Entries from June 2005 ↓

[Edited slightly on July 20, 2007 to correct some factual errors and add detail.]

I had a breakthrough recently, of a sort. I found something so special I have to share it. Let me set this up a bit.

I was born in 1963. The 1960s were one of the most turbulent and troubled periods in American history. Change was the prevailing theme, and sometimes that change was violent. For the first time, Americans saw real people die, right on their television screens. There were assassinations, there was racial turmoil, and there was an unpopular war fought not only in a remote country called Vietnam, but also right here at home. Anti-war activists and men serving their country with honor were on opposite sides of a terrible conflict, which pitted brother against brother in a way not seen since our Civil War.

The 1970s, the decade in which I did most of my growing up, were more upbeat. Boeing rolled out the 747. Disco was born. The US space program flourished. Personality radio was pioneered by people like Larry Lujack, Doug “The Greaseman” Tracht, Henry Boggan, Kasey Kasem, Dick Bartley, and even a great, unrecognized genius named Dick Mountjoy.

In Los Angeles, a man named Tom Clague (simplified on the air to “Tom Clay”) had recently moved to the west coast from Detroit. Clay’s motor city radio career had been stellar, but in 1959 when government officials cracked down on the once-widespread practice called “payola,” Clay was fired in disgrace. After a five-year stint at CKLW in Canada, he eventually had returned to Detroit and rebuilt his career, but by 1971 he was ready for a change.

Clay had just begun to make his mark on the L.A. radio scene. The famed “Boss Radio” craze had just struck, an age when music radio was at its zenith. Clay’s show on KDAY, called “Words and Music”, was a grand experiment in combining creative editing, the spoken word, and other audio from newsbites and the like into a cohesive medium. His shows were like collages for the ear, scrapbooks from your radio. He was a storyteller with modern tools. Some of his work was an acquired taste. Other efforts were true masterpieces, especially given the tools available at the time — primitive audio consoles, 1/4″ tape, razor blades, “carts”. He had a strong, recognizable, distinctive voice. The show was very popular, and the technique followed Clay through several radio jobs.

During a brief fill-in appearance on KGBS, Clay assembled a piece that caught the attention of Motown’s Berry Gordy. Gordy thought it was well produced, not least because it used his own fast-rising session singers The Blackberries singing lines and background vocals from “What The World Needs Now” and “Abraham, Martin and John.”

In 1971, MoWest (the west coast division of the legendary Motown label) released a 12-inch LP* called “What The World Needs Now Is Love”, by Tom Clay. On it were his highlights; the very best bits he’d done for his shows, further cleaned up and made as presentable as a 1971 release could be. The featured single was popular and received significant airplay, but the album didn’t sell; spoken word albums often didn’t, alongside the popular music of the day. In 1975, I found it in a discount bin at K-Mart and bought it. I remember listening to the title track, side 1, cut 1, and being completely overwhelmed. The audio montage recalled with startling clarity the four most galvanizing events of the 1960s; the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Robert Kennedy, and the Vietnam war.

Life marched on, the seventies gave way to the eighties, and somehow that vinyl record disappeared. For twenty years, I’ve been trying to find it again. I rarely pass a used record store without wandering through for a brief search. I’ve scoured the internet over the years, too, hoping to find an MP3, but I’d mostly given up.

Two days ago, I heard the Burt Bacharach / Elvis Costello version of “What The World Needs Now Is Love”. In my mind, I couldn’t hear Burt over the deafening memory of The Blackberries’ voices in the Tom Clay montage. I decided to have another look. In fact, I spent far more time than I should have on a busy day, poking about with Google. I found lots of references to the record and the LP; it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who appreciated it. Finally, something promising led me to a web site containing not a word of English save for the title I was looking for. Breathlessly I clicked the link, and seconds later, I was listening to Tom Clay’s magnum opus again, my heart in my throat, feeling the same impact as when I heard it for the first time.

Now you can listen too. I’m posting three versions, and if you can’t play any of these, e-mail me and I’ll send it to you in any form necessary. It’s that good.

128kbps mp3 (6 Megabytes) (Broadcast Quality)
64kbps mp3 (3 Megabytes) (Medium Quality)
32kbps mp3 (1.4 Megabytes) (Crappy But Small)

The recording is surprisingly clean for a transfer from vinyl. In particular, appreciate the wonderfully exaggerated stereo image that is a trademark of popular music in the late sixties and early seventies. Yes, the cuts are rough and the audio clips are of very low fidelity; there are wow-ins, clicks, and pops. Welcome to the early 1970s radio industry. Look past that and let yourself get involved with the content, though, and you’ll go on quite a journey as you listen to this.

A few explanatory notes for my loyal readers in other, more civilized countries:

The combination of distorted, clipped audio and American accents may make some of the actualities difficult to understand. Also, all of the online transcripts I can find are wrong. So, I’ve transcribed the recording very carefuly and accurately myself. [Edited July 18, 2007 to correct some errors and improve formatting.] Here is the transcript.

The voice reporting from the Dallas Trade Mart, where JFK’s motorcade was headed, is Ron Jenkins of KBOX Radio, Dallas, Texas.

The voice reporting the president’s death is a young David Brinkley. Many people remember a similar line delivered by Walter Cronkite; Cronkite actually lost his composure for a few seconds, later commenting that “Anchormen shouldn’t cry.”
The speaker who has been to the mountaintop is the civil rights icon of the sixties, Dr. Martin Luther King.

The voice saying “No one can know…” is Senator Robert Kennedy.

Andrew West of station KRKD, Los Angeles, is the reporter who was interviewing Robert Kennedy when he was shot. He mentions olympic gold-medalist decathlete Rafer Johnson, who along with football star Rosey Grier, wrestled assassin Sirhan Sirhan to the floor and disarmed him. Clay used only a short section of a very long audio clip … even these few seconds are difficult to listen to. West’s reactions seem very genuine. Sirhan’s revolver discharged eight rounds, one of which nearly hit West himself. “We don’t want another Oswald!” refers to Lee Harvey Oswald, who shot President John F. Kennedy and who was shot to death by Jack Ruby while in police custody in 1963.

The voice eulogizing Robert Kennedy is his brother, Senator Edward “Ted” Kennedy.

Tom Clay passed away in 1995 after a battle with cancer, at the age of 66. Except among those who record and study the history of broadcast radio, he is largely forgotten. That’s a pity. He was a great talent.

—–
* That was like a big CD, except it was made of black vinyl with grooves on both sides, and was played on a primitive machine called a “phonograph”.

I’ve been talking for quite a few years now. More than forty, I would say. Having had four decades of practice, I would have expected to have mastered the art of conversation by now. Unfortunately, I haven’t.

I’m pretty good at mere talking. I can speak clearly and make myself understood. My first summer job in my high school years was an on-air job at a local radio station. I quickly learned to speak coherently and extemporaneously. I learned how to lose an accent, then how to adopt other accents. None of this is terribly hard. It’s just speech. Computers can do it now.

Conversation is more challenging. There aren’t many rules, but the few that exist are constantly changing. It requires sensitivity, intuition, and above all else, self-editing. Sometimes I think I’m beginning to master it, but then an appalling mistake of some kind reminds me that I need a lot more work.

There are so many pitfalls, and I manage to find most of them. Sometimes I’ll simply go off on a tangent, forcing someone to endure lots of meaningless drivel on some subject that seems interesting to me at the time. It’s usually not terribly interesting to the other person or persons, and since they’re often too polite to interrupt me with something obvious like “SHUT IT, YOU BORE”, I fail to catch the hints and prattle on. At some point, usually when it’s far too late, I’ll realize that I’m even boring myself, and then I get ashamed and fall silent, going from one extreme to the other.

Sometimes I speak before I think. That happens most often in internet chats. This is inexplicable, because in a text chat I’ve got much more time to think about what I’m typing. I’ve even got the chance to read it and re-edit it before I pull the trigger. I just don’t. Of course, regret follows a split second later. Sometimes I spout logic without thinking of the emotional impact of what I’m saying. Sometimes I do the opposite. As often, I offer advice when I’ve not been asked for it. Sometimes I say something that’s meant to be either commiseration or motivation, and it just scares the person or makes the problem worse than it was before I tried to “help”.

Making one of these mistakes always unnerves me, and nervousness is unfortunately a multiplying factor. The mistakes start increasing exponentially. That’s usually when I try to get funny, ignoring the axiom that humor is best left to trained professionals. Like a bad stand-up comic, now and then I manage to say something moderately droll, but usually I just bomb or get heckled, or both.

Face-to-face conversations with people I don’t know are always hard unless the goal of the conversation is sufficiently clear. Talking with a bank teller or a department store clerk is relatively simple — we both know what we’re about and where we’re going, so the uncertainties are minimal. It’s small talk that stymies me. I always seem to pick the worst opening topic, or find myself completely ignorant of the one they’ve chosen. My segues are clumsy and jarring, I use too many conversational “crutches” (trite phrases, overused words), and my timing leaves much to be desired. I misinterpret pauses as openings, and find myself unintentionally interrupting. I either exit a conversation too soon and too abruptly, offending someone, or I fail to exit it and continue until the other person is forced to make an excuse to get me off the phone or out of their face.

I wonder if there’s a course at some college somewhere called “remedial conversation”? I could use that. Maybe I should try Dale Carnegie or one of the others of his ilk. Some work is definitely in order. Meanwhile, remember I’m an untrained amateur, so don’t expect too much.

This hasn’t been a great day for me.

Father’s day is a fun-filled, happy day for two categories of people; those who have fathers, and those who are fathers. Sadly, I find that this year, for the first time in a decade, I don’t fall into either category. So, I spent most of the day wishing that the reminders weren’t everywhere, and that the holiday would simply pass unheeded into the gutter of history.

I awoke this morning and found that my first thoughts were of my own father. Clarence Kennith Johnson was a father in every sense of the word. He was at once the sternest leader, the frankest critic, and the best friend I have ever had. From my earliest memories, my father was larger than life, and not because of his 6′4″ stature. If in my lifetime I manage to muster even a tenth of his strength, wisdom, confidence, and compassion, I will consider myself more than fortunate.

It’s been 22 years now, but not a day goes by that I don’t miss Dad. He was taken away so young that he never got to know me, really, not the real me. He got to know the undisciplined, recalcitrant teenager who knew exactly what life was all about and what he wanted from it. Then he knew the impulsive young adult I became in my next phase. All the while, he’d prepared me with all the tools I needed. He’d imparted to me all the knowledge that it would take to graduate from my larval stage and become a man. He loved me, and he knew — not hoped, KNEW — that I’d make him proud someday. Then he was gone.

My father, while in high school, played in the band. He played a sousaphone. He always encouraged me to pursue music, but was especially happy that I chose choir rather than band. “What are you going to do with a sousaphone later in life?”, he’d ask. “You’ll always have your voice. It’s the best instrument there is.” He was a great motivator.

Because of that, I can call on a few old memories for comfort. Once, during my junior year in high school, I auditioned to participate in an all-state honors chorus. Hundreds of students from every school in Virginia auditioned, and I was one of only 50 who made the cut. My father was ecstatic, and even more so when I was selected for a solo. I will never forget how he beamed, after the concert. I still have a photo that my mother took of the two of us, standing in front of the Virginia Beach Pavilion where the concert was held. His smile was incandescent. I’d made him proud, and that’s the kind of moment I can treasure.

I also remember the first radio program I ever did. It was a half-hour tribute to an artist whose music I knew well at the time. I planned it so carefully, timing everything down to the second, nailing every intro, measuring every word, and doing the best a 15-year-old could do to impress a former disc jockey like my dad. Apparently I did all right, because he pronounced it the most impressive thing I’d ever done, and thereafter encouraged me to pursue my interest in radio.

These are great moments, but there are so many other milestones I wish I could have shared with my father. I sure wish I’d had his wisdom to guide me when I made some of my most appalling mistakes. I wish I’d had his encouragement at the times when I felt hopeless and inadequate. I wish I’d had his discipline, what Dan Fogelberg so eloquently called “a thundering, velvet hand”, at the times when I was a total screwup. Maybe that’s why I can’t hear “Leader of the Band” without getting teary-eyed. It hits too close to home.

I didn’t appreciate my father as much as I should have, then. I didn’t know what I had until it was gone. Today, here and now, I would sell my soul for five more minutes with my father. I’d give my right arm just to hear his voice again. They say that time heals all wounds, but two decades of it have done nothing to fix this one. All I can do is try to live the best life I can, and hope he’d be proud.

My one true shame is that I’ve never been a real father. By that, I mean that my genetic material has never had its way with anyone else’s genetic material to produce an offspring that’s got half my genes and, by definition, a quarter of my father’s. I’m 42 years old now. It’s a bit late in the game to start a family anew, and I’m facing the fact that there may never be another Johnson to continue my father’s line. That’s an awfully bitter pill to swallow.

Ten years ago I married Yvette. Before I knew it, without even an interview or a background check, I’d been hired as stepdad of a six-year-old girl. I had no training for the job, and it didn’t help that the last two men in that position had been fired for gross incompetence. I approached the role with a mixture of trepidation and ambition, and within a few short years, I’d managed to prove that I had no bloody clue what I was doing. The result was a teenager whose indifference to me was interrupted only by periods of abject, passionate hatred. Before I could make that situation worse, if a worse situation is imaginable, my marriage also fell apart and my services as stepdad were no longer required.

Two days ago, I got a call from my ex-wife-to-be, informing me that this same teenager, the one who despised me, has requested to be brought to see me on Father’s Day so she could bring me a gift and a card. I was asked to give her a chance. While apprehensive, I agreed that we could meet. I was to get a call on Saturday to arrange the time and place. That call did not come.

I heard from them this afternoon. According to Yvette, young Alexis — who’d had the idea to brighten my day — had instead decided to go to the mall with her boyfriend. She’d asked her mother to simply get my address so she could mail me something instead. Fine, I said. I hung up the phone, sat down, and mused glumly about the reason there isn’t a stepdad’s day.

I did gain an honourary daughter today. You know who you are, and thanks for cheering me up a bit.

While getting groceries at the local warehouse club, I spotted a DVD of one of my favorite TV shows from my teen years. “Quincy, M.E.” was the original show to which “Law & Order”, “CSI”, and all the other forensic investigation shows owe their popularity. The show starred Jack Klugman as Quincy (like Columbo, we never learn his first name) and Robert Ito as his faithful assistant, Sam Fujiyama. It’s a great show, and it’s not been shown on TV for more than a decade. Some things can still make me happy, even on Father’s Day.

I wonder if really attractive women understand the impact they have on the men in their immediate vicinity. I’m almost sure they don’t fully comprehend it.

In the grocery store tonight, as I walked down the aisle, the following communications passed over my internal networks.

PERIPHERAL VISION: PERIPHERAL TO BRAIN! ALERT! FLASH TRAFFIC!

BRAIN: Go ahead, peripheral, but make it quick, we’re doing a frozen broccoli ident and we’re a little busy.

PERIPHERAL VISION: Roger that. We’ve got a female, 11:00 at about 5 yards, inbound. Request take a quick visual.

HYPOTHALAMUS: Roger, peripheral, we’re prioritizing your contact over the broccoli. Let’s get a visual.

BRAIN:Roger, we’re glancing, stand by… eyes to 11:00 please, refocus and look sharp, people.

EYES: WHOA! Brain, eyes here, we’re locked on, pupils are going max open, we’ve got focus. Preliminary assessment: shoulder length soft blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a radiant smile. GORGEOUS!

BRAIN: Right, OK, let’s link that to emotion central … let’s have a report, emotion.

EMOTION: HOLY MOLY, Brain, she’s got a really pretty face, it’s really overloading things down here, stand by, we’re working on it.

BRAIN: Right, emotion, what do we think about the rest of her? Say, a little lower? How about the body?

EMOTION: Uh, negative, brain, not in that mode right now…we weren’t really expecting…

GONADS: Yo! We’re on that puppy, sir … just give us a good low glance and bada bing, bada boom, YEAHHHHH…

BRAIN: NOOOOOO! Dammit, STAND DOWN, gonads! Do we need to go bicycling again before you get the message?

GONADS: No. No, absolutely not, we’re good. Gonads going to standby mode. Sorry, sir.”

EMOTION: BRAIN! We’ve got an overload! We’re gonna wax poetic, I can’t hold it, I can’t hold it!

BRAIN: ROGER, WAX ON! Library management, stand by!

EMOTION:

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes.

Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?

This doesn’t happen to me ev’ryday (oh my)
Let’s spend the night together
No excuses offered anyway (oh my)
Let’s spend the night together

BRAIN: WAX OFF! WAX OFF! WAX OFF! Jeez, Emotion … the Rolling Stones?

GONADS: Somebody say stones?

BRAIN: BAG IT, Gonads. OK, eyes, has she seen us looking yet?

EYES: Negative, sir, but she’s gonna look up any second!

BRAIN: Okay, we’re down to 12 feet and she’s not turning, we’re gonna pass close!

EYES: SHE’S LOOKING UP! SHE’S LOOKING UP! WE’VE GOT TO LOOK AWAY!

BRAIN: Steady eyes, this is what we train for. Stay on target. Facial, this is brain. Smile, smile immediately! Let’s go with friendly mode, non-threatening, and keep it brief! Spinal, let’s have a slight nod, too. We don’t want her to think we’re lusting after her, we’re just displaying a tacit greeting, OK? Acknowledge those orders!

FACE: Face, aye! We’re flashing a quick howdy do smile, 70% brightness.

SPINE: Spinal, aye, a level 1 head nod, zero tilt.

VERBAL: Can I just say…

GONADS:Yeah, dude, tell her she’s got nice…
BRAIN, EYES, FACE, EMOTION:NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO AND HELL NO!

VERBAL: OK, you don’t have to YELL!

BRAIN: OK, we’ve been eye-locked for a while, let’s not get creepy now … eyes, look away, target that frozen spinach at 2:00!

PERIPHERAL VISION: Skipper, we’re still tracking but we’re gonna lose her in a minute. Can we get a slight head turn?

BRAIN: Okay, eyes, let’s re-target … there’s some frozen orange juice at 10:00, give it a scan.

EYES: Roger, OK, we’re stealing a couple of glances, she’s really pretty, I wish we could ask her out.

EMOTION: You said it, brother, Wow. We sure could have used the company. What we need most right now is a friend, and she really looked sweet. Wouldn’t give us a second glance though.

OLFACTORY: She really smelled nice, too. How you doin’, Nads, hangin’ in there?

GONADS: Dead babies. Sad movies. Mother-in-law in a bikini. Pig vomit. Can’t. Get. Excited. Camilla Parker Bowles. Yanni. SimonG in a tutu.

SKELETAL: Boss, we’ve got a little weakness in the knee area, we’re locking it down now, stand by.

HEART: We’ve got a little flutter here too, boss, but it’s under control.

BRAIN: OK, good response everybody. We got shaken up a little, but everyone held together and we handled it. Eyes, emotion, skeletal, first class job. Gonads, I’m even proud of you, we got through that whole evolution and managed not to check out her …

GONADS: WHOA DUDE! YEAH! CHECK OUT HER ASSSSSSSSS! RADICAL!

BRAIN: DAMN YOU EYES! HAVE I TOLD YOU TO NEVER LINK IMAGES TO GONADS WITHOUT CLEARANCE?

EYES: Sorry boss. Gonads tricked me.

BRAIN: Nads, you’re lucky I don’t sack you on the spot, but I might need you one day.

EMOTION: Ah…Someday. Someday. And you’ll need me too.

REASON: What happened? I lost my voice.

BRAIN: Never mind. Let’s go home. Nav, lay in a course for checkout register 3. Engage.

* “The Temple”, George Herbert, 1633

An open letter to cable networks, particularly AMC.

Gentlemen,

If you don’t like the language that’s used in a particular movie, DON’T AIR IT ON YOUR NETWORK! There are plenty of other networks, such as HBO, Cinemax, Showtime, FLIX, and The Movie Channel who will gladly air it as-is.

If you don’t like the length of a particular movie, DON’T AIR IT ON YOUR NETWORK. See above.

If you don’t feel you have time to show the entire movie, or if you feel you can’t spare the time to air the entire end credits without shrinking them into a tiny, illegible blob in one corner of the screen while your promos run, DON’T AIR IT ON YOUR NETWORK. Credits are part of the film. People on film crews don’t make much money, and often the credits are the only benefit of the long hours they worked. If you can’t do right by them, leave it to someone who will. See above.

Thank you.

The above was prompted by my experience this weekend with AMC. I watched only the first twenty minutes of “The Blues Brothers”, a true movie classic, before changing the channel in disgust. The editing was ridiculous, and I refused to watch the movie thus ruined.