A sketch of Claude Hall, 
circa 1976, by Chuck Blore

"MURDER at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall

Chapter 8

So I'm a coward.  No big news to me and no big argument from me.  I realized this years and years ago.  I'm not obsessed about it.  I've acceped it as a fact.  Some men are meant to be heroes--a very limited number, I've rationalized--and other men are meant to be presidents of corporations or disc jockeys.  Since presidents of corporations are never cowards, I figured the only thing left was radio.

As I crawled out of Sawyer's Chevrolet, I was searching for Mafia, I don't care what Hey You said.

I watched Sawyer drive away and turned to face the apartment complex.

My problem was that I don't know what a Mafia person looks like.  Oh, sure, I've seen one in a movie.  Big guy.  Sort of Italian looking.  Crooked nose. Dull-looking eyes.  Mean, you know?

I didn't see even one crooked nose along the street. Just some parked cars.  A couple of teenage girls walking south on the sidewalk.  A guy in overalls trying to repair the crack in the sidewalk left over from the last earthquake or one of the thousands of aftershocks.  California earthquakes are seldom big news either.  They, the earthquakes, no longer worried me much.

However, I was worried about having to go inside the apartment.  If the Mafia can blow up a pickup, they can blow up an apartment. Sorrowful Jones was sitting in a car parked near my apartment.

At first, I thought I would just ignore him.  This was Sunday.  I'd already worked most of the day and now I planned to concentrate real hard on doing nothing. Maybe watch football.  Cowards are allowed to watch football as long as they cover up their eyes when someone gets tackled.  I was eagerly awaiting basketball season.  Basketball is a perfect game for sissies.  So is golf and tennis, neither of which I've ever understood.  I've just sort of surmised you had to be a rather stupid sissy for golf and tennis to mean anything.

"What're you doing here?" I asked.  I rapped on his window to get his attention.

He sighed and folded up his newspaper, then rolled down the window.  He just stared at me.

"I know.  I know," I said.  "It's off the record." 

I turned and started up the sidewalk to the entrance of my apartment building.

"We want to talk to you," he said.

I stopped and came back.

"It's Sunday!  Does everybody work on Sunday in this town?"

Sorrowful frowned.  The frown caused his face to become a dark mask.

"I work when I'm told to work.  I was told to bring you to the office if you were still alive."

"Why?  I've already told the society everything I know."

"I don't know why.  I'm just following orders," he said.

"My pickup has gone bye-bye," I said.  "No transportation.  Sorry, I can't go."

"Hop in," Sorrowful said.  "You will help me avoid all of that warrant crap.  We already know about the pickup."  He reached over and opened the passenger door and swung it out.

I thought about the football game that might be on television and I thought about the society's secretary.  Of course, being a secretary she might not be working today.  Secretaries, without question, work harder than bosses.  But not as many hours.  However, since the society wasn't your basic corporation situation, she might be there.

I wondered why I wanted to see her again.  She'd been just an ice cube short of an iceberg the last time I saw her.

"Since you insist," I said.  I walked over and got inside beside him.  "Home, James."

"Do you always have to do your show?"

"To tell the truth, you bring out the worse in me," I said.

He didn't respond.  He started the car and pulled away from the curb.

We drove west on Sherman Way and turned right on Tarzana and stopped in a parking lot just a few blocks later of a building that had been an old movie theater in some past life and now was an office building.  The marquee no longer announced John Wayne movies.  The front had been remodeled to present a more-business like atmosphere.  But it still looked like a movie house to me.

"What happened?  The company forget to pay the rent on the old place?"

"This is the old place," said Sorrowful, a slight edge to his voice as if I'd disturbed him.

I followed him inside and we took some stairs up to the second floor.  It's true that I'd been bombed out the last time I'd visited the Society for Critical Studies, but I've had a fairly high tolerance for alcohol for years.  Just about everyone in radio drinks.  It's a major problem of the trade because of the pressure of living or dying with the ratings. I've learned how to handle my booze right up to the edge of a six pack of Elephants and maybe a bottle or two beyond.  My problem the other night was that I'd stepped over the line.  Or run.

There was a conference table and she sat there along with Davidson.  So, my trip hadn't been entirely wasted.

But I would bet a bruised carrot this was not the same room.

I sat down.  Sorrowful moved over and sat down on the other side of the conference table.  I was neatly framed in a triangle between Davidson and Sorrowful Jones.

"Thank you for coming," said Davidson.  He adjusted his sunshades with his forefinger.

"Did I have a choice?"

Tricia quickly interrupted.

"We really appreciate your help," she said.  "And I'm glad you volunteered to come over.  This is a very important project.  You can be of immense help to us."

"Could we get this over with?" I said.  "I've got a football game to watch."

"We listened to your radio show yesterday," Tricia said.  "You mentioned you saw the three people who did the killing at the Busted Bird."

"A lie," I said.  "I was just trying to create a
little noise.  I have no idea how many villains there were in the room.  More than enough, I surmise.  What I said on the air was strictly for kicks."

"Translate for us, please," said Davidson.

"We were doing a tribute to Sherbert.  I was getting a gob of phone action from some teenage girls who were probably part of a boiler room deal of some kind. Then I got a call from someone who asked if I'd been at the Busted Bird.  I was still polluted to some extent, I guess, so I made up some stuff and spilled it on the air.  That's it."

Davidson glanced at Sorrowful.  "Did you understand any of that?"

"I taped it.  We can attempt to understand it later," said Sorrowful.

"Tape?" I asked.  I didn't like the idea that I was being recorded.  I didn't see anything resembling a tape deck or cassette player in the room.  "Cut off the tape deck."

"What's your problem now?" asked Davidson.

"If you want me to talk, cut off the recording device.  I'm in radio.  I know what a good blade can do with tape.  Otherwise, I really would like to get back and watch football on television."

"I think we can dispense with the taping," said
Tricia.

Sorrowful unfolded himself from his chair and left the room.  He was almost immediately back.  He folded himself down into his chair again.

"Tell me more about the phone call...the person who asked if you'd been there."

"Nothing to say," I told her.  "I asked who he was and he hung up."

"Did he sound like a foreigner?"

"No more than your average hot dog," I said.

"Is that hot dog as in baseball or hot dog as in
person?" asked Davidson.

"Both," I said.

"Did you receive any further phone calls of that nature?" asked Tricia.  She spent some time adjusting her prevalent legal pad.  I don't know if it was the same pad or not.  The ballpoint pen was the same one and she had a pencil placed on top of the pad and it may have been the same; you can't really tell with
pencils. 

"No.  But surely the Social of Critical BS didn't ask me over here just to check out my torrid phone life."

Davidson squirmed.  Sorrowful's face became etched with a couple of ditches in place of the creases.

Tricia smiled slightly, but it was not exactly in
appreciation of my wit.

"You're quite right, Buddy.  We were wondering if we might persuade you to join the society."

"I've thought it over.  No."

"Quick thinker," said Sorrowful.

"How can you possibly refuse?" asked Davidson.

"Easy," I said.  "I'm tired of people blowing up my pickup."

Davidson whipped off his sunshades and stared at me with his multicolored eyes.  Sorrowful's face became the Grand Canyon.

Tricia didn't smile at all.  Her face was as frozen as ever.

She threw a scathing glance at Davidson and then at Sorrowful.  Sorrowful refused to meet her eyes.  He continued looking at me.

"I presume you weren't in it at the time," said Sorrowful.

I swear to you, Tricia did not even blink!  Davidson immediately put his sunshades back on.  The face of Sorrowful was already at breaking point.

None of them asked when the explosion had taken place or where.  I wondered if they already knew that information; the society seemed to have an awful lot of information first hand.

Tricia finally looked at me.

"I wonder, Buddy, if you would be willing to show me the Busted Bird?  Would it be open today?"

Davidson, I could tell, did not like the idea.  He adjusted his sunshades.  If that was his reaction to being slightly disturbed, I wondered what he would do if really angry.

"Why not?" I said.  "Me and the owner are becoming good friends.  I was there earlier with the cops."

The expression on Tricia's face shifted slightly, but it was more like a gentle breeze touching her cheek than a reaction to a gust of wind.

I can't tell much by a person's expression.  I was waiting for her to say something.

However, she merely placed her pen alongside her yellow legal pad and stood up.  She picked up her purse and placed the ballpoint pen in it.

Immediately, Sorrowful unfolded himself from his chair.  Davidson had leaped to his feet as if jumping to attention.

"You want us along?"

"No," she told Davidson.

No one moved for a moment.  Then I realized it was because I was still sitting down and they were waiting for me.

I got up and followed her out the door and down the stairway to the parking lot.

Like Sorrowful, she drove a Chevrolet.  A counterfeit one, not the real thing.  It was a Chevy Spectrum which is actually a Isuzu made in Japan.  Chevy's radio and TV spots talk about "The Heartbeat of America," but that's probably because the "The Heartbeat of Mount Fuji" doesn't have much of a ring
to it.

I had to give her directions.

Depending on traffic, it's doesn't take that long to get from the valley to Sunset Strip.  And Sunday is almost a good time to drive in Los Angeles.  I guided her over to Sepulveda and we headed south up to Mulholland Drive and then along the winding road at the top of the world in lotus land, né Hollywood and Los Angeles.

Off out yonder up Lankersheim was the Palomino, or what was left of it.  It's still there, but the old place isn't the same since Tommy Thomas, the owner died.  You probably saw the Pal in a movie or two, including one with Bert Reynolds in the role of a movie stunt man and another with Clint Eastwood chasing a former almost wife playing the role of a country music singer.  At one time, you could catch some of the greatest acts in country music at the Pal.   And that was pretty much the truth; one evening cowboy actor Lash LaRue rode his horse into the club and did an impromptu whip act.  All of the western actors hung out there.  And years later on a given night you could find people like Bob Dylan in the audience listening to country music.

Night was just coming down on the city of Los Angeles.  Once, when the wind was blowing in strong from the ocean, I'd seen Catalina Island from up here.  At the moment, however, the sun was battling both smog and coastal clouds to stay alive and the sunset resembled a parody of a child's coloring with orange crayons. If Catalina Island was out there, you had to take it on faith.

We came down off the mountains almost at the front door of the Busted Bird.  In this same area, the Roxy.  Not too far away, the West Coast version of the Bitter End.  Already a few cars were in the parking lot behind the Busted Bird.  But it was too early yet.  A couple of roadies were still setting up equipment. The group carried a couple of amps that would blow you out of the front door if they power up more than halfway.  One man was sitting up a tape deck behind a screen to augment the sound of the act when they started to perform later.  The ceiling lights were still on.

"The new decor," I said and pointed at the bullet holes in the wall.

"You and your date were sitting there?"  She motioned to a table by the wall.

"No date," I said.  "True, that was my table.  But I was standing by the wall in order to hear better."

"You're a very brave person," Tricia said after a moment.

I was aware of the hint of sarcasm--or something similar--in her voice and it bothered me.  A bigger man probably wouldn't have even noticed. 

I didn't bother telling her the truth.  Call it modesty.  On the other hand, us modest types shun taking all of the credit.  We try to parlay some of it off.  It makes us seem even more modest and more heroic.

"Yes.  Amazing, isn't it?  And that's the table that saved my life.  Actually, that's a very brave table. The table's the hero, not me."

A guitar player on stage was practicing up on his feedback techniques.  The noise was shrill and made your ears hurt.

Tricia looked around.  Her face lost a little of its icy aloofness.  She seemed to be trying to figure out something.

"Can I buy you a drink?" she asked.

The feedback didn't bother me all that much.  This was my turf, so to speak.

"There's no bar and no waitress.  'Fraid not."

"Somewhere else, perhaps."

I took pity.

"Deal," I said.

It was too late for Martoni's, especially on a Sunday night, so we went out the Strip and almost at the end of the Strip was the Scandia, a restaurant.  Sunset Boulevard continues like a snake several miles further and ends up on Ocean Highway along the Pacific.  But that weird little part of Sunset Boulevard called the Strip ends almost at the front door of the Scandia. The Scandia is your basic, everyday extraordinarily expensive restaurant.

Anybody who is anything has breakfast at the Polo Lounge.  You can see more movie and television producers making deals there at breakfast than any place in the world.

You would then lunch at Scandia  or perhaps the Brown Derby if you were in a nostalgic mood.  The Caesar's Salad at the Brown Derby is more famous than Greta Gargol and has probably been served there just about as long.

Chasen's is a great place for dinner, but it's even more expensive than Scandia.  You have to hock your car to eat at Chasen's.

The funny thing is that I wasn't hungry until we
walked in the front door of Scandia.  I caught the odor of a sizzling steak and the glands started working and maybe my brain got back in gear.  I ordered a plate of French fries and milk before I even sat down and a New York cut extremely well done as soon as the waiter handed me a menu.

"You didn't even look."

"I've eaten here before.  I always order the same thing anyway.  Doesn't matter which restaurant."

"Well, I would like a Martini."

"I recommend the milk.  Healthier."

"After all the beer you've consumed in the past two days?"

"The other night, I needed beer.  Tonight, I need milk.  Especially with steak.  Comes from living in Texas."

"Martini," she told the waiter.  She took the menu from the waiter and placed it on the table beside her water glass without looking at it.

You go out with some women, you know where you stand even if you're flat on your back at the time.  With her, I had my doubts about everything.  Some girls would have ordered milk, too, just to be accommodating.  She wanted a martini, she ordered a martini.

The atmosphere in the restaurant was dim and supposedly relaxing, but enough of a glow from a distant hidden ceiling light fell over her hair and her face so that I could study her.  I couldn't help but think she was related to Barbara Stanwyck in some way or another, but you get used to "types" of women, especially in Los Angeles, a town so crammed with beautiful women that even extraordinarily pretty women have to be somewhat different in order to be noticed.

"How do you know how much beer I drank?" I said, trying to keep my voice jovial and casual.  That was far, however, from how I really felt.

"Just a remark," she said, also making sure to be jovial and casual.

The martini arrived and she quickly hid behind it.

One thing I can't stand is people who make assumptions.  You're a disc jockey, therefore you're slightly scatterbrained, probably went all the way up to the ninth grade, probably into drugs, probably just a little bit sexually perverse.  Those things are true about many disc jockeys, of course, but those are not the norm.  Disc jockeys come from all walks of life. Many are motivated by a strong love of the music that they play.  Some have a natural ability to communicate.  Some like the excitement of being a disc jockey.  Takes all types and you'll find all types.

Strangely enough, I always thought I was just a little different from the normal disc jockey.  But if you asked me what the difference was, I'm not sure I could tell you.

Regardless, I may be a coward and I may be somewhat of a screwball, but I hate people making the assumption that I'm a coward and somewhat of a screwball.  Show me proof.

She was not going to establish a firm lock on the upper hand.  King of the mountain is a psychological game that two can play.  I especially enjoy verbal karate; it's my especial forte.

"The police were very interested in the Society for Critical Studies," I said, sipping at my milk.

Her face showed absolutely no change of expression.  I began to realize at that moment that even a strong gust of wind would not have affected her emotional calm.  Or what she was willing to show of it.  Perhaps not even a hurricane.  Her face remained somewhat aloof.  Acting lessons?

"Have the police made any progress in their investigation of the killings?"

"I've no idea," I answered.

"Surely you learned something during the conversation."

"Yes.  They found the remains of a body in what was left of my pickup this morning.   Probably a Mexican kid from the barrio.  Of course, there wasn't much of him left to really tell that sort of thing.  The cop told me that.  So, I did learn something."

She was quiet a moment.  But just as I'd reached the conclusion that she was paying homage to the dead, she said:

"He was probably trying to steal it.  Maybe he got what he deserved."

I sat my glass of milk down.

"The punishment for stealing a pickup is two or three years in jail," I said.  "Not death by bombing."

I let the last sentence hang there.  I don't think she dared respond.  My voice carried much of the acid that I'd accumulated during the day.

She sipped at her martini, then tossed off the rest of the glass with a twist of her wrist and held the empty glass up in the direction of the waiter.  He promptly headed for the bar to order another one.

"You had insurance on the pickup, of course."

"Insurance?  Losing a pickup is one thing," I said. "Getting a kid killed is another.  At the moment, I'm not very happy about either situation.  In fact, I'm deeply sadden about the death of the kid."

"It's not your fault."

"Who cares whether it's my fault or not!  It happened.  What's the society going to do about it?"

Her martini arrived.  She stirred the drink with the olive.

"I'm not sure that's our responsibility.  We will, of course, make an investigation about the bombing because it was your pickup.  But we are more concerned with the shootings that occurred at the nightclub."

"Bullshit," I said.

The stirring stopped.  For the first time, I may have broken through the ice.

"I beg your pardon!"  Her voice was low, but carried a sharp edge.  As if I'd accused her of something.

"I think your society is hogwash," I said.  "Put
quotes around the world society.  What are you really up to?  Or is that off the record, too?"

"I resent that accusation."

"Resent it all you wish.  I know people.  Neither Davidson or Jones have the capability or ability to lead an organization."

"They both have their unique capabilities, believe me.  Both are quite effective and very efficient in their own way.  But, no, they are not the head of the organization."

"When will I meet the boss?'

"You're having dinner with her right now," she said, a slight snap to her voice.

She had game point.

I cannot play poker and especially stud poker.  I just don't have the face for it.  My face is usually an exact map of every emotion I'm feeling at that particular moment.  I surmise my jaw dropped and my eyebrows went up.

"Pardon my male chauvinism," I said.  "It gets me in trouble now and then."

But then she lost game point.  My serve.  Maybe there was something to tennis after all if you just played the game right.  She started lecturing me as if she were some college professor and I was the student who simply didn't understand.  Either she had forgotten the computer readout about me from our first meeting, or she was desperately trying to cover up something. If so, what?

"The Social for Critical Studies only does field research," she said.  "Largely just empirical studies.  We observe what's actually going on at that particular time first hand--that is, at the site. That's what empirical and field mean.  We then report our findings to a higher office."

I started to ask: What toilet?

Then I realized that antagonism would get me nowhere. Forget tennis.  I might win the  match, but I would never reach first base.

I hid behind my glass of milk just as my steak
arrived.  It was well done, as I like steak, and it came with a baked potato.  Hadn't I ordered fries? Oh, well.  Life is not perfect.  Especially my life and especially lately.

"What is the next step?" I asked.

She relaxed just slightly.  That is, I suppose she relaxed.  Frankly, with her it was hard to tell.

But it turned out that it didn't much matter which game.  I got tossed out at the plate anyway.

I'd forgotten that a pretty girl with a Saks credit card loved the scampi at Scandia.  Big mistake.

(To be continued)

e-mail  claude@claudehallonline.com

Commentary
by Claude Hall

June 30, 2003

In an e-mail exchange between myself and Art Holt and Bruce Miller Earle, ingbme@hotmail.com, I couldn't remember whether it was Gordon McLendon who'd bought a restaurant in Brussels so he'd have someplace to eat or Howard Hughes (more, perhaps, about Howard in a coming Commentary). And that sparked this from Art Holt, HoltMedia@aol.com: "I'm doing a FMV appraisal of a couple of Dallas facilities today, so thinking back about Gordon does easily come to mind! I did a couple of projects for Howard Hughes...working through Jim Simon, who in turn reported to Robert Maheu, who was the ex-FBI man who stood at the top of the Hughes security pyramid and was the one who hired the Mormons! First time around was an assignment to buy up things in Reno to go along with what he was putting together in Vegas. He particularly wanted Charles Cord's TV station, but since Charlie was the inventor of the Cord Automobile and many other things, he was well-fixed and would only sell the TV to Howard if a 48,000-acre ranch could be included (with god knows how many cows, cowboys, etc., included). That was fun to be working in a small way with two famous names at that time. Naturally it did not work out, since both had their own agendas and did not like each other one darn bit because both had a fairly strong Man Who Would Be King complex. Cord had been a Nevada senator, too, and stuff like that. Later, if you remember, in the late sixties Hughes made a fairly strong run at buying ABC from Leonard Goldenson. It was very big news at the time, and was a huge ten-day story before Hughes backed down...no doubt remembering the senate hearings that cost him TWA when he refused to appear. McLendon, when he was doing the original pirate station Radio Nord off shore from Stockholm in 1960 in partnership with Clint Murchison, did get involved in a restaurant...as I recall. Or was it a bar? Whichever it was, it was probably not the least of their 'investments' at the time. With two very, very rich and frisky men from Dallas it was hard sometimes to get a clear fix from down on the ground, if they indeed remembered themselves. Clint was the third-richest man at the time...also owned the Cowboys in those days and was a very frisky guy...not above buying most anything that caught his fancy, and certainly an interesting best friend for Gordon to pal around with. Well, paying the price was never a problem, that's for sure! After the Swedes passed a law which disallowed the advertising tax deduction on media located 'outside of Sweden', Radio Nord stopped being a pirate radio station at 695 KHz and was put up for sale. By that time the shifting antenna field of a medium wave broadcast to home receivers during high wave conditions had largely been solved by genius-engineers Ralph Dippell and Glenn Callison. After heading out of the Baltic and down to the English Channel, it picked the new name Caroline and a new frequency...and the re-writers of history had a new true legend upon which to start constructing their sand castles of yesterday. Sorry, Claude, I got carried away...blame it on the current Dallas job I am doing." 

Larry Shannon, larryshannon@radiodailynews.com, was kind enough to mention that I'd overlooked a book in my last Commentary, one by Charles F. Payne--"Feedback: Echoes From My Life in Radio," ISBN #0-9665370-4-1, $19.95. It's published by Ruby Moon Press, 3817 Yellowstone, Irving, Texas 75062 or phone 972-255-0316. Or try the publishing firm's website at RubyMoonPress.com. I have a hunch that Larry wanted me to see the book real strong (he sent me a copy) because I was mentioned along with John Adbnor. To wit, Payne notes: "I had assumed that the music industry's media would tend to support a station's right to determine what went out over its airwaves, but in fact Billboard magazine and its reporter Claude Hall depicted me almost daily as little better than rock'n roll's version of a book-burner." (p. 131) To tell the truth, I only remember the incident vaguely, but I do remember the rock group in question featured Adbnor's son and the conclusion was not all that happy for the son at the time and it didn't have anything to do with KLIF playing or not playing the record. When I was hired by Billboard, I was hired because I was a reporter, not a writer, per se. My experience included the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper, etc. I'd like to believe that I reported the news sans embellishment, but that was more than 35 years ago, I guess, and quien sabe? Gordon McLendon and the others at least never held the story against me, so far as I know, and I hope that Payne will also let bygones be real gone. But, you know, it's quite a kick to pick up a book and read something that happened a hell of a long time ago and there's your name, bigger than a ripe apricot. Just FYI, I haven't finished the book yet, but I'm having a fun time reading it. Because, oddly enough, Payne and I had a lot of the same experiences...or maybe it just seems that way, both of us coming from Texas. He does repeat the fabled Omaha bar story, though, but so far in the book hasn't mentioned the late Bill Stewart. 

This, sort of an open letter (I suspect) from Bill Stewart's daughter, Sharon Stewart-Sharpe, sharpecommunications@msn.com: "Bravo! I'm glad that those--like my dad Bill Stewart--who lived radio and loved it are willing to set the record straight. With the intrusion of the Internet, which does not keep to the standards of print journalism or even that of TV broadcasting, it's time those in the know take hold of the medium and go on record as much as possible. And those who are seeking the history of Top 40 will not be looking to books, but will probably be searching the Internet. I was greatly dismayed when I ran my Dad's name in a search engine, hoping to find a recording of him on the air for sale somewhere. Instead, I turned up a bunch of rubbish that on closer inspection came from someone who was a johnny-come-lately. This is what prompted me to seek out Claude Hall and even take my family to visit him. It was there I heard again the truths of radio history that I grew up with. I agree with Mr. Earle that it may not mean that much to anyone else, but it means a whole lot to those who participated in it, were raised around it and those who are still seeking and searching for that vibrant medium that was radio. Watching my Dad speak to my college communications class or reviewing a tape of him speaking at a convention, it is clear he was not telling them 'Look, this is what I did'. He was however, telling them 'this is how we thought' and 'this is what we tried' and 'this is how it worked' and 'this is what happened' and 'this is what didn't work'. I believe it was his hope that someone in that audience might receive a spark of inspiration to revive what many of us today may consider a wasted medium. His last efforts were a book on Top 40 for which he had solicited and collected the memories of that radio heyday from people he knew had made a contribution. He wanted to share that--and one day I'd like to finish that work. Don't feel that sharing what you know will be 'tooting your own horn'. It is important to say what you remember right now and go on record--or others will be writing about it looking from afar and trying to put a spin or angle on it that will make them the next 'expert'. It's called revisionist history and it's alive and well in radio land. Good luck to you." 

Well, I guess I have a reader after all! My son John, Johnalexhall@hotmail.com, writes: "Dad, Just read your latest VOX BOX. Please put aside the Magnificent Montague's book for me after you are done with it. I would like to read it. I remember finding a copy of the 'Righteous Brothers Greatest Hits' and seeing his name as the writer of the linernotes." 

Ah, linernotes! It's a pity they sort of faded away. Call them a form of payola, if you wish, but I enjoyed writing linernotes for Nina Simone, Ernest Tubb, Johnny Sea. That is, I think I wrote one for Johnny Sea; he was one of the many Johnny Cash imitators back then. Gene Nash was his manager. Nash wrote "Big Wide Wonderful World of Country Music," which was played on just about every country music station in America for a while, but the tune, so far as I know, never sold a copy of a record. Last I saw of Gene was in London, he'd just married Monique Peer, Ralph's widow, and they were attending a Billboard function. How many of you can tell me what Ralph's claim to fame is in music? Larry Scott and Bill Ward would know, without question! 

From Bruce Earle, ingbme@hotmail.com: "Art & Claude: Recently the broadcast-airchex list has had a thread running about greatest stations of all time. Some of the members from across the pond have been touting Radio Luxembourg, Radio Caroline, etc. I did some digging this afternoon and came across two pages chock full of info about Gordon McLendon and Radio Nord of the early sixties off the coast of Sweden. Radio Nord broadcasted with 10 K.W. on 602 KHz. Art especially will enjoy the stories told of trusted McLendon engineer Glenn Calison and his time in Sweden. Art, check out picture stream starting with RT 1961#7 that shows the Continental 316 B 10 K.W. transmitter and the antenna matching diagrams. This stuff is classic. www.ungermark.se/mediaradionordeng.html home.swipnet.se/offshore/." 

Jack Raymond, jak@net1plus.com: "As usual, I love your column and not just 'cause I'm your 1975 tomb, RADIO PROGRAMMING! Your column hit a couple of names from my FOGGY (short for forgetful at age 57) past! First and foremost is the name, TONY RICHLAND! Who can ever forget Tony, the indie promo legend (before the NETWORK) who got $15 a station for every Gavin and Billboard station add? Tony was the old school! He would travel up and down the West Coast with the Mama's & Pappas living out of his car just to bring them to radio! Michelle Phillips loved Tony until she hit the big time in the movies. But heck, that was at least three face lifts ago for Pappa John's second wife. Speaking of phones, I loved getting calls from Tony! He had this bazzar habit of putting the phone to one side and yelling! For example, he would yell, TELL CLIVE DAVIS I CAN'T TALK TO HIM NOW, I've got Jack Raymond on line two! Of course at that point, I couldn't resist! I would move my phone's mouthpiece to one side and yell, TELL ANDREA TRUE SHE'S GOT THE WRONG CONNECTION! I know Tony is spending his wistful retirement days in a small mining town just outside of Glendale overlooking a large lease! I heard about eight years ago that Tony's wife passed on after several years of failing health. Things always happen in threes. First Tony's wife, then LOU BEDDELL and then RON LANDRY! For you guys who don't remember what Tony looked like, he's one of the six famous songpluggers SONG on the cover of LIFE magazine with Alan Freed in 1959! Tony's the tall guy in the famous picture leaving the First Circuit Court House in New York. Mr.Freed had just be indicted for payola! The other RADIO MAN ON THE MOVE who I actually worked with in the 60s was Joey Pinto (aka JOEY REYNOLDS). These days his overnight gab fest show is carried on a 100 stations via the WOR network and the list is growing! In fact, Joey just got another affiliate during the time I've been writing! Remind me sometime to tell that great story of Joey, Sandy Baron and myself picking out an album cover for Mr. Baron's comedy album. Joey's famous SUPERMARKET did graphic design work on lots of album covers back in the 70's. Check out Barry White's albums. Joey is the reason the late Harry Nilsson released a single on RCA with no musical bed at the beginning. Harry told Mr. Reynolds that he was going to make sure there wouldn't be any clever MINGLES or POPUPS group at the beginning of Harry's music. Joey had musicans who sounded exactly like the recording artists! His studio singers would parody the voice of current vocalists singing the local station's call letters. It was very funny listening to them yell at each other! Harry and Joey did tend to bend the elbow back then at Bartoni's! Joey stopped that bad habit in time! Joey call me so we can get that project of yours started. I love satellite radio today. When I got on the air in the 60s, you had to run a board. Today you have to know how to operate a computer." 

Bill Taylor, azkissfm@cableone.net, writes: "I talked to Dick Fatherly and we remember things different then your origin of the term "Top 40." It appears that his version of history is called "Hogwash" and yet no one has contacted him to get the true story. It's like everyone is afraid they'll be wrong, and their fears are justified. This is one of those urban legends which have come to be considered as fact. It is true, WHB was Kansas City's first Top 40 station. I was in KC when Todd Storz bought the station from Cook. However the term 'Top 40' originated at WTIX in New Orleans. This is not saying that the format of 40 songs that would rotate in three hours. No. this is the phrase 'Top 40'. It came about as WDSU had a two-hour program called 'The Top 20' to fill between NBC Network feeds. WTIX doubled it, calling the program 'Top 40', started one hour before WDSU and ending one hour after. Keep in mind I also was at WNOE in New Orleans and was very interested in the market's history. The chronology of people with Storz also does not match. I suggest you be a strong person and contact Dick Fatherley direct. Then humble yourself to listen." 

Sorry, Bill. Ran out of humble a long time ago. Also patience. Here, you refer to "true story." That's a bushism, i.e., something akin to WMD. I will agree that WHB was the first Top 40 station in Kansas City. Nothing more. That newspaper headline, however, in the Kansas City Star was incorrect. If you may use a bushism, then I will allow myself the privilege of using a claudism: How does it feel to be fighting dead men who can't fight back? Tell me something else, if you will: why should I talk to a guy named Dick Fatherley when I talked long ago to the guys who were there? Do you think they would change their stories because Fatherley said so? They aren't here to defend themselves, of course, so I would suppose that various left field characters can mouth anything they wish...or can get away with, but I can almost hear Bill Stewart laughing. Don't think Gordon McLendon would be laughing, though. And from what I've heard about old man B.W., somebody would probably be running for cover! Regardless, enough, From Jim West, JIMRW@aol.com  "Hi, Claude...I am vitally interested...not only in the real story of the thousands of dedicated men and women who wrote and lived the story...but in the special need to tell it as it really happened...before the new-to-the-scene change or distort the facts!!! I was on the scene for almost 40 years...having had the privilege of personally knowing and/or working with a grand succession of professionals...after a nice career as a jazz musician on the West Coast...which only opened the door to a transition that allowed me, not only to participate...but leave my own calling card!!!!! So 'On King!'...get it down!!! I'm here to assist...only if needed!!! Best wishes."

Claude Hall

e-mail  claude@claudehallonline.com