spent three days and nights on the
record and I think used musicians out of Memphis which
in those days enjoyed a bevy of the greatest musicians
probably in the world...especially in the horn area.
At this point, the record was not yet the hit it
became, the classic it became, for it was certainly
the focus point and turning point for Aretha. Paul
asked if we could write the story. Jerry was
reluctant because I think he wanted to keep the studio
sort of a personal secret. But Jerry loved Paul
Ackerman, just one of many, incidentally, in the
record and music publishing business who thought Paul
was literally the industry's shining light (which he
was). Jerry agreed finally, reluctantly. And Paul
and I asked the questions, I took the notes, and wrote
the story. The headline: "There's Gold in Them Piney
Woods." Story didn't even make the front page of
Billboard which was determined by story importance and
fought for among the staff, but it helped spread a
growing trend of recording outside of the three major
centers--New York, Los Angeles, and Nashville. I
remember a disc jockey named Don Rabbitt or something
similar who'd recorded a couple of hit singles in
Memphis and, of course, you had Sun Records there.
And Buddy Holly recorded out of Belen, NM, as I
recall. But when James Taylor recorded in Miami, it
was music news and music history. And, yes, Jerry
Wexler once mentioned recording in the studios of KWKH
in Shreveport and you had some country records being
done hither and yond in one fashion or another. But
in those fledgling days of rock and roll, the Sun
studio was not akin to the recording studios yet to
come. Nor was Muscle Shoals or Belen.
Jerry Wexler, of course, was quite popular with blacks
in the music business. Whether he was this popular
with blacks in radio, I do not know. But I always
felt Jerry was closer to r&b than pop music, per se.
Ray Charles never sold records to the extent of his
fame. But I would bet that Jerry Wexler had rather
listen to Ray Charles any day of the week than someone
such as Andy Williams. Not that Jerry didn't
appreciate all kinds of music; I'm sure he did and
probably listened to classical music more than pop.
It's just that while I personally preferred
old-fashion gut-wrenching blues, I suspect Jerry was
engrained in what we called, for a time, race music,
then soul music, once r&b, now? Regardless, he knew
music, knew the business, and, of course, produced
quite a few artists, black and white, during his
career.
However, the reason why Jerry was important enough to
kill as an example in Miami by the Fair Play Committee
still remains a mystery to me.
Jerry Wexler was, without question, a very complex
human being. But aren't we all? He certainly was no
standout in those days. The music business attracted
its appropriate number of ordinary people, I'm sure,
but most of the people that I knew during my years in
the business were not only exceptionally bright, but
exceptionally talented. And exceptionally colorful.
You, yourself, could probably name several of such.
And overiding factors was that they were also
extremely in love with the music. Jerry spoke two
languages. One was so erudite you couldn't understand
him; the other was so filthy and gutterish that you
were sorry you could understand almost every word.
But he only spoke one language when it came to music.
Quality. All kinds of music. Still, I personally
believe to this day that there was more than one Jerry
Wexler. Perhaps the scholar as well as the music man.
Atlantic Records had been started by two brothers, or
they had acquired the label in its fledgling years,
Ahmet and Nesui Ertegun, who loved jazz. By the time
I joined Billboard, the label was oriented heavily
toward r&b, rhythm and blues. Jerry Wexler, who'd
been a reporter for Billboard, had been with them some
while, but wasn't yet renown. I don't even know if
Jerry was part of the ownership, per se.
I recall seeing Jerry in Miami at his beautiful home
on one of the canals. I remember the furniture as
being vastly expensive and vastly comfortable. I
thought at the time that this was the way I wanted to
live. Comfortable. Easy. I never did. But Jerry
knew the level of quality and lived that level to the
best of my knowledge. He talked of going deep-sea
fishing. He was reading a book about politics that
immediately set him off from the general person.
Especially those in the music business. It was the
kind of book a college professor might read. Swimming
pool. Boat dock of sorts. We were down there for
some convention and he invited Paul Ackerman out to
his place. I was just along for the ride. Joe
Calkins, a record man who bought a Mercedes-Benz from
Jerry, picked us up at the hotel on Miami Beach. A
huge Mercedes that drove like a ship. Drove us there
and back. We had a pleasant time. Jerry mentioned
"North Towards Home" by Willie Morris, a guy I'd known
vaguely at The University of Texas. I felt a little
guilty that I not only hadn't read the book, I didn't
even know about it. If you'd like to know more about
the early days of the Old Scotsman, read "North
Towards Home," which is, oddly enough, by a guy who
later returned to Mississippi.
Shirley Wexler wasn't there in Miami. She stayed out
of the music business so far as I know. She and Jerry
had a home at Little Neck on Long Island. Once,
they'd invited the Billboard staff out for a party.
Pleasant. Relaxed. After I moved with the Billboard
headquarters out to Los Angeles, I didn't see Jerry
much anymore. Or the so-called Tin Pan Alley crowd
either. A pity.
Jerry a few years later when Billboard was
headquartered in Los Angeles invited me out to see him
at the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Los
Angeles, to talk about Atlantic getting into country
music. I'd tried to get him to sign Willie Nelson and
Waylon Jennings. He signed Willie (missed a contract
with Waylon by a couple of days) and promoted Willie
only with FM rock stations, which made Willie
literally the success he became. He was great even
during his early RCA Records days. But no one knew
except me and Willie.
Shirley, Jerry's wife, was there. They were angry.
Easy to tell. That was shortly before they got a
divorce. Last I saw of Jerry, he had a young lady in
tow. Freckles. Twenty-one? Twenty-two? At some
convention in Los Angeles.
In retrospect--and this sounds a bit crass even to
me--Jerry's greatest claim to fame at this moment is
that he was important enough to be a target that day
in Miami. Records he produced aside. But why? So
far as I know, everyone liked Jerry. No reason to
kill him. There were better targets around. Why
Jerry?
OTHER MATTERS
Chuck Blore,
BloreGroup@aol.com: "I think I was being
a little over optimistic when I told George Wilson it
was a couple of days till my website is ready.
Probably more like another week. Anyway, I promised
that you'd be the first to know...and I re-promise,
you will be. Your friend."
In the old days, Chuck, I appreciated being first, as
well as being the only, person to have an important
news story. Being first is not so important anymore
at age 71. However, because of my vast respect for
you and for George, I would, indeed, enjoy being among
those who do know. I consider your website a very
noteworthy event in the annals of radio.
David Martin, dave.martin@gmail.com:
"Always enjoy
your weekly writing--keep up the good work. Regarding
food, especially chili, you need look no further than
Chicago radio for an authentic hard-core foodie--Fred
Winston. Not only has Fred the rare credentials of a
legendary showman (WOLF, KOIL, WKYC, WBAP, KQV, WLS,
WFYR, WCFL), still on the air after thirty years in
Chicago (now afternoons at Infinity's WJMK) but his
chili is an international award winner. Previously
served in the first-class cabins of American Airlines
and featured at Chicago's famed Treasure Island food
stores, you can get his receipe here
http://www.fredwinston.blogspot.com. While we're on
Chicago. Paul Gallis, winner of your 1976
International Billboard Seminar award for best
independent promotion, is also a gourmet chef, ask
Bobby Vinton.?
Pat Walsh,
pwalsh@aristotle.net: "'Best hamburger?
Ernie Farrell and I used to drive almost into downtown
Los Angeles to Cassels now and then'. This quote of
yours above made me wonder. While you were at
Phillips did you never go to Tulsa and eat a burger at
Goldie's? Now that, my friend, is truly the world's
greatest hamburger. I have had many an entertainer
friend take their tour buses on a hundred to two
hundred mile detour to eat there."
Wish I'd known about it, Pat. One thing Barbara and I
and the boys did love in Oklahoma is Braun's ice cream.
One of the very best! And I will never forget the
day when the late Bill Randle asked me to drive him to
Oklahoma City in his car so he could checkout the
drive time to law courses at Oklahoma City University.
We're driving lickity split and suddenly he yells
"Stop!" and has me pull into a Hardee's where he
promptly ordered a sausage biscuit with egg. The
previous meal I'd had with Bill was in a five-star
restaurant in Cincinnati. Vast difference! Don't
think I'm going to get back to Oklahoma, Pat. But I
appreciate the info.
Gordon Hull, 502) 451-4448,
applaudio@hotmail.com:
"An old friend of mine, Greg Perdue of Birmingham AL,
says you and I need to talk; your advice may prove to
be invaluable. I'm a broadcaster who has created a
dynamite format, along with a fine veteran programmer
as a partner (Mike Dineen)...trying to get this thing
on the air as a network. This isn't just a 'great
idea'--the format is up & running & making money
commercially out in Sun Valley, Idaho. It's
called 'Swing Air'. And again...we've been on the air
for over two years and it's obvious to us that the
format has legs. The Big C's (Clear Channel, Cumulus,
Cox, et. al.) won't give us the time of day. Would
you like to talk for a while? What is your number?
I'll call on my dime. Give me your time zone (I'm
Eastern)--and a good 'time window'."
I explained to Mr. Hull that I didn't do much phone
these days. Suggested he contact Guy Zapoleon for
advice. But maybe one of you also have a suggestion.
Dennis Short,
dennisshort@hotmail.com: "I met Vince
Wasilewski in 1969, and I would like to know if you
know where he is buried. I dated one of his
daughters,Jan, back in the 70s. Thanks."
Sorry, Dennis, but I can't help you. There are a few
people who read this column regularly who might know.
Or might know who you could reach. Just FYI, Vince
Wasilewski was one of the greater presidents of the
NAB. A good man.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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