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"MURDER
at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall
Chapter 2
It was a long, long time before anyone came. First,
no one would believe me. The person who answered the
911 number thought I was drunk or some kid playing
some kind of prank.
"I'm Buddy Coffee," I said.
That hadn't done any good either. It appeared I was
even less famous than I thought.
I ended up calling the home number of Dude Daniels,
program director at the radio station. He didn't
believe me either.
"A dozen people?"
"At least," I said. "Blood! Jesus,
I'm standing in
blood and beer right now. Jesus."
Dude got the police there. I guess someone on the
police force owed him a few favors. Or someone
believed him.
Everyone who came in the door said, "Jesus!" I
don't
think any of them were sacrilegious; not any more than
normal. Of course, cops in Los Angeles aren't normal
anymore. They've seen too much of this stuff. The
Rodney King "incident" goes on all of the time and you
don't necessarily have to be of Afro-American descent
to participate as the center of attraction.
There just wasn't much else anyone could say.
The first was a police officer who drifted in a bit
casually. From his attitude, he obviously thought it
was just another bar fight at your typical rock'n'roll
dive. The Busted Bird was renown for its fights.
He looked at the body of what might once have been a
typical college student at UCLA or Cal State Long
Beach.
The face of the youth had literally been ripped to
pieces of bloody flesh and bones by bullets. The nose
and eyes were missing. It would have been difficult
to determine just where they'd been in the mess that
was left.
"Jesus!'
By now, I had recovered. A little. Once the initial
shock wore off, I had become very sick. Beer and
violent death probably don't mix well. At least, not
with me. I vomited on the table.
After I got over being sick, I stumbled over a body
that had been ripped in half by bullets and I got sick
again.
That's all that was left of Sherbert.
The police officer had a stronger stomach than I did.
He did not get sick.
After he said "Jesus" a couple of more times, he
asked: "You okay?"
"No."
"You need an ambulance?"
"No."
"Don't leave," he said.
"I won't."
Leave? I could barely stand up. My legs kept
turning to spaghetti under me.
He went out and made a call from his car. After a
while, he came back and soon a whole bunch of people
began coming into the place.
Some took photos, some took notes. A doctor checked
out the bodies. More pictures were taken.
Chuck K. Davis, owner of the Busted Bird, came in.
He didn't say "Jesus." He said, "I'll be a
son of a
bitch!" That was Chuck K. Davis--always thinking of
himself.
The first thing he did was call his lawyer, then he
called his insurance agent.
And, so help me, he placed another phone call. This
time, he called Horace Vosberg, editor of Disc Times.
I stood there listening to Davis describe the killings
as if it was a major event in the club. From the
conversation, you'd have thought Elvis had made a
return engagement. Neat trick; in spite of rumors to
the contrary, Elvis was just as dead as approximately
a dozen former patrons of the Busted Bird Cafe.
Davis would probably have the club open tomorrow
night for business. It would be brisk. Any publicity
was usually good publicity for a nightclub. Knowing
Chuck, he'd probably hike the door fee a few bucks.
I was asked a lot of questions by the police and I
answered them as well as I could. To a tape recorder
as well as to a person who took notes.
And what I thought a day later to three people in a
conference room in an office building just off Ventura
Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley.
The two men wore dark business suits. One wore
sunshades in spite of the fact that the room was
lighted about as bright as your ordinary mausoleum.
They were both somewhere around 30 years old, give or
take a year or two. It didn't matter; both seemed
like they were carved from the same piece of wood.
They thought hardwood; I thought basswood. They tried
to appear, however, as if they were both as suave as
they thought they were tough. The combination didn't
fit either of them very well.
The woman--she appeared to be about 40 years
old--wore a dark blue business dress that was also a
uniform. A pale blue scarf was fastened around her
throat. Her hair, as red as a California sunset, was
ponytailed and fell in front of her right shoulder.
She looked very businesslike, but also very pretty in
a quiet way. She was definitely hardwood. Maybe even
concrete.
The two men sat behind a mahogany table. The woman
sat at the end with a yellow legal pad and pencil in
front of her and a ball-point pen in her right hand.
The victim--at least I felt that way--sat in a chair
not in the center of the room, but virtually framed in
the triangle formed by these three persons from the
Society of Critical Studies. Musashi once stated that
when a person had "attained the Way of strategy, there
will be not one thing that you cannot understand...you
will see the Way in everything."
But I saw nothing. Maybe because of yesterday's
drinking, maybe because my head still felt heavy and I
found it difficult to think, I had trouble
understanding what was going on.
"Society?"
"Yes," one of the men explained.
"As good a name as another, I suppose," said the
other man.
"Your name is not Max Coffee," said the first man in
an accusative tone. "It's Basil Hedgeworth."
"Buddy," I said.
"What?"
"My name is not Buddy Coffee. Not not Max
Coffee."
"Why do you call yourself that?"
"As good a name as another, I suppose," I said.
"And
as famous as I seem to be, I'd better start carrying
around business cards. Something that says: 'Buddy
Coffee...a not-very-famous deejay'."
"Humor? Wrong tack to take with us, Mr. Hedgeworth,"
said the second man. He sounded very sorrowful about
my tack.
Actually, I thought I was practicing lack of tack.
I'm very good about lack of tack. True, I do have a
problem with tack. Especially when I've been rousted
out of bed at the outrageous hour of 10 a.m. by a
so-called investigative unit for questioning about
"the terrorist attack at the Busted Bird," but then
not taken to a police station. I didn't even get time
to down my usual four or five cups of instant coffee.
And the questioning was not by the police. Neither
of the two men looked like detectives. The problem
was that I couldn't quite decide what they did look
like.
"You're doggoned right," I said. "It's the
disc
jockey in me coming out in whelps. I apologize. On
the other hand, I would much prefer knowing who and
what I'm talking to...or with. Or at, as the case may
be. Or to whom I might have talked with if I'd known
to whom I was talking at."
The two guys looked at each other. They evidently
came to a mutual decision.
"I'm Jones. This is Davidson. That's all you
need
to know. For security reasons."
Jones had a hangdog face. A crease came off both
sides of his nose and angled down his face. When he
frowned, the creases grew longer and caused his face
to look almost as if he were ready to cry.
"Those sound like aliases," I said. "Most
radio and
television personalities adopt aliases, too.
Nom-de-plumes. Gary Owens is actually Gary Altman.
Scotty O'Brien is really Sylvester Silverstein. Some
record stars also use professional names. Bob Dylan
is really named Zimmerman. Bobby Vee is really named
Robert Thomas Velline."
"Humm," said Davidson. "Is Johnny Carson
really
Johnny Carson?"
"I don't know," I said. "And he probably
doesn't
know."
The woman made a few notes on her pad. She held her
ballpoint pen in her left hand and made the notes with
the pencil in right hand. Odd.
I felt that I'd made a terrible faux pas. Tomorrow,
I'd called up NBC and find out Johnny's real name. It
might be important to know. If NBC would actually
tell me. On the other hand, perhaps Johnny had never
told that sort of thing to NBC. Maybe Ed McMahan
didn't even know. Carson was retired anyway and I
don't suppose it mattered much anymore what his name
was. Jay Leno? Who cared!
After a deliberative pause, Sorrowful Jones said:
"The society operates out of Washington, DC."
"What does the society do?" I asked.
This question caused even more confusion and even
more silent deliberation. I waited. They
deliberated. Just about the time I figured out they
didn't actually know, Sorrowful Jones said:
"We conduct informal investigations regarding
possible or potential terrorism."
"Like the SLA thing a few years ago," said Davidson.
"But not officially," said Sorrowful Jones.
"Nothing
on the record."
"Or off," added Davidson.
"So, in reality," said Sorrowful, "we're sort of
asking for your help."
"But not officially?" I asked.
"Well...a bit stronger than that," said Davidson very
carefully as if to make sure that I realized I would
have to answer whether I wanted to or not.
"But not on the record," said Sorrowful.
"Now that we've got that settled...."
I stopped and waited for the response.
They waited for me to finish.
The silence grew longer than a disc jockey can take.
I was thinking about saying something. Perhaps
something interesting about Los Angeles weather. Just
as soon as I could find something interesting to say
about Los Angeles weather.
Finally, Davidson coughed and adjusted his sunshades
on his nose as if he was having difficulty seeing me.
"The thing that intrigues me, Max...."
His voice tapered off and he obviously was waiting on
me to respond. So, I did.
"The name is Buddy Coffee. Not Max Coffee.
Buddy
Coffee. I'm sure glad you don't live around here.
You might accidentally get an ARB diary in the next
ratings sweep. You could destroy my whole career."
"The thing that intrigues me," said Davidson, "is
that you're alive. Do you see what I mean?"
"It may just intrigue you, Davidson, but it pleases
the hell out of me and the Wells Fargo Bank."
"Why do you think this is?"
"I have a car payment due at Wells Fargo next week,"
I said.
He shifted his sunshades again.
"I mean, why is everyone else dead?"
"Someone shot them," I explained.
He whipped his sunshades off and glared at me. Now I
understood why he wore sunshades. One of his eyes was
blue, the other green. I've seen that in cats and
dogs. I'd never seen it in a human being until now.
I wondered if it was even genetically possible. Maybe
it wasn't. Maybe Davidson was an alien from Mars.
No, there wasn't any life on Mars. Of course, he
might still be from Mars.
"Are you going to do your show all morning?" he
asked. "We really can't spare the time, although I'm
sure it's quite funny."
"Ouch," I said.
There was another uncomfortable silence. I thought
about squirming in my chair, but then decided that I'd
better not.
The woman seemed to know, however, that I felt like
squirming in my chair.
She watched me carefully, made a note on her legal
pad with a pencil, and watched me some more. A slight
smile flickered around her mouth, but she fought it
back out of sight.
"Did you know Kareem d'aste Surcouf very well?" asked
Sorrowful.
"I guess not," I said. "Unless he was the
barber I
used three months ago when I got my last haircut.
Maybe that was six months ago. I haven't been able to
keep up with haircuts lately. Hair today, gone
tomorrow."
"His professional name was Sherbert," said Davidson
without blinking a green eye. Blue eye either.
"Oh."
"Then you knew him?"
"This is showbiz, depending on your point of view, of
course. A disc jockey gets to know a lot of people.
But not very well."
"What about the name Brunini?"
"Nope."
Davidson, who'd asked the question, received a stern
glance from the secretary.
I couldn't decide whether they were playing bad guy,
good guy and which was which or Laurel and Hardy and
which was which. But I decided that it didn't matter.
I was growing a little tired of the game, whatever
game was being played.
"Did you talk to this Surcouf last night?" Sorrowful
asked.
"I may have said hello. I don't remember. Wait.
I
do remember. I did not say hello."
"Then you have no idea of why he was at the
nightclub?" Davidson asked.
"To hear Bobby Vee. A lot of people were at the
nightclub. It was jammed during most of the night."
"Did you see anyone out of the ordinary during the
evening?"
"You're kidding," I said. "Everyone at the
Busted
Bird was out of the ordinary. Anyway, I don't know
what ordinary is these days. When you're prematurely
bald, you expect to attract a lot of attention. But
not in a place like the Busted Bird."
"Would you be able to identify the persons who did
the shooting?"
"Probably not. It was dark. And unless they
were
famous, who would have cared?"
"You were wearing a business suit, purchased at Mays
about a year ago, and a rather sedate blue tie," said
Sorrowful. "Perhaps you could enlighten us about why
you...uh, dressed up...for the evening?"
"Shit," I said.
"Pardon me?" said Sorrowful.
"I forgot all about my date," I said. "Boy,
is she
going to be irritated. Probably even outrageously
mad."
"Then you planned to go somewhere else after the
show?"
"Yes. I had a date. I'm surprised you didn't
know
that. You knew how I was dressed except you screwed
up on the tie."
"We found that out from the policeman who arrived
first on the scene," said Davidson. "He said you
were
wearing a blue tie."
"Yellow."
"So, it was a yellow tie."
"So, you're aren't exactly perfect. The thing I
can't understand, however, is how you learned about
the shoot-out so fast and got here from Washington,
DC, as quickly as you did."
"We're the ones asking the questions, Max," said
Davidson.
"Buddy. It's Buddy Coffee. For cripe's sake,
didn't
you read that column item in R&R about me about seven
months ago?"
"To be quite frank, no."
"That's my problem. I'm probably the only one who
saw it. Would you like to see a copy? I just happen
to have a clipping in my billfold."
"That won't be necessary," said Sorrowful.
"Does anyone around here have an aspirin?" I
asked."
I think I've got a headache."
No one moved.
"What is R&R?" asked Davidson.
"A trade magazine for program directors in radio.
Record guys read it, too."
"Would Sherbert have been mentioned in R&R?" asked
Sorrowful.
"In all probability. Billboard also might have run
something on him at one time or another."
"Rolling Stone?"
"Maybe," I said. "But I doubt it.
Rolling Stone is
not the magazine that it used to be. To tell the
truth, it probably never was."
"Excuse me a moment," said Davidson. He rose
slowly
and went to the door and went out, but almost
immediately came back into the room and set down in
his chair and adjusted his sunshades on his nose.
"Could we inquire why you were at the Busted Bird,
Mr. Coffee?" asked Sorrowful.
"Yesterday, Bobby Vee asked if I'd like to drop by
and catch his show. It's not politic to say no and,
anyway, I haven't caught his act in quite a while."
"And what happened...in your own words? We have your
statement to the police last night. But perhaps you
might recall something else that would be of help."
"No problem," I assured Sorrowful. "I came
late. I
only wanted to catch four or five songs. Didn't even
bother finding a table. Stood near the wall and...."
"Just where would that have been located in the
club?"
"Near the entrance to the men's room, I guess.
Because people kept coming by. I was sort of in the
way."
"Where did the shots come from?"
"I don't really know. Anyway, it wasn't a bunch of
shots. It was more like a hail of bullets. The
acoustics in the Busted Bird are pretty good. You
hear just about everything."
"Very good? No one seems to have heard the noise
outside of the club."
"The club received several complaints a couple of
years ago. Chuck K. Davis, the owner, installed
soundproofing."
"Did the roar come from near the men's room?"
"No. Off far to my left near the bar. I think.
I
can't be sure. There was some kind of a disturbance
in that direction. Someone bumped into me and I fell.
Then the roar started."
"One gun or two?"
"I have no idea. I know a lot about records and
music and enough about radio to do a radio show. But
I don't know anything about guns."
There was another long pause. I couldn't help but
feel that they were afraid to ask the question they
wanted and were searching around for a question they
could ask. I wondered what they really wanted to
know.
"How long have you known this Sherbert?"
"That's hard to say. I may have seen him perform
once or twice in the past."
"Wouldn't you know something like that for sure?"
"Probably not. You can catch four or five shows a
week in a town like this. If you have the strength
and/or stamina. Or drink enough beer. But acts don't
change their shows all that much. It all becomes a
blur. There's an old story about a writer on
Billboard magazine--Mike Gross--who once wrote a
review about someone performing in Carnegie Hall and
he never left the bar next door. No one knew.
Probably no one cared. It was a rave review anyway."
"What can you tell us about Sherbert?"
"He's been around for a while. Hasn't had any big
record, but has had a few that bubbled?"
"Bubbled?" asked Davidson.
"Trade terminology for almost making the charts."
Davidson nodded.
"Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill
him?"
"Perhaps they liked rap better," I said.
"Rap?"
"A form of music," I explained. "Very
popular among
kids. Especially ghetto or barrio types."
"Another joke?" asked Davidson.
"Evidently not," I said. "Next time, I'll
get Woody
Allen to write my material. Of course, I didn't know
that I was going to do a standup routine this morning.
Come to think of it, I'm not standing up. Wonder if
Woody Allen can write sit-down stuff."
Davidson stood up. "This conversation is going
nowhere," he said. He looked a long time at
Sorrowful, then added: "I'll check to see what's
coming in on the computer about R&R and Billboard."
"Try Metalshop, too," I suggested.
"Metalshop?" Davidson asked.
"It's a heavy metal music magazine," I said.
"There
are several on the newsstands."
"Good god," said Davidson.
He pushed his sunshades higher on his nose and left
the room.
"And he hasn't even read a copy yet," I told
Sorrowful.
Sorrowful glanced at his secretary. She nodded.
"Excuse me," he said to me. Then he got up and
also
left.
The secretary made a few notes in pencil on her legal
pad. Then she looked at me.
(To be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
So, the novel started about a week ago and will continue
chapter by chapter. Usual disclaimer: The
fictional characters are really fiction, as are some
of the places and especially the oldies radio station.
Bobby Vee, as I recall, performed at least once at
the Roxy on Sunset. There was not, of course, and
probably still isn't, any Busted Bird. But the
Palomino operated by Tommy Thomas in the Valley was
definitely real and such as Bob Dylan, etc., oft hung
out there. I caught Linda Ronstadt there one night.
Performing. Barefooted. In a print dress.
Bumped
into John Sebastian backstage and he told me that Fred
Neil was teaching dolphins how to sing down in Coconut
Grove, FL, and Felix Pappalardi was working in a
studio in Woodstock and he made that sign about
someone pumping something into his arm and both of us
were sad about that because we knew that Felix was a
genius and that he would soon be dead and it wasn't
long until he was (I read about it in a newspaper in
Oklahoma where I was working on a master's degree).
Hoyt Axton played the Palomino often and it was
usually packed. Marty Robbins. It was a great music
place. And, of course, Martoni's was real and Tom
Clay did bartender there for a while.
Along with chapters of "Murder at the Busted Bird,"
more commentary. The e-mails seem to be flowing in.
And I'm enjoying them. Lord, but some of us have had
interesting lives! And have known interesting people!
Previous commentaries featured Jim Long, Shaune
Steele, Chuck Blore, Scott Burton, Burt Sherwood,
Bruce Miller Earle, Lee Bayley, John Barger, Rollye
Cornell, Don Keyes, Jerry Atchley, Joel Denver, Dene
Hallam, Joey Reynolds, Allan Hotlen, Roger Carroll and
various others are mentioned, all in late April 2003.
In early May: Bill Miller, Mark Driscoll, Dave
Donahue, Jack Gale, Joel Foger, Don (Riley)
Hibschweiler, Lou Kasman, Richard Kimball, Robert B.
MacEntire, Rich Marston, Lou Massey, Steve Rivers,
John Rook, J.C. Simon, and John A. Hall, my son who is
an attorney in Los Angeles. Second May column, below:
Chuck Buell, Steve Eberhart, Jim Prewitt, Jeff
Roteman, Larry Ryan, Ed Salamon, Russ Simpson, Jim
West, Dick Williams.
I commented somewhere, somewhen, that back when the
Shah was head of Iran, I helped one of the Shah's key
people line up three radio personalities for "an
American" radio station in Tehran (with tremendous
salaries, lavish treatment, and everything paid).
There was Mikel Hunter and, I think, Greg Anthony, and
someone else that I can no longer recall. However,
all they were promised didn't happen (their phones
were bugged, etc., etc.) and they ended up having to
literally escape the country. Chuck Buell,
ChuckBuellRadio@cs.com,
wrote: "Wow, I'd often
wondered how that turned out! Would you have been the
one who called me to see if I would be interested in
this? I was in California doing afternoon drive and
helping KFRC become my third Radio Station of the Year
at the time! I recall some of the 'benefits'. Paid
accommodations (whatever that meant!), a car (while
one was there), a month off each year with paid
round-trip air home and back, and a hefty, unrevealed,
salary because the Shah was rich (of course!) and he
really wanted 'to do this for all the Americans
working there!' Flattered as I was, I did not pursue
it further than that one phone call for a number of
sound reasons! By the way, what else can you tell me
about that...briefly. How long did it last? Did they
get out okay? Interesting story...to me anyway!
Thank you for sharing that story."
Nope. Too many years ago, Chuck! I can't even
recall the name of the third person who went. First I
heard about the "results" was when David Moorhead,
then managing KMET in Los Angeles, told me Mikel
Hunter was hiding out in a motel in the San Fernando
Valley, afraid of being tracked down by someone from
Iran. None of the promises were kept. And they had
to pay for their own hotel room, etc. I learned that
the "radio station" didn't even have a bathroom, they
were evidently supposed to pee in the corner. All of
the phones were bugged. Mikel told me that once
someone butted in on a phone call and told him he was
not supposed to say things like that. The way they
all got out was someone stole back their passports and
they booked several flights out and took one at
random, and did the same in the next city and etc.
Mikel was pissed at me for maybe a year. Last time I
saw him was at Moorhead's funeral, everything
forgiven. Moorhead's mother-in-law was there cussing
about Moorhead to Mikel...she didn't even know Mikel!
Strange, strange occasion, even for a funeral. But,
of course, that Iran thing was even stranger. Guess
most of us have led, one time and another, strange
lives.
Steve Eberhart, steveeb@swbell.net,
says that he
"really enjoyed your essay on your website!
Have you
seen www.historyofklif.com
? I created and maintain
it...would love your thoughts."
From Jim Prewitt, jimprewitt@ureach.com:
"I entered
radio in 1975. I got my first break at KLIF and
remember your work at Billboard. I just read your
poem. Truly inspirational and brought a tear to my
eye."
You aren't the only one who who got a little
misty-eyed at the poem, Jim. Including me. I knew
most of those guys, of course, and had associated with
most for years. When David Moorhead died, I got
angry. I don't know why. But I was mad that he'd
gone and left me here. He was, perhaps, the best
friend I ever had. Yeah, his personal life suffered
over the years. But to me he was honest and true and
someone to whom I could share my miseries and he could
share his. I thought of him as possibly the best
radio man who ever lived. But, I'm greatly biased, of
course. However, I was more or less a member of KMET
and have the numbered belt buckle to prove it and,
although I've never mentioned this before, I'm the one
who told him to get the pot out of the studio so he
could take the station mainstream and also advised on
getting the call letters on the air, something not
done by so-called underground stations until then and
I came up with the term progressive rock so it would
have a stronger image for advertising. I still
believe to this day that the old KMET would be viable,
considering its staff, its promotions, its music, and
the modus operandi involved with relating to the
community.
Jeff Roteman, ejjeff@pa.net,
evidently is a website
general! "Before I get into what I want to ask you
about, I just want to say that as I was growing up and
dreaming of getting into radio, your column and
articles in Billboard were always must read for me,
even before looking at the Hot 100 charts. Thank you
for your part in my radio development. Now to
business. I have websites devoted to a few of the
great Top 40 stations: WLS, Chicago; KQV, Pittsburgh,
and 13Q, Pittsburgh. Also sites devoted to WTAE,
Pittsburgh; Bob Dearborn's Night Time America, and ABC
Radio News. It was suggested that maybe you can help
me in finding information and perhaps even help to
find an e-mail or phone number to a couple of KQV's
former pds. I am trying to locate Jerry Spinn (KQV
1962-1963) and John Borders (KQV 1968). If you could
be of any help, that would be greatly appreciated. I
have been unable to find any info on either on the
internet. In fact the only place I could find any
info on Spinn was from an old Vox Jox columns on
microfilm when he was leaving KQV to be replaced by
John Rook." Jeff lists:
http://14kqv.musicpage.com
http://1250wtae.musicpage.com
http://MusicRadioWLS.musicpage.com
http://ABCNews.mainpage.net
http://13Q.musicpage.com
http://NightTimeAmerica.musicpage.com
One of the better-known Top 40 program directors in
the long years ago was Larry Ryan,
larryryan@sport.rr.com:
"How time flies. I read an
article that you published called "Gone and Also...a
work in progress." I was struck by the fact that I
have known many of the old radio people that have
passed, and yet I continue to stay in this business.
I do it because I love it. I love getting up at 3:30
in the morning to prep the show. I love going on the
air with the same old team that has been together, off
and on for over 30 years. I love the fact that we may
be more popular now than ever before in this bastion
of southern markets. Not only have we maintained the
old listeners of the past, we've gained new ones just
because we still entertain without offending.
Granted, I do have another job. A real job. The
family has an advertising agency. However, I turn 65
this August and the wife and kids want me to trim back
my overworking, so I will play golf, fish, travel, and
still do the morning radio show on Oldies 95.7. And I
will continue to do so until it stops being fun. It's
like the old retired guys looking forward to meeting
each other at the Wal-Mart coffee shop or the mall
every day for coffee and to talk about the old days.
It's something for them to look forward to everyday
now that they have retired. I'm retired, I just
happen to meet the guys at the radio station instead
of Wal-Mart. I'm an independent morning show
contractor. I should have done this 25 years ago.
Good to hear that you are still active."
Ed Salamon, ed_salamon@crb.org,
notes: "Last year I
ended a 30-year run in radio and became executive
director of The Country Radio Broadcasters. One of
the nice things we do is The Country Music Disc Jockey
Hall of Fame, which holds an induction dinner once a
year. It wasn't my idea, but I appreciate the
opportunity to bring some recognition to people like
those you wrote about. The plaques are physically
located at The Opryland Hotel in Nashville, but this
link will take you to our virtual Hall:
http://www.crb.org/2003/awards/djhf.html.
Like many
people who started out in radio at the time, your
Billboard column was our prime source of education
about radio. It was great to read your writings
again."
More about the late Sam Holman from Russ Simpson,
cariboocanada@yahoo.com:
"First, let me say how
pleased I am to see you have decided to continue to be
a conduit that will hopefully help add some glue in
keeping participants in the profession of radio, old,
present and new, bound together in their shared
passion. Which brings me to the second, but by far,
more important reason for this writing...to thank you
for acknowledging the underappreciated and
unrecognized contributions of Sam Holman to the beings
of contemporary radio. Sam collected groups of
people. This is about one of those groups. If ever
there was evidence of such a thing as fate or
karma...and as big a skeptic as I was of such
things...the events that unfolded in my participation
in the business of radio in respect to Sam would leave
all my doubts in tatters. In 1948 when just nine years
old I had already become a great fan of radio while
living in Toronto. It was with great excitement that I
would become part of the studio audience, referred to
as "the Breakfast Clubbers" at a live airing of the
ABC Breakfast Club at WLS while on a visit with my
parents to friends in Chicago. The latter being with
Philco, one of the programs sponsors. To this day I
still have the large postcard style 'admission' ticket
that had pictures of everybody from Don McNeil, Jack
Owens to Aunt Fanny (Fran Allison, of Kukla Fran and
Ollie). The highlight being that march around the
Breakfast Table. Fast forward to 1958...much to the
dismay of my Dad, I chose a career in radio over his
desire to have me pursue a law degree. I should
restate by saying, radio reached out and chose me. My
football coach in high school entered my name in a
local Pemroke, Ontario radio station contest in
conjunction with the C.A.B. Radio Awareness Week. I
won...and was offered a weekend job on the spot. This
developed into a full-time position when summer
vacation came. I never went back to school. The die
was cast. Within six months I assumed a position with
yet another station about to go on the air in Thunder
Bay, Ontario. John Murphy of CKOY was the PD. He
introduced me to Billboard magazine and the column of
Claude Hall. The hours of 7 p.m. to 1 ayem became my
domain. In the first of many "rants" to any and all
asunder, I was moved to send you a piece on my
feelings about how the evening jocks were perhaps in
the most competitive time block of all day parts
because of all available forms of entertainment
competing for their share...be it bowling, television,
bars, sports events, etc. You were the unfortunate
recipient of my protracted dissertation. Furthermore,
you were kind enough to not only print it but add your
affirmative comments. Not only being flattered I
developed an instant feeling of now truly belonging to
the radio community at large. Two years later I found
myself walking the halls Jack Kent Cooke's CKEY in
Toronto...working among icons of Canadian radio,
people I used to listen to. The station was in a
state of flux. Westinghouse was the new owner. WLS
and WABC were the big buzz. I had the opportunity of
listening to WLS often earlier while still back in the
Lakehead (Thunder Bay, Ontario). So was happy to find
out others felt the same way as I did. Through reading
your column I became familiar with the name of Sam
Holman as the man to know. Ed Houston, the music
director at CKEY had nothing but great appreciation
for how WLS and WABC had approached their transitions
and became accepted by teens and adults alike. CKEY
decided to fold its assault on CHUM. I was cut
loose...CKLW (pre-Drake) and Doug China at WKBW each
expressed that I had a spot with them. Through you I
learned that Sam Holman who had gone to Vancouver to
set up CKLG for Lloyd Moffit. I wanted to work for
this guy... even if it was for peanuts. On the
strength of a ten-minute audition tape and a four-line
hastily scrawled letter I was hired by Sam, sight
unseen, via a brief phone call saying 'you're
hired...when can you be here?' Sam also pulled in
Frank Malone from KBOX, Dallas (mornings), Craig
Edwards, news director from Thunder Bay, Paul Arthur
from KOYN, Roy Hennessy (fresh out of a broadcasting
course) to beef up the existing staff...Sam didn't let
anyone go...but let those that found the new direction
uncomfortable seek other employment while still in the
employ of CKLG. Sam unfortunately became 'the Ugly
American' in the local press for upsetting the status
quo of Vancouver radio. He fielded phone calls from
irate older listeners on an open line show that the
new format had inherited. Barry, Sam's wife, of
Canadian stock but a California girl, was more than a
little annoyed at the difficulty to assimilate into
the populace minus the barbs that were forthcoming.
Lloyd Moffit then died. Sam cashed in his ABC stock
and used it as a down payment on KLOG in
Kelso-Longview, WA. To pay the bills, he did morning
drive at KISN, Portland, some 65 miles away for his
friend Don Burdon. Sam, Barry and my wife and myself
became very close friends. It was a friendship that
would not only change my life but end up saving it.
Sam lost a ton of money with KLOG. Burdon ran into
problems with the FCC. Sam was on the move again. When
he conencted with Lew Dickey, Sam put out the call
for Craig Edwards, who had since gone first to KJR
then KISN and WIXY, Jim Meeker, ex-KOL and KISN, and
Al Vanik (Gary Mitchell) also of KISN and myself to
join him in Toledo. He talked WOHO into spending a
bucket of money and pull all the strings they could to
get me a Green Card. Armed with a fantastic set of TM
jingles and a great crew, we tore the town apart. I
still have a copy of a Pulse page showing the
afternoon drive knocking off the Big Eight 45 miles
up the road in our shared counties. It was my good
fortune to be pulling that shift. It was also my
responsabilty to justify the trust Sam placed in me
to have unfetterd control of the music we played.
During the 1968/69 period that saw a transition taking
place in music, it was with Sam's blessing that he
allowed me to start introducing selected album cuts by
groups like Steppenwolf, Iron Butterfly, Chicago,
Blood Sweat and Tears, Joplin, Doors, Beatles and
Stones, Funkadelics, Parliaments and some of the more
revolutianry Detroit bands that frequented the Grande
Ballroom. As a result, it was my pleasure to receive
a phone call from you to query what we were doing...I
almost fell through the floor when you saw fit to
incorporate some of my comments in a front page
article in Billboard the following week. (Damn, I
wish I had kept that article.)
Unfortunately, Sam's usefulness to Lew was over. He
had been hired to facilitate the application of a
television station. A construction permit was granted
for Channel 30, a UHF. We still needed a network
affiliiation. With all of Sam's efforts, Leonard
Goldenson at ABC would not reassign the ABC franchise
to us from Overmyer's WDHO. Perhaps it wasn't so much
Sam's lack of lobbying skills, but more the fact that
in a fit of pique by Lew when he was making his pitch
with Goldenson, he was interupted by a phone call. To
regain attention, Lew took off his patent-leather slip
on and threw it at the wall just above Goldenson's
head. That was what they call a real deal
killer...potential or otherwise. We brainstormed what
could be done. A group of stations in a similar
predicament headed up by a fellow in Atlanta kicked
around the idea of doing a Music/TV thing...producing
the equivalent of a 24-hour a day equivalent of
American Bandstand...but with music videos. Sam was
open to the concept. I was really hot for it..Lew and
the others decided against it...and the guy in Atlanta
decided to go the movie route on his station WTBS as a
Super Station. We turned back the CP. Sam left WOHO
soon after that...as did the rest of the crew. Jim
Meeker went home to California and KWIZ and later
KRLA, Vanik to Seattle and KING and I returned to
Vancouver and CKLG. Sam and Barry wound up in San
Francisco . They had a condo on Russian Hill. He was
pulling a shift at KNEW. When I got remarried, he
drove all the way from SF to attend. He was starting
to show signs of wear. They had a son called Blaine,
named after the border crossing just south of
Vancouver where she got pregnant, and a daughter,
Reagan. My wife and I stayed with them while enroute
to Phoenix to work with Gary Stevens who had just
taken over the reins at KRIZ. Sam would come through
often. If I recall, he was now with Drake-Chenault.
Later I would return to Vancouver. Sam started working
for something called the Childrens Network then got
mixed up in that terrible situation involving PAMS and
lost everything. He spent a zillion dollars having
to get new beds cut in Mexico. I later had a call
from him asking if I would come to Santa Barbara to
work with him at a station he was doing. He was gone
before I could decide. It took its toll on their
marriage. All of "Sam's crew" had made a point of all
getting together at least once a year, usually in Las
Vegas. He was very demoralized. To make matters
worse, he was haunted by the specter of early death.
All the men on his dad's side died of heart failure
around the age of fifty. The last time I saw Sam was
early Spring of 1986 in Las Vegas. He did not look
well. Blaine and Reagan were with them. Blaine was in
attendance at the US Air Force Academy in Colorado and
Barry had taken a job with Merrill Lynch in Los
Angeles and bought a townhouse in Century City. Barry
and my then wife had become very close. She and
Reagan stayed with us in October when they came to see
us during EXPO 86 in Vancouver. It was also her 50th
birthday. That's when I learned that she and Sam had
split for good. A short while later I recieved a
handwritten letter from Sam dated November 24th. In
contrast to Sam's usual three line missives, it was a
full page on KDWN, Las Vegas letterhead. In addition
to wishing my family the best of the upcoming holiday
season (Sam was not usually very open at expressing
personal sentiments) he went on at length to bring us
up to date on his kids plus the enclosure of an
article that 'reminds me, Russ, of the Sunday trips
for beer back in the 60's' (Sunday beer sales were
illegal in British Columbia at the time, so we would
form a "posse" and head for a bar in Point
Roberts,
WA, to quaff a few pitchers and BS about radio). His
closing words were most poignant for guy like Sam who
never came across as a family man to many people.
'Take care - Take care of the kids - My Best Sam'.
In January, I would get a call from Craig Edwards that
Sam was found dead in a motel room in Las
Vegas...apparantly as a result of 'self medication' to
take care of a diabetic problem he had developed.
Craig and Al Vanik were both working in Denver and
took Blaine, who was still at the Academy, under their
wing. Baline sent me an invitation to his graduation
in 1987. Much to his chagrin he washed out as a jet
jockey because of an eye problem. He was later to
spend the Gulf War in a refueler out of Diego Garcia.
In all the years I was fortunate to know Sam, he had
nothing but the greatest love and respect for those in
radio who shared his passion...and had little time for
those who didn't. He was not only willing but
encouraged the exchange of differing philosophies and
ideas. But above all, he gave people that feeling of
being an equal by giving them their space to sink or
swim. He was never short on showing his displeasure
when basic fundamentals were violated...and also very
quick with expressions of the highest compliments when
due. He was a very fair, decent man with, in his own
words, 'the sound in his head of what he wanted the
station to be'. It was up to us to play around and
find it. That crew of guys still are in close
contact. Craig is operations director for Metro
Networks in Los Angeles, Jim Meeker is in real estate
in Seatte, Al Vanik does voice imaging for twenty some
odd TV stations out of Honlulu and I am in forced
retirement at Qualicum Beach, B.C. I said at the
beginning of this tome that Sam saved my life. He had
instilled in the aforementioned group such a feeling
of camaradrerie that not only do we communicate
regularly and see each other when possible, but when I
was diagnosed in 1998 of terminal lung cancer with
about eight months left these guys all converged on
Al's place, then living in Phoenix, to try convince me
to seek a thoracic surgeon who would 'give it a
shot'. I did that and in spite of losing my right
lung, have managed to get another four years of
living out of life. Sam, the fellow that not only
took me under his wing and became one of my best
friends, but also taught me that rock'n'roll radio can
be respectable. It's all in how it's approached. Like
he said in the WLS reunion in '85. 'we were an adult
station playing rock'n'roll music'. I often thank my
good fortune for having met Sam. Had I not, I am quite
certain I wouldn't be around to write this letter to
someone that he spoke very highly of."
Great tribute, Russ. I hope you're fighting this
cancer. My dad had cancer. Lived until he was 74.
Jim West, JIMRW@aol.com,
"My congratulations to you
for your tribute to so many of the REAL players in
this crazy business to which we have dedicated our
passions and talent and energies. You've done a good
thing and working with Larry Shannon anchors the team.
God bless your work!!!"
Dick Williams, Reels On Wheels, reels@sympatico.ca,
wrote: "I thank you for that time trip on your
website. As you'll note, I'm up here in the frozen
tundra of Canada, but worked during my formative years
south of the border. I really learned my craft from
Frank Ward, 'The Tall One', at WSAI in Cincinnati back
around 1960. Frank, it has been written, was the first
jock to talk over a record till the vocal. He hit the
first 'fade'. How's that for a teacher? We were based
in the Hotel Sinton downtown and he lived upstairs in
the hotel. I was doing overnights when he showed up,
filling the door frame, dressed in his pyjamas. After
introducing himself as the PD, and telling me three
or four things I should NEVER do again on the air, he
commanded me to be back at 2 the following afternoon
to watch and listen to him doing his show. Over a few
short months he tutored me in the art of ad-libbing,
showed me how to use 'flow' when going from music to
music...lessons that have stayed with me till this
day. Onwards to San Diego and KDEO where I met
another two radio legends...Mel Hall and Don McKinnon.
Mel was another smoothie...a beautiful voice, and the
absolute master of production. Mel, as you no doubt
know, went on to program KRLA and WJJD. We remain
close friends to this day. Don McKinnon was hired when
KDEO was sold to new management, and I well remember
him just 'goofin' on air when he was learning the
board. I would have to agree that he was a master at
his craft, even before he peaked in Los Angeles.
Another benefit of your e-mail was to notice that J.
Robert Wood, yet another Canadian radio legend, was
carboned. I've never met him in person, but his many
years at CHUM, Toronto, speak for themselves. So,
acting on impulse, I dropped him an e-mail, and we
hope to get together in the near future. So many
memories of an era that has been, to a large part,
replaced with automation, syndication and 'McRadio',
where every station sounds identical, which is to say
bland and boring. Where is the fun these days? Why all
the slogans, branding and sameness? Where is the hot
jock from some small town crashing into a new, bigger
town and taking a station to the top virtually
overnight? I thank my lucky stars to have played a
very small part of 'personality radio'. I had the
great misfortune three weeks ago to speak to a group
of students in radio at a local community college. I
shared with them what insights I could give them,
including a story about a former broadcaster who went
on to teach radio at that same school years ago. His
first lecture, without explanation, to his students,
was a detailed recipe for pot roast. The students put
up with it for a while, then one of them asked him why
he was conducting a cooking class. He replied, 'You're
going into a business where you aren't going to make
any decent money for years, and you might as well
learn up front how to make a cheap cut of meat feed
you for almost a week'. These kids had no idea why
they were in the course, asked no questions of me, and
one actually fell asleep during my comments. Would
you not think if you were going in a career path into
a business you knew very little about, that you might
have at least one question to ask of someone who has
spent over forty years plying his trade in it?
Unfortunately, these students didn't believe me when I
told them that their class of 30 would only produce
one or two grads who actually got a job in radio. And
that those scant few lucky enough to get a job would
no doubt lose it or quit within a year. Where are the
overnight and weekend jobs where a young, aspiring kid
can start these days? They're already filled with
voice-tracked slots that guys like me can record in 10
minutes. Or, just as ikely, filled with digital
satellite clones that fill in the hours. Sure they
sound slick, and are attractive to owners due to cost
considerations, but nobody is getting the hours they
need to season and hone their craft, and yes, make
their mistakes in an effort to shed their skin and
moult into professional talents. I've rambled on for
far too long ... I have show prep to do, and some spots
to read from my home studio. My most-cherished
professional dream was realized this year during my
annual one-month stay in Key West. I took along my
laptop 'portastudio' and did commercials and
production which I was able to e-mail to clients all
over North America. This year, I plan to do several of
my specialty shows from down there, too. The
technology of the internet is such that there's no
reason to actually stay tethered to a studio when you
can do a 'live' localized show from wherever you happen to
be. Damn, I wish I was forty years younger! Long live Marconi's
dream." Website:
www.dickwilliamsvoice.com
Frank Ward, I knew him well in the old days. He sat
in a couple of nights of WNEW-AM, New York, when it was the
giant MOR and I'll guarantee you I never heard
a better-produced MOR show. His production was
fantastic. Melted butter! Tasteful. Precise.
On
the wing. Ah, a lot of things artistic have
disappeared from radio!
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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