Caraboo's limousine rolled slowly up 103rd Street at
almost precisely the same time as their initial
meeting the other night.  As Snake expected, some
shadowy figures stood at both ends of the street. 
They were nearly invisible in the dark.  Anyone who
entered the street was carefully observed; none of
them were accosted or stopped.

Snake had been standing in a darkened doorway for more
than an hour.  Most of the people who'd come down the
street at this strange hour of the night had been
died-in-the-dacron New Yorkers.  They watched the
sidewalk in front of them and noticed very little
else, heads ducked into their shoulders.

Relatively few people are actually natives of
Manhattan.  Its population is comprised mainly of
people who come in from the corn fields of Iowa, the
wheat fields of Kansas, the gutters of every country
in the world.  Some stay and rise through the myriad
ranks in publishing, in the clothing industry, in the
various professional jobs that spin around money or
madness in the city.  Others, after a year or two of
struggling, give up and go home.  Some quit
struggling, but stay anyway because even the most
sordid, depraved type of life in New York City is
better than the kind of life they used to live in
someplace such as Enid.

There are always new hopefuls-as well as the dredges
of the world-invading the city.  Thus, its population
resembles the swells and ebbs of the Caribbean Sea,
constantly changing, never the same from one second to
the next.  And sometimes just as treacherous.  Here,
too, people disappear without a trace.  This is not
necessarily true regarding their debris.  The
abandoned Ford was still at the curb.  It would
probably be there for months.

Snake stepped out of a doorway, almost bumping into a
woman on her way home from some night job.  She walked
with her head down, looking only at the sidewalk in
front of her that led to nowhere. 

It wasn't that cold.  However, Snake's breath floated
out in small white clouds that looked like ghosts
under the street light.
  
He quickly stepped past the Ford and got into
Caraboo's limousine.

Neva was there, as expected.  She seemed to be an
ever-present factor in Caraboo's life.  Secretaries
often fall in love with their boss.  She had not. 
Instead, she'd fallen in love with a friend of the
boss.

Well, not actually a friend.  Actually, the only
connection between Caraboo and Susman was himself,
Snake realized.

And that rather recently, more or less.

This evening, Neva had grabbed her hair in a ponytail.
 A blue ribbon caught it and fell with it, shining
when a toss of her head found the light falling from
the ceiling of the spacious back seat of the
limousine.

"Hello, Neva."

"Good to see you, Snake."

"Still alive, Caraboo, I see."

"Something I promised my parents: to stay alive until
I died."

"Sounds like a very nice idea," said Neva.

Caraboo seemed slightly more relaxed than normal.  In
past meetings, he had appeared nervous and in a hurry.
 He drummed his fingers against the "desk" arm that
extended in front of him, but only lightly and without
rhythm.

"How's this spider thing coming along, Snake?"

His voice as weary as he could make it, Snake said,
"I'm tried of killing these people that she has sent
my direction.  If I stop, someone kills me.  So, I
finding myself choosing the alternative that appeals
most at the moment."

"Smart move," said Caraboo.

"I feel an ending coming, though, Caraboo.  Maybe
because of fatigue.  Maybe boredom.  Maybe both.  The
Spider Lady may be able to continue finding hoodlums
to send after me.  I'm not sure I can continue
fighting them, killing them.  It seems senseless after
a while."

"You're tired?"  Caraboo sounded as if he couldn't
believe it.  The drumming of his fingers hesitated.

"More so every hour," said Snake.  "That's why I asked
to see you personally."

"What do you want me to do?" asked Caraboo.

"I want to toss a party for the Spider Lady.  I'm
hoping that she'll show up, that we can talk."

"I got that message earlier.  Sure.  Why not?  Crazy
idea.  But if you want to do it, you've got it."

Caraboo's fingers began their unpatterned message
again.  The pattern was vaguely disturbing.

"Forget the Friday party.  The real party is going to
be on Saturday."

"So, the first party is a fake just in case our phone
really is tapped?"

"Yes.  If she shows up on Friday, she'll show up to a
surprise somewhat.  She'll more than likely be the
only guest.  I'd like Neva to go ahead and provide a
bag of corn chips and a cheap bottle of champagne,
along with a card table and two folding chairs.  The
idea amuses me:  The Spider Lady wasting time coming
to a party that doesn't exist."

"And what do you want for the real bash on Saturday
night?"

"Food, excellent wine, the works."

"Can you arrange everything, Neva?" Caraboo asked.

"Easy," she said.

"Pie, too," said Snake.  "Cherry.  I would like some
cherry pie.  And a quart of milk.  I like milk with my
cherry pie."

"You'll have all of the pie you can eat," said Neva. 
"I'll take care of everything."

"Both nights?" Snake asked.

"Of course," she said.

Caraboo squirmed in his seat.  At one hand was a
telephone.  At the other, a computer of some kind.  He
acted as if he couldn't make up his mind which he
wanted to use.

"You know, Snake," said Caraboo.  "It's not my
position to question your actions.  I may be the
so-called boss of this operation, but I operate on the
premise that success comes only with total freedom in
what we do.  You want a party, you've got a party. 
But this latest gambit?  What makes you think she'll
come to a cockeyed party?"

"We're spreading the word everywhere about the party. 
She'll learn about it from one of the posters
scattered around town or the phone call I made
earlier.  I'm going to be there sitting in the middle
of the roof in a chair on Saturday night," said Snake.
 "Out in the open.  A perfect target."

"That's either god-awful heroic or god-awful stupid,"
said Caraboo.  "The latter, I suspect.  Why are you
doing this?"

"I've got to find out what she wants," said Snake.

"You mean what else she wants.  It's already obvious
that she wants your head."

"She'll have her chance this coming Saturday," said
Snake.  "I'm willing to trade it for the return of
Susman."

"My god!" said Neva softly.

"Why should she deal?" asked Caraboo.

"If she wants me...," said Snake and let his sentence
trail off.  Then, with a carefully maintained and
quite uncharacteristic burst of fervor, "I think I'm
the stumbling block in her way...between her and
something she desperately wants."

"The question is, of course, what does she really
want?"

"That, I don't know yet," said Snake.  "At first, I
thought it was something to do with the $17,000.  But
I've changed my mind about that.  She has wasted far
too many men trying to eliminate me.  She needs money,
yes.  However, I surmise that she's after larger
game."

"Me?"

"Doesn't seem likely, does it?"

"Absurd is a better word."

"What could you have done that would have agitated
her?"

"My activities may have been mostly shady and some
even outright dark before I joined this operation,"
said Caraboo.  "If I crossed her path, I wouldn't have
known it; if I'd known about it, I wouldn't have done
it."

"Well," said Snake, "I suppose we'll get it all
straightened out this coming Saturday night."

"Are you sure you won't take a gun?"

"No gun," said Snake as he stepped from the limousine.
 It sped away.

He stood there for a moment watching the shadowy
figures, one by one, vanish from the ends of the
street.

The woman who'd passed him earlier was standing on the
distant corner, looking back his direction.  She
turned and was gone.

Snake had a funny feeling that he'd just seen the
Spider Lady.

Impossible!  She wouldn't have known the place nor
time of the meeting with Caraboo!

He ran at full speed up the sidewalk to the corner. 
But the woman, whoever she was, had disappeared.

Two blocks away, a bus was rapidly disappearing south.

In a foul mood, he continued walking and was soon deep
into Central Park.  But the park was virtually empty. 
A homeless person had rolled up in some ragged
blankets under a walk overpass.  Three others had
build a small fire, carefully hidden in some rocks
from sight of any policeman who might stroll by.  They
huddled around the tiny flames, hands outstretched,
seeking whatever warmth possible.

Evidently, the gangs that usually roamed the park at
night had gone home to bed.

He walked over to the fire.

"Mind if I join you guys for a few minutes?"

Without a word, two of the men moved aside to allow
him room.

He squatted on his heels, also reaching out to the
small fire.

"Cold night," said Snake.

"Not so bad," said one of the men.  He wore a beard
that had turned gray along with the hair that sneaked
out of a ski cap.  Both the beard and the ski cap had
seen better days.  He stared at the fire, head bent
forward, as if listening to something it was trying to
tell him.

"Anything going on in the park tonight?"

"No," said one of the other men.  "Earlier, yeah. 
Nothing serious.  "

"A gang member gave me this," said the third man.  He
was wrapped in a blanket.

"Hard to believe," said Snake.

"Also invited me to a basketball game," said the man
in the blanket.

"This area of the park has tamed down a lot," said the
man in the gray beard.  "Used to be a tough place."

"Even the cops are different," said the other.  "I'd
stay out of the north end, though."

"Really strange about those gangs," said the man in
the gray beard.  "They ain't really gangs anymore."

"Really strange," echoed Snake.

"Stay away from the north end.  Instead of a blanket,
you might end up with a shroud."

"I get the message," said Snake.  "Thanks."

After a while, he wandered on across the park,
following a winding path amidst bare trees, leaving
the park, walking slowly on a street that, while not
deserted, echoed softly in the dark with the padding
of his footsteps.

For some reason, he felt better.  He'd surreptitiously
dropped a few bills on the ground by the fire.  The
men might notice the money come daylight.  But that
wasn't the reason his dark and sinister mood had
evaporated.  He didn't want to think about the reason,
though.

He was astonished to find himself an hour later
standing in front of Susman's apartment.  Why had he
wandered here?  Had some part of his subconscious
guided him to Susman's apartment

Leaning against a light pole, he looked up at the
fourth floor window of Susman's apartment.  He half
expected the window to suddenly light up, someone to
walk into the room up there.

On impulse, he entered the building, using the same
method as on his previous visits, and was soon
prowling around Susman's apartment.  Since he wasn't
aware of why he'd come, he felt uncomfortable in the
dead man's apartment.  He didn't know what, if
anything, he was supposed to do; his subconscious
hadn't bothered to tell him.

Half in frustration, he slumped into an easy chair in
front of the darkened TV set, relaxing, letting the
atmosphere of the room come to him.

The remote control unit to the TV set was beside him
on the table by the chair.  The ashtray was still
there.  The curtains on the window had not been
touched, so far as he could tell.  Yet, he could smell
the faint odor of perfume.  It hung in the room like a
distant echo.  He tried to recall the perfume that the
Spider Lady wore the day he confronted her in the deli
near Allied Global.  However, he had no memory of her
perfume.

He realized, too, that the perfume he thought he
smelled here in the apartment could have belonged to
any woman.  The lingering odor of a long ago visit by
Neva Sanchez?

On the other hand, the odor could have been just his
imagination.

Or wishful thinking.

Rather than let his mind wander to thoughts of the
Spider Lady, he angrily leaped from the chair and
strode about the apartment.

He looked into the refrigerator, into the cabinets of
the kitchen, checked the medicine cabinet in the
bathroom.

The closet in the bedroom disturbed him.  The hangers
had been pushed to the side.

Obviously, someone had been here.  The Spider Lady? 
One of Caraboo's agents?  Maybe Neva herself?

He couldn't think clearly!  Some of his problem, of
course, was fatigue.  He needed to hole up somewhere
and sleep four or five hours.  He didn't dare sleep
here; there was the potential of too much traffic. 
Most of his problem was, without question, tied up in
the actions of the Spider Lady.

The Spider Lady's plan, he realized now, had been to
kill him, if possible.  If not possible, then to wear
him down until he became vulnerable and could be
easily killed.

How many men had he fought the past few days?  God, he
didn't even know!

Suddenly, he started to cry.  Silently.  Tears flowed
down his cheeks.  The tears were so profuse that he
had trouble wiping them away with his palms.

He walked back into the bathroom, hunting for a towel.

As he wiped his face, his mind clicked back into gear
again.  He went instantly into the bedroom and looked
in the closet again.  The clothes hadn't been pushed
aside!  Some clothes on hangers had been removed and
other clothes on hangers placed on the rack.  The
clothes that had been placed on the rack had come just
freshly from a dry cleaner.  A pink-colored slip from
Al's Cleaners was still attached to one of the sports
jackets.

It had been too many years, of course, since he'd seen
Sussie, but the jacket that he examined could have
been the right size.  Close, at the very least.

And then there was the ashtray!

A pipe laying on the table by the chair was one thing,
an ashtray another.  The pipe could have been left by
anyone.  An ashtray indicated use over a period of
time.

Why had Neva lied about Susman smoking?

Perhaps the odor he had smelled a few minutes ago was
the lingering odors of pipe smoke.  One of those
perfumed brands.

It was almost 5 a.m.  To late to go somewhere and
sleep.  He had tentatively planned, in the back of his
mind, to head up to the top end of Manhattan and curl
up behind that stone wall he'd noticed a few days ago
while having breakfast.

Instead, he pulled the couch out from the wall a few
inches and, once again, crawled into the narrow space
and fell instantly asleep.

His dreams were of a woman dressed in black leotards
crawling over a web made of bungie cords stretched
from the four corners of a room painted in some
bitter-tasting shade of dank green.  The eyes of the
woman flashed tiny little red sparks and the fingers
of her hands were long and her nails were painted a
violent red.

Three hours later, he stopped by Al's Cleaners down
the block from Susman's apartment.  The dry cleaning
had been picked up by a woman.  The clerk didn't
remember what she looked like.

"No, I can't remember whether she was pretty or not,"
he said.

Snake thanked him.

A few minutes later, he was on a bus heading uptown. 
He got off in Harlem and walked the rest of the way.

Pearl wasn't surprised to see him.  "Coffee's on the
stove," she said.  "Help yourself.  You want something
to eat?"

"I would be grateful," said Snake.

He realized that he'd forgotten about food until her
mention of it.  But now his mind focused on the
problem and he was ravishingly hungry.  "Eggs or
anything."

He took a cup from the kitchen cabinet and poured
himself some coffee.  The coffee was savagely dark. 
He held the steaming cup in both hands, waiting for it
to cool a little before attempting to sip it.

"I know how to cook eggs rancheros," said Pearl.

"I know how to eat eggs rancheros real well," he said.
 "The boys around?"

"They'll be back.  They were meeting some basketball
players.  Except Rudy.  He's minding the store today."

"Looks as if we're going to have some pretty good
games, come spring."

"Those boys won't wait for spring," she said. 
"They'll be out on that court as soon as it's warm
enough to play without gloves.  Maybe even before
that.  Did you know that Mr. Wekser is going to
sponsor the boys?"

He sat at the table in the small kitchen, watching her
chop onions and tomatoes into a frying pan.

"That's very nice of him," said Snake.

"Especially when you consider that a few months ago he
would have called the cops if even one of them walked
into his store."

"I guess he's grown somewhat fond of King and Rudy and
Montague."

"He told me that if he tries real hard, he may even
learn to like Elephant."  She cracked and fed three
eggs into the sauce she'd prepared, letting them poach
on the surface.

"Elephant takes understanding," admitted Snake.

"Don't we all."

"But it's sort of nice that he's getting the chance
now to be understood.  You know?  And I suppose you
could say the same about Wekser.  Nice guy.  Just
never had much opportunity, I suspect, to prove it
until now."

"I sort of like him a lot."

She took a plate from the cabinet and spooned some of
the eggs rancheros onto three tortillas.  She sat the
place in front of him, along with a fork.

He began to eat, pausing only once to look up at her
and tell her she was one great cook.

Because he was so hungry, it didn't take long for him
to demolish the entire pan of eggs.  She offered to
cook more, but he refused.  "The problem I have with
your cooking," he said, "is that I could get fat and
lazy much too quick.  I don't think it would be wise
right now to do something like that."

"I heard about your party.  Am I invited?"

"No, Pearl.  It's not that kind of party."

"Oh."

"But I've had a strange idea in the back of my mind
these past few days...a crazy idea...that one of these
days soon I'm going to need a vacation.  I haven't had
a vacation in years.  Maybe even longer.  You and
Wekser might want to join me."

"On your vacation?"

"A cruise somewhere.  Perhaps the western Caribbean.  

"What an outlandish idea!  Me?  Running away with a
strange man!"

"Hey, it's your job to get to know him better," said
Snake.  "I can only take care of the tickets."

"But what if...if he's, you know, kosher?"

"Either become a little bit kosher or convince him to
be a little bit Afro," said Snake.  "Simple problem,
simple solution."

"Ah, but everything's simple to you, Snake.  It's not
all that simple to someone like me."

Snake got up and helped himself to more coffee.  It
was good and it was strong and right now he needed
something to keep him going.

"You're right, of course.  I meant no offense.  But I
think if you're really interested in Wekser, I
wouldn't give up on him without at least one hell of a
try."

Pearl nodded.  She was already busy washing the frying
pan and the plate he'd used.  "Why not?" she said. 
"I've never been on a cruise.  It sounds like a whole
lot of fun."

Snake toasted her with his cup of coffee.  "That's the
right attitude.  Why not?  And you'd love it!  Seven
Mile Beach on Grand Cayman is one of the most
beautiful beaches in the world.  The water is so clear
you think you're in a movie.  Angel Fish come up to
play around your feet, begging for a handout.  And
shopping?  Hey, the stores on Grand Cayman and the
island of Cozumel have been known to drive women
crazy."

After three cups of coffee, it was obvious that King
and Montague were going to be away longer than
expected.  He decided that he'd have to go alone.  As
he left, Pearl was telephoning Wekser to invite him
out for coffee.

Since it was only a few miles, Snake walked.  It was a
brisk sort of day.  The air had been scrubbed by the
wind and felt good.  It also felt good in his lungs. 
He had a good feeling about life at the moment and his
joy must have showed in his face; several people waved
at him as he walked by or smiled.  Some even said,
"Good morning!" and they did it with a cheery tone of
voice.

No one seemed to be around in the north end of Central
Park.  He cut back and forth for 20 or 30 minutes
before giving up.  Then he heard a noise coming from
outside of the park and trotted in that direction. 
However, it wasn't a gang fight.  It was a basketball
game in progress on a half court of a small "pocket
park."

The game floundered to a halt as he came up.  Montague
had just dunked the ball on an opposing player.

King had the ball.  He walked over to the side of the
court.  The players stopped.  They stared at Snake,
some with distrust or outright antagonism in their
eyes.  Everyone on the court was either of
Afro-American descent or something close.

"Gentlemen," King said, "I want all of you to meet the
Snake in person."

"How well do you really know Michael Jordan?" asked
the player who'd been guarding Montague.

(continued next week)

I have been a stranger to music for a long while. 
Much too long, I see now.  My sons are slowly bringing
me back.  Today, I've been listening to some Grateful
Dead tunes recorded more than two dozen years ago. 
They are new to me.  Which illustrates that I have
been gone not only long, but far away.  You get music
in the Ivory Tower of academia, but usually you have
to go searching for it and it's not Jerry Garcia you
seek...nor find.

There were many reasons why I left music for a while
mentally and physically.  First, I knew a great deal
about writing and public relations.  But not enough. 
For more than half a dozen years, I
studied--intensely--both the psychology and the
science of these disciplines.  And taught both
journalism and four courses in public relations, an
upper-level management course in public relations that
I not only designed but pushed the faculty senate for
academic credentials.  Meanwhile, I was taking
Ph.D.-level courses in the theoretical side of
communication, attending communication conferences,
writing papers.

The study of theoretical communications brought me
back around to Maxwell McCombs, Ph.D.  I first met Max
when we both worked on the New Orleans Times-Picayune
newspaper.  He handled the civil court beat.  When he
left to go back to college--Stanford University where
he earned a Ph.D.--I took over his civil court beat. 
I still remember some of the people from that
experience to this day.  John B. Fornet, the justice
who knocked the gun downward as a jealous lover tried
to kill Huey Long (the bullet still killed Long, but
because of Fornet he suffered longer and suffered
considerable pain, i.e., Fornet did him no favor). 
Oliver P. Carriere, a judge who admittedly was a Long
man (Blanche Long controlled the party at that time)
and who handed down decisions from the bench that were
laced with the wisdom of Solomon.  There were others,
of course; Richard Seither, Fritz Harsdorf, Buddy
Felts, all on the newspaper.  I treasure the memories
from those days.  And a few days ago a person who
lives in New Orleans told me that Tu Jaques is still
there.

One day--behold--I heard that Dr. Maxwell McCombs had
accepted a position at The University of Texas.  I
wrote and asked him if he was the McCombs that I knew.
 We've since exchanged a couple of letters.

Dr. McCombs is mentioned in most of the modern
textbooks dealing with communication.  For his
agenda-setting theory.  And there is a certain
communications guru, Kenneth Burke, who is, perhaps, a
study unto himself.  I used to joke that no one
understood the theories of Kenneth Burke, including
Kenneth Burke.  This is not entirely so, of course. 
Regardless, he has prompted many discussions regarding
communication.  At a convention that I attended of the
Eastern Communication Association in Atlantic City,
several panel discussions concerned Burke.  Basically,
what we're talking about is a structured, but
different way, of looking at things.

We, as humans, can credit our development more than
likely to the fact that Lucy fell out of that tree
(i.e., the ability and/or necessity to walk), the
opposable thumb, and our ability to consider and even
communicate in symbols.  Growth patterns in
communication--technological and raw capability--are
necessary, I would think, to the continued progress of
humanity.  To the extent you symbolize well, you
intellectualize well.

Symbols are involved in books as well as conversation.
 In my opinion, however, books are somewhat unique.  I
have at home books so valuable they aren't worth a
penny except to someone who wishes to delve into their
fine, rare wine of thought.  Same with records, to a
great extent.  I love Segovia, but many of you may not
even know what I'm talking about.

The problem with many books--and the same is true of
records--is that it's sometimes difficult to find the
one you need when you need it.  Right now, I could
definitely say that about a book of criticism by
Kenneth Burke.  Where in the devil did I put that
damned book?  Or the book on "War and Peace in the
Global Village" by Marshall McLuhan?  The same is true
of records a great deal of the time.

So, a couple of days ago, I installed some music on my
laptop, the same laptop where I keep the more than
dozen novels I've written...music to have handy when I
needed it.  Linda, Roy, Jerry Garcia.

Garcia, in my opinion, was a son of a bitch when it
came to communication.  The kind I need now and then. 
I may also later install some Johnny Cash and Bill
Monroe.  If I can find the specific records somewhere
in this house.  Because there are indeed times when
music is both a physical and a mental support.  In
effect, sets the world straight.

When I was with Billboard in New York City, the
general thought was that the Grateful Dead had fans,
but didn't do well when it came to record sales.  Thus
I find it strange that the CD "Reckoning" by the
Grateful Dead is on Arista Records seemingly during
the tenure of Clive Davis.  Clive Davis was defiant
when it came to profits and did not produce records,
as a rule, that did not sell and sell strongly.

I think I purchased this particular CD, although, to
bring me back to music, my sons Andy and John have
loaned me Grateful Dead CDs over the past few months. 
John has several boxed sets of the Dead.  Andy, too,
is a Dead fan and has even been to their concerts here
in Las Vegas when Garcia was still alive.

There are several tunes on "Reckoning" that are
exceptional.  "Cassidy," a tune written by Bob Weir
and John Barlow is highly devious and musically quite
complex...far from the signature of a Clive Davis. 
Davis is, indeed, a genius not only intellectually,
but when it comes to the business of music.  When it
comes to the music itself, his "fan" approach was more
toward the artist than the music.  In my opinion. 
Because a lot of the records released by Arista were
not exactly the kind I would wish to recall.  Nor even
buy or keep.  However, when it comes to "Cassidy" and
even "Deep Elem Blues," a song I first heard, I
believe, in the 60s by Hank Thompson, a country artist
I remember well because of the twin-fiddle sound of
his band, I'm close to calling the musical quality
close to masterpiece.

Bill Monroe, Johnny Cash, Linda Ronstadt, Roy
Orbison--these are records that have been with me a
long, long time.  Albums.  I became a Cash fan when I
heard him perform "Cry, Cry, Cry" and "Hey, Porter"
that first time on the "Louisiana Hayride" over KWKH,
Shreveport, LA.  I once told Linda that I had become a
fan of hers the second I heard "Up to My Neck in High
Muddy Water" when she was still a member of the Stone
Ponys on Capitol Records.  She merely smiled and said,
"Bless you, child."  As for Monroe, lord!  "Blue Moon
of Kentucky" on the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. 
Live.  I once had the great honor of helping push off
his bus to get it started after a performance at the
Newport Folk Festival.  I've caught him live in
Greenwich Village.  I've caught him live at Knotts
Berry Farm.  There is no god in bluegrass except Bill
Monroe.  He had and still has, however, many
disciples.  One of these, perhaps, is Jerry Garcia.

Garcia, however, is a fascinating musician when it
comes to bluegrass.  I doubt that I could ever be
considered a deadhead (no Harley), but how many
musicians do you know that had such an enormous
entourage as did Garcia?  In fact, this entourage used
to convene here in Las Vegas, deadheads pouring into
the city like a flood of aliens, Harleys roaring,
foreheads graced with bandannas, newish beards for the
occasion.  Bankers and such, of course.  Proof?  Are
you aware of the cost of a Harley these days?  
Misfits need not apply.  No, these who followed Jerry
Garcia and his band had platinum credit cards in their
wallets and cell phones tucked away out of sight and
out of mind.  They followed the Grateful Dead like
people consumed with hunger for another life.

I did not know much about Garcia's music while he was
alive.  Andy and John fed me his bluegrass first,
later his other musical creations.  Long after he was
dead.  At first, I thought he was as country as a
pickup truck.  But as I listened to more and more of
his music I gathered the opinion that he was beyond
country.  In the old days, I might have labeled it
progressive country.  But that term has become
dysfunctional.  Suffice to say that Garcia pushes the
boundaries of music; it not jazz, but it may be a pity
that classical music--pop music, too (especially)--has
yet to see this kind of musical development.

Back in the 60s, Raul Cardenas and his wife Mary took
Barbara and me out to visit Roger Sprung, a music
teacher who lived in that mythical land north of
Manhattan Island that is really the Bronx, but not the
Bronx.  That afternoon, several musicians were playing
folk music in the backyard.  I remember that someone
had one of the first Dobros every made (1927) and had
removed the frets so he could slide the neck with the
neck of a broken bottle.  All afternoon, the music
never stopped.  When someone grew tired, another
person picked up the instrument, the music not even
missing a beat.  A rich, abundance of music.

Sprung's claim to fame at the time was that he'd
played a couple of years with Bill Monroe and his
Bluegrass Boys.  He considered this a great tribute to
his musical skills, his education.  True!  But perhaps
also a great tribute to his love of the music.

Garcia, to me, obviously had that kind of great love
for bluegrass and folk music.  Probably for all kinds
of music.  But especially for earthy, vastly
improvisation, spur-of-the-moment creation.  Head
arrangements there were once call in early r&b.  I
once loved jazz for this particular aspect--you never
heard the same thing twice and there was often a great
deal of surprise in the music, especially with Chico
Hamilton.  I loved Chico Hamilton when he played at
the Jazz Gallery in Manhattan.

Bill Monroe's music, I've heard, was not
improvised...the notes and their presentation were
literally "carved in concrete."  So, I've been told
more than once.

Thus, it's interesting to compare "Orange Blossom
Special," a classic tune, as performed by Bill Monroe
and as performed by Jerry Garcia.  Frankly, the Garcia
version with a group called Old and In the Way on the
Acoustic Disc label is considerably better.  So good,
it makes me cry.  There is, perhaps, a valid reason. 
Most of the members--Vassar Clements, Jerry Garcia on
banjo, David Grisman on mandolin, John Kahn, bass, and
Peter Rowan on guitar--were steeped in Bill Monroe,
played for him, traveled muchly to hear him.  The CD
"That High Lonesome Sound" was recorded live at the
Boarding House, San Francisco, in Oct. 1 and 8, 1973. 
The group lasted nine months.  The material was
released first on the Grateful Dead's Round Records
label.

The cross pollination of the various members is
fantastic as well as intriguing.  Clements once played
with Monroe as well as with Jim and Jesse and the
Virginia Boys; he also played on a Nitty Gritty Dirt
Band LP in the 1970s.  John Kahn, bass, had played r&b
and jazz; he performed with Paul Butterfield Blues
Band, a funky harmonica-driven rock group.  Rowan
played guitar with Bill Monroe in the mid-60s. 
Grisman, mandolin, was deeply involved with bluegrass
and knew the scene.  It's well documented that Garcia,
while renown for his Grateful Dead endeavors, was also
involved in various groups such as the Jerry Garcia
Acoustic Band, the Garcia/Grisman Band, and had "sat
in" on other bluegrass album sessions.  Thus, to some
extent in my opinion, Garcia and his friends had right
as well as inclination to take Monroe "one step
further" in the realm of music.

Now it's impossible to evaluate a musician's impact on
the music world through merely a record or two. I
would be embarrassed to try.  However, it appears to
me that the maturation of music has become petrified
to some extend and we're being Brittany Speared to
death.  I will tell you this:  I've installed four
songs featuring Garcia on my laptop to take with me
wherever I go and to which I'll listen now and then
when I need some good, uplifting music.  These are
songs that can be heard many times without me ever
becoming bored with them.  And few indeed are the
number of records in my personal list of this nature. 
Certainly, no Brittany Spears.  Instead, "Just Like
Tom Thumb's Blues" by Linda Ronstadt, "Pretty Woman,"
"Only the Lonely," "Crying," and a couple of others by
Roy Orbison...music I love to hear again and again.

Culturally, of course, the Grateful Dead are even more
significant, I would think, than their music.  They
were the gods of a certain lifestyle, a certain
pattern for thinking, a definitive pattern for
communication between humans.  I'm not sure that I
could condone that lifestyle, but that is not my role;
I'm neither judge nor jury when it comes to the way
someone else wants to live life.  But I treasure the
music that Garcia has created and value it intensely
and more than likely will install one or two other of
his tunes in the near future.

One day, if the situation is not already in its
fledgling stages, the Grateful Dead will be the
subject of intense, consistent academic study. 
Woodstock warranted at least one book; the Grateful
Dead deserve as much or more.  One day, perhaps, Jerry
Garcia will be also the subject in study as a
superlative musician.  No agenda-setting theory here,
maybe, but definitely Kenneth Burke as a modus
operandi.

OTHER MATTERS
I wondered in a previous Commentary if Jerry Wexler
would remember me and received this note from Kent
Burkhart:

Kent Burkhart, RADIOKENT@aol.com: "Heck yes, Jerry
Wexler will remember all that he met. Fabulous
memory. I talked to him from his Florida home a few
years back after I read an article about him in AOL
news. He remembered me, and we did a half hour of fun
conversation. He is as bright as ever. Hope you are
doing great!!!"

Chris Kennedy, New York, chriskennedysart@hotmail.com:
"Hi Claude: Gary Allyn suggested I contact you.  I'm
looking for Bill Randle airchecks.  Wed. Oct 19th,
1955 - WERE / Cleveland.  Thurs. Oct 20th, 1955 - WERE
/ Cleveland.  Friday Oct. 21, 1955 - WERE / Cleveland.
 Saturday, Oct. 22nd 1955  - WCBS / New York City. 
Saturday January 28, 1956 - WCBS /  New York City.  If
you have any suggestions or leads on how I can track
these down, I hope to hear back from you."

Anyone have any suggestions for Chris?  When I
responded to Chris, I mentioned that the only time I
heard Randle was one night over KMOX.  I copied my
note to Carol Williams, Carol@440.com, and John, and
received this response:  "Aloha Claude, I just
realized that you sent your e-mail to John at his old
e-mail address. He got rid of the bossjock@440.com
address because of the zillion spam e-mails he was
getting. Here is his current e-mail:
john-williams@hawaii.rr.com. At any rate, I showed him
your note. He said he doesn't know of an aircheck for
Bill Randle but also noted that he has no record of
Bill Randle working at KMOX. His info shows Bill's
career to be mostly in Cleveland.  Check it out on
440:Satisfaction at www.440.com - There's a link to
Bill's obit also. Enjoyed your column on your cruise.
Mele Kalikimaka."

So then I had to email Carol that Bill was just
sitting in at KMOX at the request of the program
director, an old friend of his.

A recent note from Tom Noonan, a veteran music
industry executive and a long-time Billboard person
(see below), created a lot of musing.

Tom Noonan, Tenoonan8@aol.com: "Hope the cruise was
great--say hello to your wife for me.  Claude, I was
wondering--back in the 1950s, Billboard's R&B charts
were mainly based on calling R&B DJs, they didn't have
PDs for the most part, and these DJs ruled the roost
so to speak--they dominated black listeners in each of
their respective markets.  I was just wondering if
some of them are still alive and maybe if you printed
their names in your online column that some of your
readers might know. Every week, I had to call them to
get their playlists over the telephone, plus their
pick of the week, etc.  In those days, prior to having
WATS (Billboard was the first company to use WATS--as
a test for AT&T) but prior to WATS, one had to call a
LONG DISTANCE SEQUENCE OPERATOR, give her all of the
names and telephone numbers that you wished to call
and she would then get the first one on the phone for
you, and line up the second one, while you were
talking to the first one--on down through about 20
names in 20 different markets.  Well, every week, I
had a major problem trying to explain to this LDS
Operator that (a) these were real people and (b) no, I
did not know their real names and (c) 'just go ahead
and place the calls as I gave them to you'.  I could
her the operator telling other ops, 'Boy, you should
hear who this guy is calling!'  Then I would give her
the names (and I won't remember them all right now)
but gave her, DIZZY LISSIE, CHATTIE HATTIE, SIR WALTER
RALEIGH in Pittsburgh, PAUL "FAT DADDY" JOHNSON in
Baltimore-Washington, GEORGIE WOODS in Philadelphia,
JACK THE RAPPER, then E. RODNEY JONES in Chicago,
MARTHA THE QUEEN in Detroit, (another guy in Detroit
who always spoke in rhyme, but can't for the life of
me recall his name right now), O.C. WHITE in
Milwaukee, plus many others--and I would speak to each
one on the telephone every week to get their input,
which was very important, and then call R&B stores to
get sales information and combine both to get the R&B
singles chart, with radio always more important than
sales--about 60 vs. 40%. Radio was the predictor of
hits to come and, man, these people knew their market,
knew hits when they heard them and were great
predictors of things to come.  Plus they were
beautiful people and I became fast friends via
telephone, but never did get to meet them all--but met
quite a few when I left Columbia and joined Motown
Records in Detroit in 1968.   Just wondering if some
of your listeners could come up with more R&B giants
on the airwaves in the 50s & 60s--I know that E.
Rodney Jones died this year, and that  Paul 'Fat
Daddy' Johnson, left radio, joined Atlantic and then
joined Motown in LA in about '72 and died on the
operating table. I know that Jack the Rapper (a good
buddy) also has passed (he used to put out a great R&B
tip sheet from Miami--and had great conventions).  The
rest I don't know but I did get to meet and talk to
Martha the Queen sometime later.  At any rate, some
week when you are stuck for a topic, this would be a
great one.   Don't you agree? Take good care."

I did talk to Jack the Rapper a time or two; before he
died, he was doing a weekly show on an FM here in Las
Vegas.  And I've exchanged emails with the son of
Reggie Lavong, a man with a voice given by God.  He
was absolutely the best voice I ever heard anywhere at
any time. After his deejay days, he became a very
successful businessman.

Tom, I would like to do something on the great black
jocks.  I knew quite a few and loved many of them. 
However, I'm simply not confident I could do a good
job.  You did pretty well in your note.  Better than I
could have done, I would think.  In the old days, we
had some fun, though.  Rudy Runnels, who called
himself the tall, tan Texan, once told me: "Claude,
you may be white, but you've got a black heart."

Giant Gene, GIANTGENE1@prodigy.net, says he has just
"completed great interview and program with Stewkey,
the lead singer of Nazz and Hello It's Me, etc. Back
together with Nazz2 CD...very nice. Mc'd them and many
of my old pals like Charlie Gracie, the  Orlons,
Soul-Survivors, Essra Mohawk and more at George
Manney's incredible 'Brotherly Love' concert at  the
TLA Theater in Philly.  Still keepin' 'The Sounds Of
Philly' traveling worldwide, thanks to friends like 
you."  His show, "The Sounds Of Philly," can be found
at www.giantgene.com.