Basketball as Zen

This is the place I find myself.
This is my place of Zen and it has been for 21 years.
When I started playing basketball in March of 1992, I was out of shape with a weight of 237 pounds and a bad cholesterol number of 318. I found it by accident.
After taking some verbal abuse from a co-worker one day...."hey butter ball turkey..." I decided that enough was enough and it was time to do something about my fatness.

Living in Kirkwood, and doing the morning show on KSHE, I decided one day to just put the tennis shoes on and go shoot some baskets at the local YMCA. I got there about 11am, but hadn't really started any kind of official weight loss program, so I just shot and shot, trying to get the old form back that launched me to stardom in my youth.  :)
About 11:45, people started streaming in to the gym and I was in the middle of what the Y called noontime basketball. By noon, we had about 13 or 14 guys I never saw before.
Old, young, tall, short, fat and thin, black, white they all came in, looking for some exercise.
The leader was a guy named Bob, who was the executive director at the Y.
He let me know they played Monday, Wednesday and Friday at noon and I was certainly welcome.
The first game I played, I had to call time out about three trips down the floor. "Ah, we don't call time out, you have to play with your team or sit until the next game", as the rules were now explained. Then it was four times up and down the floor...then five..six and on it went until in nine months, I had lost almost fifty pounds, lowered my cholesterol by over a hundred points and got in real good shape.
I found my Zen place.
This is where the only thing I worry about is what my next play is (or as I joked today, what play I can screw up next).

No matter what has happened in my life, where I've been, where I've moved, this place is home.
A gym.
Not just a gym, though.
The one constant in my roller coaster world. The place where nothing matters, just playing. I don't think about work, or anything but playing basketball.

Over the past twenty two years, guys have come and gone and we've even had two guys die on this floor. I've made great friendships that have lasted through the years and guys who have been kicked out for being assholes who took the game way too seriously.
If you don't play for fun here, you get asked to leave and it's happened a few times over the years.
Cardinal broadcaster Dan McLaughlin played years ago when he was a really big guy.
Kirkwood pro football star Jeremy Maclin (Eagles wide receiver) played for awhile after high school (and he schooled us).
I have had three severely sprained ankles, 23 stitches under my eye, broken ribs, pulled muscles, rotator cuff surgery (too many three pointers, I guess), dislocated fingers, etc.
But, I keep coming back.

When I was sick, on the good days, I'd come out and play until I couldn't. The guys there at that time, cheered me on when I played and understood when I couldn't go any further.
When my brother died on Saturday, I played on Monday. I had to. I got lost in the game.

There have been a couple of guys "retire" from playing in the past few years. Patrick, From Webster Groves quit playing when he was 74. Jules, an accountant stopped playing earlier this year at 80.
See, while winning is why we play, it's not all about that. We all play for exercise, camaraderie and because it's good for us.
During the summer, the kids come home from school and we welcome them.
My trash talk with them goes something like this..."man, it's gotta suck to be you. If I score on you, I'm an old man scoring on someone young enough to be my grand kid and if you score on me, you're scoring on an old man. You can't win."

I played today. When I take an office day in St. Louis, part of that day will be spent with basketball zen. My happy place. A place where I can be a kid again. Yes, my knees get sore, but it is sweet pain.
It's funny sometimes how we can get attached to inanimate objects that mean something in our lives. I know that this place, this innocuous gym in a suburb of a Midwestern town in America, anytown, really could mean so much and how it can feel like home.
I hope I die on this court and if I do, I'll be home and doing what I love more than anything.

Basketball zen. It's saved my life

Sleep's Dark and Silent Gate

How do you sleep?
Do you sleep well?
Consider yourself lucky.

As I grow older, I find that sleep has become a precious commodity. I have found solace in drugs, Ambien became my friend for a while but also as I grow older, I just can't handle the pharmaceuticals anymore. How many who knew me in my adolescence would keel over if they heard me say that now?
Ambien makes me groggy and anxious when I take it for any length of  time. I have tried everything. A drink before bedtime? Nope.

When I was a kid, I used to go to sleep by getting out my mind eraser and slowly erase all of my thoughts and eventually, I would drift off. I guess things are a bit more complicated now.
When I was a very young child, my mom used to give me things to think about before I went to bed.
"Think of an ice cream bridge and on the other side is your favorite flavor. Now, you have to cross the bridge before the ice cream melts and you can't step too hard or you will step through the bridge and fall off".. or some ridiculous thing like that. I must say, it worked when you were eight, but not so much now.

"Deadlines and commitments, what to leave in, what to leave out..."

I find as I drift off ever so slightly, I will dream of people I haven't seen or thought about in years.

Since childhood, I've had this recurring dream of Abraham Lincoln. I have dreamt of him maybe 30 or 40 times since I was a kid. We've went fishing, driven through the Florida keys, ate dinner together and we have done a number of different things together. Consistently and with great regularity. I'm not sure what the connection might be only that my dad was born in the same town he was.
I would take a bit of Abe at this time.

All I know is that I will lay in bed all night, just dozing off enough to have real detailed, freaky and stupid dreams with people in it that just don't make sense. I had a dream the other night with someone in it that I had not thought of for 30 years. I will remember them when I wake up for a day or two, then they are filed away in the memory chip.

The routine is, I will lie there, doing everything and anything I can to sleep, changing positions, then the thinking wheel in the master cog gets started and I realize all the stuff I have to do whether it's work related or whatever.
Then, the endless movie loop starts, accompanied by the ceiling fan.
I'll doze off, start dreaming, then wake up.
Lather, rinse, repeat Then look at the clock and realize it's 4:17 am

You'd think that the following day, you'd be so tired, you'd fall right off, but alas...we repeat the drill the next night.
Any ideas or suggestions are welcome.
I would guess I've tried that.
I wonder what incredibly strange movies in my head will be showing tonight.
I'm sure Tarrentino or Fellini would be proud.

Popcorn anyone?

Talkin' About My Girls...

amelia

anjuli

 



aspen

 

 

 

The Last Week Of August, 1975

I remember it well. It was a sunny, warm day.
I had just moved to St. Charles Mo. after I was laid off from International Harvester in East Moline, Illinois, my hometown at the time.
Every once in a while, there would be a hiccup along the parts supply route or rarely in those days, orders would be down. Sometimes these lay offs would be a couple of weeks, sometimes a couple of months, you didn't  know how long you were going to be out, but in the meantime, a person needed to find work.
I had earlier talked to my uncle who was a shop steward at Artra Foundry in St. Charles. He told me to come down and he would put me to work. My cousins lived in St. Charles for many years and pretty much ruled the town. There were four bad ass brothers who would just as soon kick your ass as look at you. Harley riding guys who liked to live life on the edge.
As far as I could, I'd go and hang with them, but I could never party as much as they could. Like I said, in their day, they were bikers and all that came with that. Draw your own conclusions, most of them would probably be not far off base.
I temporarily moved in with my cousin and his friend in a two bedroom shack of a trailer located in the Princess Jodi trailer court not far from Boschertown, which wasn't on the right side of the tracks in a town that wasn't on the right side of the tracks.
Yes, three guys with quick tempers in two bedrooms at the end of August.It was only temporary so not a big deal as I was going to work, right?
I loaded up my truck in the Quad Cities and hauled my stuff to St. Charles because, as stated before, my uncle promised me work. Moving to St. Louis wouldn't be bad, I had always had an affinity for the big city and KSHE was one of the reasons why.
KSHE played music that was unheard of in the Quad Cities, so, at least the radio would be decent. As I threw just about everything I owned in the back of my truck and headed to St. Louis, I was informed when I arrived that the foundry had burned to the ground the very night before. Ergo, no job for me.
Not a good thing for a guy temporarily living with two other guys in a two bedroom trailer. I was very disappointed as the air had been let out of my tires. I scrambled for a job that ultimately didn't exist, my dauber was down, my mojo wasn't mojoing.
On that warm sunny day late in August 1975, while riding in my cousins El Camino (you remember those, don't you?), KSHE announced that it had a copy of one of the most anticipated releases of the year from some guy named Bruce Springsteen.
Who?
This was truly the big city and KSHE because I had never heard of him. "Born to Run" hit the airwaves with the sound of a run away freight train through the speakers of his truck. Four and a half minutes later, I looked at the radio and said to no one in particular, "what was THAT?"
This song, with it's Phil Spector wall of sound sonics, talked about chucking it all behind, grabbing your Wendy, hopping on the bike and roaring out of town with the power plant in your rear view mirror. "Wendy, I'll love you with all the madness in my soul...whoa oh!" I counted three times where this song had an orgasm so big there was NO way it was faking it. THREE different times this song led me on a roller coaster. Up, up and then YESSSSSSS! I was there. Living in my hardscrapple existence, trying to find a job and a gal who I could make it right, with, grabbing something, anything that would add to my dignity and self worth.
For the love of God, I was living in a trailer park with two other guys and not even a bedroom to call my own. This cat had nailed it, painted it, wrote it and had this tune special delivered to me in a four and a half minute package.  There are very few times you can go back in your life and say a milestone ocurred here or there but when I heard the song "Born to Run", I knew my life would never be the same. I had to have this, all of it, the whole record.
I remember heading to the record store with probably the last ten bucks to my name and getting the album. As I walked home, LP in hand, I couldn't wait to put it on some cheap turntable in the trailer. As the LP unfolded, I thought this guy didn't write songs, he wrote little movies...
"The screen door slams,  Mary's dress waves, like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays ..Roy Orbison singing for the lonely, hey that's me and I want you only, don't turn me home again..I just can't face myself alone again"
Jesus, he was the Scorsese of music. I could just see Mary standing in the doorway.
"Hey, Eddie, can you lend me a few bucks and tonight can you get us a ride? Gotta make it through the tunnel got a meeting with a man on the other side..."
Track after track. movie after movie, each featuring a protagoinst and an antagonist, agood guy and a bad guy. A wall of sound production and the tightest band ever. This record makes me cry, openly. Just listen to Clarence Clemon's sax solo in "Jungleland" and tell me Beethoven or Glenn Miller is better. A life changing event in music. You may not think so, but that's what makes music so subjective. It's like women, I like a certain kind, so do you. Next to Abbey Road, no other piece of music has affected me so, no other has fille me with such awe. In my lifetime, I doubt any other piece of music will, either.
"Kids flash guitars just like switch-blades, hustling for the record machine
The hungry and the hunted explode into rock'n'roll bands that face off against each other out in the street... down in Jungleland..."

 

Rest in peace Danny and the big man, both of you bigger than life...

In My Time of Dying

I knew exactly how I was going to pull it off. While Ann was gone to her rehearsal, I was going to duct tape the garden hose to the car exhaust, turn on the engine, get inside and go peacefully to sleep. I couldn't bear the chemo, radiation, the five pills in the morning, five pills at night and most importantly, the interferon, anymore.

It was about eleven years ago to this day that it almost happened. It had been the longest winter in my life, as I started my regimen right after 9/11 and swore to God it would never end. The funny thing about it was, it was almost over. My Independence Day was also to be Cinco De Mayo of that year.
I was diagnosed in late July and given the harshest news of my life shorty thereafter.

"If your condition doesn't kill you, the treatment just might, I advise you to go on anti-depressants before you start the treatment because what you are about to go through will test you beyond your wildest dreams." Well, I did tell my doctor to shoot it to me straight. And he did.

Starting in October, I jumped into my treatment without the anti-depressants because I was bigger than this, I was ready and I was sure of the manliness of my manhood. What a mistake that was. The treatments consisted of weekly chemo, radiation, the ten pills a day and the injections of interferon that took place every Friday night, so I could shake it off before Monday morning. By the way, I still cannot grow hair on the inside of my thigh where I injected myself. Talk about poison. I had just been fired from my job at the smooth jazz station in St. Louis two weeks before I started my treatments.  By the grace of God, a very good friend of mine put me to work at his mortgage company. He would close some deals for me and allow me to make just enough money to pay for my insurance there. Without him, I would have had to file bankruptcy and have something else to get depressed about.

After the first week of treatments, I knew I was in trouble. The first Friday night after injecting myself and mixing the interferon with the other cocktail of drugs it made me throw up with a violence I had never experienced before. My stomach was turning inside out and depositing anything in it into the toilet, again and again all night long. The rash started in the first week and ended up extending from the top of my toes to just above my nipples. It didn't leave till it was over. The hallucinations came not long after, my hair started falling out in clumps and my appetite disappeared. I lost all my hair. My head, arms, eyebrows, legs. I looked awful. There was a picture taken of me at that time. It was burned long ago.

I had six more months to go.

I could only stomach peanut butter for some reason. I ate peanut butter on toast, with my fingers, in broth, anything I could do to keep the protein in me. My weight dropped to 148 pounds before it was over and my mind was the worst part of it. I couldn't shake the deep, dark hallucinations that played with my head. We lived next door to a nice couple named Pete and Amy. They had no kids and were great neighbors. I remember going over there, banging on their front door and wanting to fight Pete because I knew he was having an affair with Ann. I recall going to the store for two steaks and coming back with two pounds of meat. I drove downtown to buy Bonnie Raitt tickets and did not remember what I went down there for.

It was the endless loop of a bad movie that replayed itself every night to the whine of the ceiling fan. Sweating and cold at the same time, I couldn't sleep at night and couldn't keep my eyes open during the day. The physical sickness betrayed the fact that when I started this regime, I was in the best shape of my life. There were days I felt good enough to go to the gym, but when I would start to play basketball, my body wouldn't take the running, I would get disappointed and cry in the locker room. When it came to my emotions, I couldn't keep them in line. George Harrison died during my treatment, I cried for three days. I just knew that Al Queda was getting ready to  bomb all the cities with Saint in the title. I was certain they were going to fly a plane into the Poplar Street bridge which would have messed up the whole shipping scene in the country. I couldn't stop. It wouldn't stop.

Fall morphed into winter and I kept remembering what my dad said concerning times like these..." keep walking into the swamp, even though your boots get filled with more mud and it makes the walk tougher...know that one day will come when you are no longer walking into the swamp, but walking OUT of it." I tried, dad, I did. I watched the movie "Saving Silverman" at least ten times, because there were days I was so weak, I couldn't get out of bed to change the channel. When I would 'shoot up" my drugs on Friday night, I'd wake up on Saturday morning, walk outside and visualize the haze I saw and felt. I still cannot stand the smell of Pantene shampoo. The smell of certain other things make me gag.

This cocktail of drugs messed with my body and as badly as my body would handle it, my mind was worse. I danced with, played cards with and dined with the devil. As winter wore on, I would now start to plan my own death. I couldn't take it anymore. I was paralyzed with fear and had the "deathbed conversation with God." "Please God, help me get through this. I'll never doubt your existence again. I'll tell everyone, I swear." I didn't hear much from Him. Every once in a while, The sun would come out, I would feel better for a day or two and then, wham, I couldn't find the strength to move. I shit and pissed the bed.

When winter moved into spring, I knew I was closer to the end of the ordeal than the beginning. It didn't matter. I knew how I was going to do it. It would be painless, not messy and quick. It was the weekend of the final four, 2002. I was out in the yard, trying to do some menial yard work when Ann came out to see how I was. "Fine," I said. "You sure? I'm going to rehearsal and I don't like what I've been hearing from you." "You have kids that depend on you", I said.

She drove away on that sunny Sunday afternoon (Sunday afternoon has always been the toughest time of my week for some reason, and to this day, it still is, not sure why), and my plan was enacted. I got the duct tape and the garden hose and taped the hose to the exhaust, making sure not to let the air seep out. I closed the garage door, got in my car and...what a chicken shit. I didn't have the guts to do it. I sat there and started thinking about what a selfish and stupid thing it would be to check out now. How would the kids take it? Ann? Would they understand...could they? Then I realized two things...I didn't have any life insurance and I had to get the hell out of there and fast.

I had to go someplace that had people. Lots of them. It was too early for church so I drove to the grocery store. A shopping cart saved my life. I grabbed a cart, pushed it up one aisle and down the next, all through the store. I reached over, put food in my cart, then would put the food back. I just had to be someplace where I wasn't alone. I think I stayed in the store for a couple of hours. Some of the employees were probably wondering what was up. All I know is the store, the ambiance, the people milling about and the cart saved my life that day.

What is the moral of the story? This. The very next day after this scenario did NOT play out, I got a call from a good friend of mine telling me about an opening at a local St. Louis radio station. I needed an aircheck of me doing oldies. I didn't have one so I called my good friend in Warrensberg Missouri who helmed the college radio station there and he opened his studio up for me so I could "fake" the aircheck. The drive was brutal, but I did it. I set up an appointment with the PD for Wednesday and I went in to talk to her. There were no full time openings but there was a part time gig I could apply for. She seemed unimpressed but on the way home, she must have listened to my aircheck as there was a message on my home phone to call her when I got home. I started doing the midday show at KLOU that week. THAT week.

That opening allowed me to do afternoons when another PD came in and then go to KCFX in Kansas City that November to do mornings at the flag ship station of the Chiefs. Without that devine intervention (or whatever it was), I would not have had a chance to get back on my feet and continue my life, see my kids grow up, or do any of the things I enjoy from that moment forward. Whenever I talk with someone about ending their life, I try to remind them that had I not held on to one last strand that didn't break, I would have never experienced all of this. What a hole I would have left in my family's life, what a coward I would have been.

The thing about life is there is something just around the corner, just over the hill, just out of reach. Something good.You never know what that could be and if you give up now, you'll never know.

After all this time, with all my trials and tribulations, life is good.
Sometimes we have to stare death in the face to realize it.


As it says on the top of the blog, true wisdom only comes from pain.

Mighty Love

RIP Bobby Smith.

http://www.freep.com/article/20130318/ENT04/130318090/Bobbie-Smith-of-the-Spinners-dies

This high school boy heard Bobby more than just about any other singer in that era.

I loved The Spinners and their cool, collected soul.

"I'll Be Around" may be one of the most under rated love songs ever with "Could It Be I'm Falling In Love" and "Then Came You" not far behind.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spinners_(American_R%26B_group)

They really don't make music like this anymore.

Love songs you could dance to.

I'll give it a 100, Dick.

Back When We Were Beautiful

Since we last met, I've changed jobs and become a part of the corporate grind. Stressed beyond belief at the beginning, it's taken me almost nine months to accept and get used to the grind. One of the things my doctor said I can do for stress is write.

While I was gone, blogger moved my cheese so now I'll have to get used to this again. Let's see if I can post a picture...

 

Well, all right. Back in the saddle. So, it shall be written, that I will start to write again.
I spend a shit ton of time on the road now.
I will invest in drag and dictation which will hopefully transcribe my words onto a platform which will allow me to email it to myself, copy and paste and there we are.
It's good for me.
For You? You decide.

BTW, the picture is the last one I scanned over the weekend.
That is me, age 18, buffed and pissed at the world. Some how, this picture, taken at random by a guy trying to sell me a camera at Kmart or someplace, has made it through almost 40 years in my possession.

In the cruel justice that is life, I still can't find the pictures of me at Abbey Road studios with Alan Parsons. There is a picture of me somewhere sitting at the piano where Paul composed Let It Be.
It's somewhere. But, this seemingly random shot of me and my first wife Brenda (she looks happy to be there, huh?) survives to this day.
Look at that guy. Where did he go? That was the body of a guy who worked in the shop all day. Big arms, chest and shoulders from grinding, lifting and performing manual labor for 48 hours a week.
That's what my dad did. I wasn't long after that, I decided I didn't want to end up like my dad.
I have always wondered what happened to Brenda. We got married way too young under THE worst circumstances. I was 18, she was 17.
We were done three years later.


prom 74 in my GTO nice hair cut for prom, dude

I got zen lost while running about 7 years ago and ended up in her old neighborhood. Of course, I ran up and down her street about three times before going to the door of the house where she used to live. Leo (her dad)opened the door. He was always smaller than she was and ALWAYS smoked a cigar. Her house always stunk.. He looked at me for a long while and then said "Holy Mother of God where have YOU been?" and greeted me with a big hug. Pat (her mom) was on the phone obviously with one of Brenda's daughters. "I have to let you go", she said. "No, it's your mom's ex husband..no, not your dad, it's Randy." She gave me a hug and we filled in the blanks for a bit. I always loved her parents.
Apparently, Brenda's health was never good. She gained a great deal of weight and it was killing her. Her eyesight was bad, she had diabetes and a number of maladies. I had just ran 5 miles after all... and we all stopped to wonder...what if? I always admired Pat and Leo. Leo worked for the railroad and would be gone most of the week. He then had a part time job on the weekends and loved to work. He always told me..."work keeps you young". The thing I remember about Pat was her cat naps. She would set the stove timer to go off in 45 minutes and she would hit the couch, snoring soon after laying down.
The timer would go off, she'd get up, grab a smoke and be off...
Brenda sat in front of me in high school Latin. Don't ask why I took Latin, I just heard at was easy.
Crap. It wasn't
She was a 4'9" and sat down every day in front of me until I found out she was struggling in the class.

I asked her if I helped on a test, could I get a date? She was so cute.
I did, she did and we were off to experience a number of firsts together...sex...pot...lsd...you name it, we tried it.
We got married in June of 74. I'm guessing the top picture is from not long after. Looks like summertime.

We worked too hard at it. I was small town restless and bored. I wanted something else out of life and gambled the certainty of making a living in the manufacturing world against the "pipe dream" (as my father called) it of a radio career.
Brenda didn't want to go the radio route. She was certain the thing was going to fall in like a house of cards. She was concerned I'd have to move and just didn't want to take the gamble with me. She did not want to follow the road less travelled. She then did the one thing any woman could do to drive a stake of betrayal into the heart of a man. It was over.
I remember trying to contact her after I got the news I was KC bound. I ended up telling her parents.
I have yet to see her since we spilt.

This all happened back when we were beautiful...which leads me to the video I have posted.

I saw Emmylou Harris and Rodney Crowell last night at he Peabody Opera House in St. Louis.
There are certain songs  that when heard, spawn incredible emotion.

Emmylou and Rodney performed "Back When We Were Beautiful" last night and it just hit me. It took my breath away and left me bawling like a baby. (I love music).What a perfect song at this point in my life. And it got me thinking of Brenda.

Prom night 73

"I guess you had to be there, she said, you had to be
She handed me a yellowed photograph
And then said, See
This was my greatest love, my one and only love
And this is me
Back when we were beautiful, see

I don't feel very different, she said, I know it's strange
I guess I've gotten used to these little aches and pains
But I still love to dance, you know we used to dance
The night away
Back when we were beautiful, beautiful, yes

I hate it when they say
I'm aging gracefully
I fight it every day
I guess they never see
I don't like this at all
What's happening to me
To me

But I really love my grandkids, she said, they're sweet to hold
They would have loved their grandpa
Those awful jokes he told
You know sometimes for a laugh, the two of us would act
Like we were old
Back when we were beautiful, beautiful, yes

But I guess you had to be there..."

Godspeed Brenda, wherever you are.

"...through the too many miles and the too little smiles... I still remember you...."





Back In The Saddle?

One of my New Year's resolutions is to find time to do this on a regular basis again.
See you soon.

Workin' On It

When I was a kid, I grew up on a farm about 5 miles east of Ava, Mo.                          

 Just about every Saturday morning when the weather was nice, I’d climb on my Schwinn and ride 4.7 miles into town. Back then, I had the many chores to do that one normally did on a working farm in the late sixties. I would get compensation for my work, as my father was, if nothing else, a fair man. On those Saturday mornings after chores, I would take my mere pittance of an allowance and spend it at the Dairy Queen, the local pinball place, shoot a couple games of pool with the old men at the pool hall, grab a burger at Norman’s Rexall Drug (by the way, it’s still there and serving great burgers) and I would ride to Cummins Electric to check on the status of the latest record I had ordered earlier.

This was how I bought my music back then. I would hear something through the crackling airwaves on the far away AM radio stations I listened to at night that would catch my ear. I’d write down what it was (if they said) and then go to Cummins Electric every Saturday so Mrs. Cummins could order the song for me. I would grab the latest issue of Billboard magazine and devour it’s contents, trying to learn everything a farm boy could learn about the big city world of music. It would usually take about two weeks to get the song in that I ordered. Sometimes, by the time I got the song, I was already tired of it. It was quite a chore to get the music I wanted in that small of a town in 1968. Quite an investment, I guess you could say.

          
         Later, I moved to the Quad Cities and Saturdays during high school would be the day that I would enter the closest thing we had to an art gallery in the city and that would be The Curiosity Shoppe in downtown Davenport Iowa. I guess you could called it a “head shop” now but back then, it was a place where you could walk through aisles and aisles of records, 12 inch by 12 inch works of art. Album covers dedicated to catch your eye. In fact, there were many times I discovered some great music my buying an album for it’s cover. I made some great discoveries that way, Osibisa, Mandrell, Lee Ritenour and the list goes on. Most of the time, there was something cool and far out sounding being played in the store, whether it was Billy Cobham, Mahavishnu Orchestra or Steve Hillage and Gong. Some of it was junk, but with some of the other songs that were played, you could then take that piece of music home and impress your friends with what you found.

Back then, it was word of mouth between neighborhoods that made the stars of their day. The main way to spread the word about a new artist was to hear them on the radio or go buy their new album.

Albums. LPs. Virgin black vinyl.

            LPs stood for Long Playing. When I was much younger, we had a number of Jo Stafford songs on “78 rpm” records. The turntable spun so fast, you could only get one song on the disc. “45 rpm’s” had a little better fidelity, they were more compact, but, still, only one song per side per record. Then, they slowed the turntable down to 33 1/3 rpm to get more songs on a record. My generation benefited from that technology.

There is something about an album that requires many senses. At first, I look at it and see if it has the “eye appeal” that provides instant recognition on who it is or, something to be inspected in greater detail. First sense. Of course, I must feel the album while inspecting it, looking it over in greater detail. Second sense. Certain albums had a certain “smell” to them. It wasn’t the album per se, but, whatever it was, the paper, the vinyl, the card board, whatever, there were certain albums that had certain smells. I will never forget the smell of a new album freshly unsealed. My enjoyment of listening to Fragile by Yes was definitely enhanced by the album cover and the little booklet inside but also the smell. I still have the album 40 years later and it still smells the same. One whiff and I’m back in my bedroom under the headphones. Third sense. Sometimes, there were unexpected pleasures when you opened up the album cover for the first time. I know that when I took “Dark Side Of The Moon” home for the first time, while I was listening to the album, I explored all the cool stuff inside. Remember the poster and the pictures that accompanied Dark Side of the Moon? Just about everyone from my generation had those stickers and posters prominently displayed and their room…because they were cool.

So, let’s review. You make the investment in the music of finding it in the store, bring it home, pull it out of the bag, carefully unwrapping the cellophane that surrounded the album to keep the investment safe, you open the album up and inspect the inside, then gently pull the beautiful piece of virgin black vinyl out of it’s paper sheath, trying all the while to NOT touch the grooves or the vinyl in any way, shape or form. You then gently place the record on the turntable and oh so gently lift the needle onto the one solo groove that fills the vinyl. Then, of course, you hear the end result of your “sensual” investment. Fourth sense.  Usually while you are listening to your musical investment, you can read everything you needed to know about the band by glancing through the liner notes.

 Before you ask, I have never tasted an album. We can only go so far with this.

When CDs came along, the music sure sounded better but then the trade off was the artwork, the product was smaller and not conducive to letting groups put a lot of attention to the visual stimulation that accompanied this great sounding invention.

Sadly, today’s youth will never know that opportunity of making an “investment” into a piece of music . All they do is order a song on line or download a song from this website, or that website and wham it’s in their computer or Ipod.

Maybe that is why music doesn’t mean as much to kids as it did to us. There isn’t the investment of our day. I guess the only sense being stimulated today would be hearing (and with today’s music, I’m questioning that). They can’t feel it, see it or smell it…and that’s too bad.

Jack Buck

Jack Buck and Harry Caray were institutions in St. Louis long before I ever dreamed of getting there. All those long hot summer nights as a kid on the farm listening to them on the crackling far away AM signal. This is what we did when the sun went down back on the farm in the summer. My sister and I would take turns holding on to the antenna just to be able to hear the game. Splendid youth.

I met Mr. Buck in 1987 at Busch Stadium during a playoff game.

We got on the same elevator at the ballpark. The door closed and I knew I had just a few seconds to let him know how I felt about him.
"Mr. Buck?"
"Yeah, kid?
"Sir, my name is Randy Raley and I do the afternoon show on KSHE 95 and I just wanted to let you know how much you influenced me to get into radio", I said, sounding like a nine year old kid.

The thing about Mr. Buck is when he talked, he almost growled.

"That's nice, kid, but don't blame me..!" he growled back and winked at me.
"Anyway, sir, I just wanted to say thank you for everything."
"What did you say your name was, where do you work?"
"Randy Raley, sir and I do the afternoon show on KSHE."
"KSHE, huh? Well, you must be doing a good job, cause my kids listen to that God awful, God damned shit all the time. Play some better music will ya?"
With that he stuck out his hand.
"Thank you, Mr. Buck", I said.
"My name's Jack."

He was out of the elevator and gone. I really don't think he had any idea he could thrill a 31 year old man almost to giddiness.

Thank you, Mr. Buck

The World We Know

It's interesting to see the music landscape in media in March 2012.

I have two other friends, Dan Kelley and  Lee Arnold, guys who developed my respect throughout the years for the radio stations they programmed, who are into the online classic rock radio business.
The nice thing about this is we are all rooting for each other. I know the work involved putting together something like this and just for that, they have my respect.

My radio station (www.planetradio.us) is my train set, my Harley. I don't ride anymore. It's not me, mind you, but I've noticed a serious deterioration of driving skills by the general public over the last few years and it scares me. Too much yapping and texting at the wheel for me. This is my hobby. This my Harley. And my train set. I make no money from it, in fact, it's been a bit of an investment.

Planet radio is the station I used to have in my head when I was a teenager. I would lock myself in my room on the farm and "do radio" into my little tape recorder. I'd play Bobby Sherman and segue it with King Crimson, I'd play the Grass Roots and Steppenwolf like they did on the stations I listened to.

The seed for planet radio was germinated about 12 years ago when a company in St. Louis was going into the online music business. They were to hire a bunch of people to program different types of internet radio to send with local content all over the country. They had figured out how to localize the content and send it to that city. I was intrigued! I was going to program and voice the classic rock stream, sending it to Philadelphia, St. Louis, Seattle and a couple of other places. They had the backing and marketing ideas that made me think they were going to do this right.

There were about 12 of us when we all met at an office in Clayton, including Michael Holbrook, who was the IT guy at The Rock! when I was there. He was along to set the whole thing up. I was pretty excited about this project as you could imagine. We had offices in Clayton and everything was ready to go.

About two days before launch, it was over. Apparently, something didn't happen royalty wise or bandwidth wise or something but right before launch, it was over. I couldn't for the life of me figure out the steps to do something like that, so I put the thought aside.

I still thought there was something there.

I thought there was an audience for what progressive rock radio used to be. I grew up listening to "Beaker Street" on KAAY in Little Rock. It was a 50,00 watt radio station on AM that would blast all the way into Canada. After 10pm, they would play songs that would not normally be heard anywhere else, unless it was KSHE back in the day. One of the first things I would do when visiting cousins here would be to turn on KSHE. KSHE went deep into album cuts and they turned me on to such wonderful music. The first time I heard Bruce was on KSHE. In the Quad Cities, it was 99 + Stereo KFMH that would go deep into albums and blow my mind. THAT music wasn't  getting played anywhere (the consultants ALWAYS said "play the hits") until the advent of online radio.

While messing around on line one day, I found Dan Kelley's classic rock website, where he would write about all things classic rock. He wrote on radio, bands, and usually very interesting stuff. In one of these columns he talked about how he was getting ready to launch an online classic rock station. I was immediately very interested to observe from afar.

Here's Dan's station. This is the bar. http://www.okemosbrewing.com/

Dan's site was the inspiration for planet radio and he still sets the bar high. His station has been named by a number of magazines for "music site of the month". Dan's a computer guy. He can do all that stuff by himself, I'm not quite as technically savvy.

When I got the job at Lee in October of 2009, I thought it would be a good time to explore this fascination of mine with someone who knew a whole lot more about it than I did, enter Mike Batchelor. Mike's pretty spiffy with computers and I approached him with with my idea and what I would need. Mike and I sat down over a soda at the Dorsett Inn. With my template and his knowledge, away we went. "You start ripping songs and I'll get started on the technical end". I needed a stand alone computer, a website, a domain, scheduling software, licensing, server hosts, royalties etc. That was November, our launch time was set at January first 2010 (11:10/01/01/10).

Mike came over at ten a. m. on New Years Day and proceeded to set up all the ip address, shoutcast portals and whatnot to get ready for the switch to be thrown at that time.

The switch was thrown and.....nothing. Yikes.

Oh wait, here is the problem, and with that....20 seconds later, there it was!! THE very first song ever on planet radio. "Breakout" by Shooting Star. Through my computer speakers..off to the brave new world..the very first full song ever played was "Song For America" by Kansas.

Why planet radio? When I lived in Kansas City, there was station there named planet radio. I just thought the name was cool. My second choice was Radio Mojo. But, I thought planet radio summed it up because you CAN listen to us all over the planet.

The first playlist at planetradio was really, really wide. From Motown to Tool. I had to do some paring. Lulu into Black Sabbath, Mary Wells into Judas Priest didn't quite cut it. Painful for a rdaio guy's ears, ya know. Right now, the playlist is about as close to perfect as it's been. I'm still working on it. Always will be.

Recently, planet radio was featured in an article in St. Louis Magazine where the management staff at KSHE were asked why they played only a small portion of their playlist. Their responses were typical. The writer asked my thoughts on local classic rock radio and my response was..."tragic."

While planet radio's peak of 179 listeners earlier this week are just a drop in the bucket, they come from all over the world and listen for a long time. They are also former listeners of local rock radio.

So, if you've ever turned on planet radio, give my other friends stations a shot.

If you are unable to make the connect to "Dream On" anymore, we're for you. If you think "Free Bird" hasn't been played enough, probably not.
The nice thing about online radio now, is the development of smart phones, itunes, iphones and ipads.
Through a very good friend of mine and a charter member of the planetradio fan club, I have apps for those that allow you to listen to the station while on the road, or on your deck plugged in to to your ipod speakers.

My station is availabe on itunes radio. Click on the radio icon, go to classic rock and then planet radio.

Now into my third year, we're strong on facebook and I'm now adding some search engine optimization to get us more exposure.

But, when all is said and done, it's about the music. From John Denver to Black Sabbath, from Bread to Frank Zappa, it's all here 6,400 songs and 1,191 unique artists strong.

I hope you've had a chance to listen, if not, go here and see what I think is a great radio station www.planetradio.us

Lee's station is getting a reboot and he's added a ton of "new" music.
Here's Lee's station... http://www.worj.com/

Little Bit Of Sympathy

There have been a few times I've been severely toungue tied or had a brain fart while interviewing someone. In 1978, at the ripe old age of 22, I had the pleasure of interviewing Ann and Nancy Wilson, who just blew me away with their beauty.

I was interviewing them for 97X in the Quad Cities in a trailer back stage where we were set up. Their manager opened the door for them and I swear I could hear the dramatic music swell in the background. They walked in, fresh faced and smelling so nice. Me? I was trying to keep my tongue in my mouth and not drool. They were both stunningly beautiful and they played me like a banjo.
While I was interviewing them I really tried to keep my composure but all I wanted to do was say ..."either one, I'm in. I'll peel your grapes and soothe you with palm fronds. I'll bathe your feet in oil every night. Either one, really, I'm in." But, i didn't.
They, however,were as nice about it as could be. If you were to just pull out my part of the interview , it would probably sound like ..."uh, well, hey, I'm uh well, Ann, hey, um, Nancy..uh, what do you, er, uh...um"...

This was early in my career. I remember being so nervous, I called them the "Heart" sisters. They laughed and said, "that's cute, we like that, the Heart sisters it is." Gah. Whenever I introduced them on the radio, it was Ann and Nancy, "the Heart sisters". I will always have a soft spot in my "heart" for those ladies.


When I first got to KY 102 in 1979, the studio was way inside a building that also housed a TV station and a full service country station. By full service, I mean they had a news team full staffed 24/7. Along with the TV station, that building was a bevy of activity pretty much all the time. The studio was literally a closet down a winding hall and behind two huge, thick doors. After you opened the first thick door, the next thick door was right behind the first one. After you opened that door, the studio looked liked a closet that had carpeting all over the walls and floors.

While some may have been claustrophobic in that studio, I found the coziness quite refreshing. Locked away in that room behind the big doors lent itself to a bit of a comforting feeling. I have always liked cozy.

In 1980, my buddies in Shooting Star went on tour with Robin Trower. Robin Trower! I have been a fan of Robin's since I first heard "Bridge of Sighs" on 8 track while working at J.I. Case in Bettendorf Iowa in 1974. "Bridge of Sighs" quickly became one of the releases that held my 8 track hostage. It literally would not let anyone else play anything else. Meeting Robin Trower was a huge deal for me.

They were on a bill at Memorial Hall in Kansas City and Robin was doing the dog and pony show talking to radio stations that really never played his music much. The way it worked was you had to follow format unless you got a star in the studio and then you could only play their "hits". Well, with Robin, the hits were things the station didn't play anyway, so I felt pretty sure playing something from the new album (Victims of the Fury)and a couple from Bridge of Sighs would do it.

I don't remember the record guy's name but I know that Robin was with a man named Derek Sutton, who, in his own right, was a big name in the music business. They walked in and I was just flummoxed. I shouldn't have been but this was Robin Trower. Robin sat down and I asked if I could get him anything but he was fine. I started the interview and I was pretty impressed on how I was keeping my composure. We talkied about Procul Harum, the massive popularity of Bridge of Sighs and then I played "Victims of The Fury".

Talk about nervous. I wanted to make some small talk while the song was playing so, I asked him something about something. Being as nervous as I was, without thinking, I reached over and lifted the needle off the song that was playing on the air and proceded to take the album off the turntable, slip it into the sleeve, then into the album and file it away. Robin started to laugh. I couldnt figure out what he was laughing about. For a couple of uncomfortable seconds, I realized there was nothing going over the airwaves. I looked at the VU meters and they were not moving. I then looked over at the turntables and there was nothing on either one of them.

Dead air. He knew it. What an idiot.

Busted.

I struggled to pull myself together, keyed the mic and said something about technical problems and we would be right back. It doesn't matter what happened after that, I was deflated and humiliated. Another lesson learned.

I saw him the next night at the Shooting Star/Robin Trower show, he was very nice and congenial. He greeted me with a nice handshake. The guys in Shooting Star said he was one of the nicest, most professional people they had pleasure to know.


Nice to know. He certainly was to me.

On Turning 50

A friend of mine informed me he's getting ready to turn 50. As someone who has now spent more than half a decade there, I thought I'd give him some advice...

Hey man,

damn straight

50 is the time when you start to figure the whole chess game out. The pieces of the puzzle slowly come together and the meaning of life becomes more in focus. I've (for the most part) enjoyed my 50s. I try to keep the body somewhat in shape and feel more comfortable in who I am. I think I'm in better shape and feel better than I did in my 30's. I tell my friends I'm fighting old age "kicking and screaming". I am certainly not as excitable as I used to be, it's hard to yank my chain because I've heard it all and experienced it all before. My skin is thicker.

My worries include what my drug use in my youth has left behind and the genes I carry. There are some burnt chromosomes that go back centuries.
And yes, there is something to be said for making it to the other side. A lot of our friends and contemporaries did NOT.

That's the bummer about my 50's. I've lost a lot of people I look up to. I've lost favorite musicians, teachers, mentors, friends, etc. One week last year, I lost three friends in the span of two weeks.
Another bummer is I don't get filled with a sense of awe anymore. THAT's the one thing I miss about being a kid. I used to be awed regularly. Not so much anyone. In fact the last time I remember being "awestruck" was about nine years ago.

The thing I've become more comfortable about is "acceptance". I know I can't control a lot of the stuff that happens in my life. I'm now trying to focus on accepting that.

I have begun a quest to right the wrongs I've done in life. I haven't always been the nicest person in the world. There are a few things I need to settle before I depart this Earth. Speaking of that, when the day comes I do, don't cry for me. Where would you put my quality of lifestyle on a measuring scale of one to ten? I think mine goes all the way to 11.

"It's louder, innit?"

I think we have more compassion as we hit the big 50 because our hearts have been scarred. I've become much more empathetic and sympathetic. I have more respect for the elderly because...they've made it too. Just making it to their age deserves my humility and respect. It's STILL a process and I am trying to be the best person I can be.

Embrace change, grasshopper.

Again, it's about acceptance. Run with it, your 50's will be the chance to rediscover your life and what makes YOU happy. Kids will be gone soon and after the empty nest syndrome passes (it takes about 6 weeks), you'll realize that this is the way it should be, the way it has been for generations and it's now dad and mom's turn to fly.

Fly high, dude.

not quite MY ratio, but funny nonetheless

Ronnie Montrose

I discovered Van Morrison through Tupelo Honey. I heard of him before, but really started paying attention with Wild Night. That was the very first song by him that made me stand up and go..."oh yeah."

The guitar player was Ronnie Montrose.

In fact, if you listen closely to that riff, it almost has an early "Free Ride" thing going on. Tupelo Honey made me go back and find Moondance and my love affair with Van was on.
The next year, this monster of a song comes on the radio with all this weird synthesizer stuff and man, it does NOT sound like any other song I've ever heard. Edgar Winter?
"Frankenstein" made me go out and buy that album, (you should have seen the look on my dad's face when he saw the cover.) Wow, the guitar player is Ronnie Montrose. Ronnie shined on the record, from "We Still Had A Real Good Time" To "Round and Round". Who can forget the wonderful riff of "Free Ride"? If there was ever a song made for spring, it's that one.

I was waiting for the next Edgar Winter album when a friend of mine come over to my house with an 8 track of Ronnie's new project  "Montrose". It seemed Ronnie was at it again, and this time he traded that lovely spring filled riff with an effing sledge hammer. "Montrose" remained in my 8 track player until, literally, the tape head wore through the tape and it disintegrated. I can remember having the "Montrose" tape in the 8 track and having a matchbook wedged in between the tape and the player just so it could play.

I have a Japanese import of "Open Fire" that I paid twenty bucks for "Magdelena" served as my show open for awhile in the early radio days and there are 9 Gamma songs on planetradio. To say I was a fan would be an under statement. I thought Gamma was a totally over looked band in the early 80s. Listen to "Voyager", "Dirty City" or "Fight To The Finish". You listen now and it doesn't sound dated. It still sound like fresh, hook laden, well played rock and roll.

I talked to Ronnie twice in my career. Once after a Gamma release in the studio. It is always nice to find out the person you've dug for so long is a decent guy and Ronnie was. He seemed appreciative.

The next (and last) time I chatted with him was right after a soundcheck at the Westport Playhouse in the late 80's when he opened for Robin Trower. It was odd, because at the time, I think Davey Pattison sang for both Montrose AND Trower that night.

The Westport Playhouse was a great place to play. It was wierd, however, because the stage rotated through the show. This creates a bit of a sticky wicket for the sound man who has to balance out the sound throughout the whole venue. He has to make some adjustments to the volume of the amps as not to have the whole thing sound like a freight train to the people on the opposite side of where the front of the stage is.
Right after a sound check, when Ronnie and I were finishing our interview, the sound man at the Playhouse said to Ronnie, "please, whatever you do, do NOT mess with the volume on your amp. I have it set perfectly, for a great sounding show. So, please don't turn it up or down."
"OK, no problem" Ronnie said.

Later, I got in front of a sold out show and after taking the cue from the band...I do my thing...
"Hey, I'm Randy from KSHE thanks for coming, how about a great, warm welcome for a St. Louis favorite...Ronnie Montrose!!!"

I look behind me as Ronnie walks over to his amps and turns them all the way up. I can hear the sound man over the screaming crowd...."NO! NO!".

Too late.

Freight train would be kind. You couldn't hear anything but the guitar. I could see the people putting their hands over their ears, it was painful.
I don't know about you, but I would have a real hard time telling Ronnie Montrose would to do or how to sound.
How blessed am I that this clown grew up to meet one of his guitar heroes. Twice. I am so glad I knew his story. I think guys like Ronnie appreciate it when they are interviewed by a fan. He seemed to anyway.

Here are a couple of faves...

The First Cut Is The Deepest

This is a picture of the first person I ever had "sex" with.

Dianne Hicks was her name and I couldn't even tell you where she is or even if she is still alive.

Dianne was a waitress at Harvey's, the restaurant that consumed my life at that time. Around this time, my sister in law knew someone at The Academy of Radio and Television in Bettendorf, which was basically a school that taught you how to be on the radio. I couldn't go even part time because of the stupid restaurant. I needed the money and my folks were not the type to allow me to go to radio school while there was work to be done. After passing the audition over there and despite Chuck Hamilton (the head of the school) taking a personal interest in me, I couldn't go. I had to work in most of my spare time.

Dianne showed up at the restaurant one day as the new waitress. She was very lovely, long fiery red hair, pulled back and a bit of a lisp that I thought was very cute. Dianne was 19, I was maybe 17.
Dianne was also six months pregnant from a gentleman who heard the news and left. She was always very sweet to me which only heightened my curiosity about her. Apparently, the father came home from Vietnam, they went out for a bit, he got her pregnant, left her a goodbye note and that was it, she never saw him again. I was immediately very empathetic and started to find her fascinating.

The restaurant was open 24/7, so we worked together a lot, and sometimes when the clientele had a bit too much to drink, I would have to step in and "save" her. I was her "hero". In that environment, she knew she could count on me to do my work and we'd rock as a team. We worked in very close quarters so we were right up on each other most of the time in somewhat stressful situations.

As the day of her delivery came, I began to realize she really didn't have much of a family. Her dad was dead and her mom lived far away, she was on her own and had to keep working. Her life wasn't easy. I guess I became the "surrogate" father, little brother, best friend and confidant between taking orders, clearing tables and running the restaurant.

My mom was our boss and she could tell Dianne and I were getting pretty close. She warned me about older women at my age. "In ten years, the age difference won't matter, but she knows so much more of the world than you do, be careful  about being in over your head" she said. "She could really break your heart."

Dianne went into labor on a Saturday morning about 10:30. It was not a"regular" labor. She was struck with massive pains that brought hew to her knees, the water broke all over the restaurant and there was no one there to take her to the hospital but me. We weren't really busy, so I called mom at home, told her Dianne and I were off to the hospital and she needed to get to the restaurant.

The ride to the hospital was not an easy one. Dianne was screaming at the top of her lungs and was in great pain. We got to the hospital emergency room, they wheeled her in, I parked the car and waited. No, I'm not the husband, brother or any relation, thanks. No, I'm not her boyfriend either.
Who am I? Good question.I'm her best friend, I said.

I'm no doctor, but apparently, the baby moved into a "breech" position, where the ass comes out first. I can't even imagine what this does to a woman, but the picture in my mind isn't good. Dianne was fine, she had a baby boy who was "healthy", I think he was about a nine pound baby.

I visited her when I could between school and work, it seemed she was in the hospital quite some time but healed pretty quickly. She was back at work in a month, not quite up to speed, but I helped her as much as I could. One Friday night, she wanted to go get a drink. She knew a bar where we could get served since I was barely seventeen.We went by, had a couple of drinks and wanted to know if I wanted to go to her house.

I about swallowed my tongue.

"S--s-ure." I stammered. Oh boy, this was it. There were a few instances at the restaurant where she would throw a glance my way or rub up against me, but I always dismissed them.

Not this time. Man, here it was! The boy was about to become a man. Yippie-kayo!

I was ready. I read about this moment in Playboy and as we were driving to her house, I ran everything I read through my mind to make sure I got the whole thing right.

OK. Done. Ready.

Dianne had a bit too much too drink and it was a rough night at the restaurant, but I didn't care. We got inside her house, she paid the babysitter and finally, we were alone. She leaned over and kissed me with those big red ruby lips and told me "I've wanted to do this since I met you".

Oh crap.

I thought I was going to burst through my skin. Uh oh, not so fast, wait a minute, what did Playboy tell me to do? Think about something else entirely. Right.
What was Bob Gibson's ERA? Guitar solo. What was the square root of 67? Who wrote "For Whom the Bell Tolls?" Drum solo. OK. Whew!

Dianne started taking off MY clothes. Shit. Guitar solo.

Then hers. Double shit. Beethoven's fifth symphony.

Not now. Please not now! This was such an unknown territory to me I might as well be Magellan sailing the ocean blue, I needed a sextant AND a compass.

OK, what actually counts as foreplay?

WHAT DO I DO NOW?

The next thing I know, we're in the missionary position and I am trying to figure this out. I think I'm in. Wait, I know I'm in. I don't feel anything. Is this the way this is supposed to be? I am NOT impressed.

As I try and figure out this sex thing from the top, I look down and Dianne is completely passed out and gone. I didn't feel anything and apparently, she didn't either. Now I don't know what to do and I'm devastated that this "sex" thing was a sham. All this holding back for what?

I was physically ready to go but according to Dianne, she hadn't completely healed from the breech birth surgery, so she was not. As delicately as I can put it, there was no friction and it was just well...nothing.

For me or her.

First attempt at sex:major fail. Having someone fall asleep on you during the act could have done some real deep psychological damage but at that point, it didn't matter, I didn't feel a thing. I thought that's what "sex" was, and man, was I disappointed. How cruel for this young man to be led on to thing it was this wonderful life changing event.  I didn't feel a thing.

All this teenage angst, still unreleased.

After that, Dianne called in sick one day at work and I never saw her again. I guess she found someone and took off. She never said "boo", just left and that was it. I never even heard from her, ever.

Mom was right.

Bad Interview number one

ian anderson "a" tour 1980

I have had a number of bad interviews.

For one reason or another, it goes awry and it's hard to control the agenda of the conversation. As an interviewer, that's what you are trying to do, to guide the conversation along the way you wanted it to go. One of these times was during the hot summer of 1980, when Jethro Tull played at the Municipal Auditorium in Kansas City.

I was doing my show from Municipal as we did back then to let the audience "backstage" with all the inside scoop we could muster. Jethro Tull were touring behind the release of "A", a forgettable project which was long removed from "Aqualung".

Ticket sales were show, which means that Ian had to do the dog and pony show and actually converse with this mid western radio station in this "God forsaken cow town" which is what he called it off air. The first thing you realize about Ian is his voice. It is incredibly low and with his English accent, he was quite imposing. The next thing you realize is his dress, not quite equipped for 100 + degree heat and humidity.

"Oppressive" was his keyword. "How the hell do you people get anything done here?"

The interview started well, but then he began to sweat and I'm not sure, as an English chap, he was accustomed to sweating. We were literally backstage, in front of the back stage door, and it was hot. I asked him about the magic of Aqualung and at that point, I knew I had lost that part of the interview. "Magic? Not hardly how I would put it. Angry? Yes. It may be the angriest of any angry records. There was more magic in Thick As A Brick than Aqualung." I also mentioned something to him about his set list and what we should expect that night. "I don't know, why don't you but a ticket and see." OK.
We got back on track and I was feeling pretty good about snatching the momentum away from Mr. Anderson.  As we were wrapping up, I asked him if there was anything he's like to say to his fans in Kansas City.

"There certainly is.." he started."When we get to a particular piece that's played softly because we've recorded that way and it set a dynamic tone...SHUT THE HELL UP!" "Why is it imperative for you Americans to scream and yell during the most melodic and quite pieces we play. We recorded it in a certain way and we did so for a reason...WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE, JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!"

OK.

"Oh, and there is one more thing about you midwestern Americans that just drives me crazy...what the hell is this obsession with BLUE JEANS? Blue jeans? Really? You mid westerners are just cowboy wannabes."
"What would you suggest we wear?" I asked.
"I'm not sure, but I can tell you I'm I corduroy fan myself..."

And, with that, he exited stage left.
I was very happy to have a chance to chat with a guy who affected my life in East Moline Illinois with a recording made in England.

That part of it was cool. Him looking down his English nose at Kansas City, those are fighting words, mister, you're asking my listeners to spend hard earned dough on your show, but then you trash the very lifestyle of those listeners.

backstage pass

I don't think they sold very well that night. I've seen Tull about four times, this was not one of their best. I think there were too many people screaming during the quiet parts for his taste.