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

"MURDER at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall

Chapter 1

A youth--punk hair flaming over his head like the comb of a rooster -- gave me an elbow as he shouldered past in the dim light of the nightclub.
 
"Pardon you," I said.

He paused only momentarily, sneered as if to say, "What?" and sloped--it could not be called a walk--between the tables toward the wall near the bar in the back.  Once there, he joined several others just like him--the weird hair style, the clothes that obviously had been selected to shock either their parents or everyone else's parents.

Me?  He considered me establishment-plus...not with
it.  The suit and quiet yellow tie gave me away.

This, too, of course, was a uniform of a sort, but not the  uniform. If I'd worn sunshades, stone-washed Levis and a KMET radio station tee-shirt, there might have been a different reaction.  Of course, the punk may have been too young to remember KMET.  He probably listened to KROQ or something similar these days, poor kid. 

K-Oldies didn't have a tee-shirt.  They were thinking about it.  Until then, out of uniform, out of mind. So much for the fame and fortune of being a radio disc jockey and ARB audience ratings that in the last sweep had finally been good enough to be considered "ho, hum."  My job was good for another month or so. 

Maybe.  You probably know what radio's like.  Ed Hider once showed up at KFI for his regular shift only to find someone else sitting in the studio with headphones on.  It's that kind of business.

On stage, Bobby Vee finished his encore with an up-dated version of his 1950s million-selling "Take Good Care of My Baby" and the crowd in the nightclub showed their appreciation for an outstanding performance as well as paid tribute to a career that pre-dated the Beatles.  Several people at some tables down near the stage gave him a standing ovation.

They'd also applauded long and loud when he'd finished the set and faked leaving the stage and then ran back with a guitar in hand to do his "planned encore." Every act does it that way.

The club, packed with a mixture of adults who probably had heard that song when it was first aired coast to coast on Top 40 AM radio stations, and curious college students who were just discovering that rock music wasn't invented by Madonna, relaxed and started talking.  Some milled toward the door, a few shoved up toward the bar, some toward the edge of the stage to get Bobby's autograph.

I already had his autograph on an original copy of his very first record--"Baby Sue" on the original Soma Records label.  It was worth perhaps a couple of hundred dollars, depending on who was interested.  An advertisement in Goldmine magazine had listed the 45 rpm single--not on the original label--at $75 recently.  I'd had my copy for several years and Bobby
had signed it yesterday when he visited the radio station studios over on Wilshire Boulevard.  We'd interrupted regular programming to do an on-air interview.

Nice guy.

Tonight was his closing at the Busted Bird Nightclub.  Next week, he would head to England for three weeks that might stretch into more.  Roy Orbison once told me he would be booked for three weeks in Germany and usually stay six.  Vee was extremely huge in England and Orbison extremely huge in Germany even though neither had had a record on the charts in the states for a while.

Someone else was also signing autographs off to my left.  I couldn't see who it was.  But you always found celebrities at the Busted Bird when someone like Vee or another rock legend was there.  Earlier, I'd noticed Bob Dylan.  Out of uniform in a beard and a hat.  No one had recognized him either.  So, we had a lot in common. 

No one knew us without our trappings and neither one of us could sing all that well.

Come to think of it, I couldn't sing at all.  And there were a few radio program directors around the nation who didn't think I could jock either.  But I'd ended up last year at K-Oldies here in Los Angeles and the ratings had been kind, though not sensational.

Sensational meant you got a contract.  Kind meant you were constantly about to get fired and replaced by some super hotshot who could get sensational ratings.

Someone might tell you that disc jockeys get used to the insecurities of the business.  Not so.  On the other hand, there's not much you can do about it.

My value to K-Oldies, however, was not in ratings, but in research.  The program director was an old friend and he knew I was honest and he needed some honest and accurate information about records. 

Specifically, about what oldies might still be popular with females 18-24 and adults male and female 25-34.

He planned to go after these particular adults hard in his promotions for the next ARB ratings sweep.  He wanted the music to be as good and targeted accurately as the promotions would be expensive.

Autographs gathered in tight little hands, some of the throng began to drift away from the celebrity a few tables off to my left. 

I now realized who it was--Sherbert.  Not your usual rock'n'roll performer.  Good, but not great.  His fame was based partly on promotion, partly on talent, partly on hard work.  Some people might give you an argument about how much talent he had. 

 Probably enough.  He'd played everywhere, been around for a few
years.  Now he was becoming more and more of a name.

Slowly the club emptied out. Two girls at a distant table were arguing over a guy and the guy was sitting there enjoying it.  At another table, two girls were arguing over each other.  Love spats. 

A disturbance erupted in the back of the room just as I turned to leave.

Someone cried out.  A girl--one of the lesbians--ran past me.  I was pushed back and stumbled.  When someone else bumped into me--I don't know who--I was too far off balance to catch myself.  I fell into a table.  That broke my fall.  But then I flopped on the floor half under a table.  And that's what saved my life.

A roar suddenly filled the nightclub.  It sounded like a loud waterfall. Then a lot of people began dying.

I hugged the floor.  All I could think about was Musashi.  Where in the hell was that son-of-a-samurai now that I needed him?  I discovered, rudely, that it is impossible to have an attitude of Happo Biraki when gunfire was erupting on all sides.

After what seemed like years, the roaring stopped. A girl cried softly near the stage.  I started to rise.

"Go kill her," someone said over by the door. I remained very still, face down.  Shinmen Musashi No Kami Fujiwara No Genshin, otherwise known as Miyamoto Musashi, wouldn't have approved.  On the other hand, he was dead and I was trying desperately to stay alive.

A short cough exploded near the stage. The room was absolutely silent.

"A very kosher job," said the male who'd ordered the killing of the girl. His voice sounded funny, though. Like he'd had too much whiskey or was faking it.

"No one backstage," said a person with a voice like a gravel truck in reverse. "That Vee guy musta split
before the action started."

"Okay, let's call it a day," said the first person.

Off in the distance, I thought I heard a siren.  It turned out it was an ambulance going somewhere else.

Because when I finally got up enough courage to stand up, I was alone.  Unless you count the bodies. 

(To be continued)

e-mail  claude@claudehallonline.com