Radio Activity (The Rick Shannon series)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  15.

  The Radio, Television, and Film department at Central Mississippi University required a research paper for seniors. Autumn planned to write hers on the format change at WAOR-FM. But first she had to get Rick’s attention long enough for him to sign off on her idea before she could go to her adviser and get the final go ahead.

  A few minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start, J.C. strolled into Rick’s office dancing like Carmen Miranda while singing, “Welcome to the Hotel Mississippi. . .such a lovely place.” He spun and pointed both his index fingers at Rick. “Such a lovely face.”

  Rick demured, saying, “You’re too kind.”

  “Plenty of room at the Hotel Mississippi. Cha-cha-cha.”

  “Oh, hey,” Rick said. “I just remembered. I want to talk to you about something.”

  “The warm smell of colitas?”

  “No, actually. I heard you do a break last night, after Mose Allison,” Rick said. “You might want to be a little more concise when you talk between sets. It was kind of long-winded.”

  J.C. looked betrayed by the suggestion. “Well, bow me up,” he said. “I knew it! First day we met, I asked if you had any do’s and don’ts I should know about and all you said was, and I’m quoting here, no dead air and no Yoko.” His head bobbed as he spoke. “Now we come to find out the truth, don’t we? It’s like they say, boss, the truth’ll out!” He pointed at Rick, this time with just one finger. “And out it comes.” He made a dramatic sweeping gesture across the room as if the truth went thataway.

  “J.C., it’s not that big a deal. It’s just that I heard you talk for three minutes without saying much of anything.”

  “No dead air and no Yoko,” J.C., said. “You didn’t say anything about suppressing my personality.”

  “I’m not trying to suppress your personality, J.C. I’d just like you to try to bring it into focus more quickly. That’s all. And maybe try a little more variety in your music. I’m hearing a lot of Sabbath and Budgie and Cream but not so much at the other end of things.”

  “Oooooh, so that’s what’s crawled up your hole, huh? I’m just playing the classic rock, and none of the clichés, just like you said.”

  Autumn walked into the office waving a piece of paper at Rick. “Hey, can we do this?”

  Rick gestured for her to sit. “In a minute,” he said. “J.C., just mix in a little more of the acoustic stuff. Try to strike a balance.”

  This led to a five minute discussion on the contributions of folk to classic rock during which Autumn looked like a spectator at a tennis match.

  At one point, Rick said, “It depends on your definition.”

  “No, sir,” J.C. replied. “It depends on your definition, seein’ as how you’re the PD. I’m just sayin’ from the jump, Cat Stevens ain’t rock ‘n’ roll.” He strummed his acoustic air guitar and warbled a line from Morning Has Broken.

  “C’mon.” Rick smiled. “What about Tuesday’s Dead and Bitterblue? You saying they don’t rock?”

  “It’s upbeat folk.”

  “Okay,” Rick said. “So you’re saying a song has to be electric, loud, and fast to be rock?”

  J.C. shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “What about Dylan before he went electric?”

  “Folk.”

  “After?”

  “Folk rock.”

  “But it’s Dylan!”

  “Can’t argue with that,” J.C. said. “The question is, do we play it just because it’s him?”

  Autumn meekly raised a hand. “Excuse me?” She waved her piece of paper at Rick. “This won’t take a second.”

  Rick looked at her, nodded, then returned his attention to J.C. and said, “What about the other singer-songwriters? James Taylor, Carole King, Neil Young, all that? You can’t have a classic rock station without playing stuff from Tapestry and After The Goldrush, can you?”

  “I don’t know,” J.C. said. “Smackwater Jack is close.

  But Way Over Yonder?” J.C. shook his head. “Now, on the other hand, Southern Man rocks.” “I can’t tell you how sick I am of that song,” Rick said.

  “But Till The Morning Comes?” J.C. shook his head. “Doesn’t rock.”

  “So you’re back to your loud-and-fast argument.” Rick pointed an accusing finger at J.C. and said, “Based on the loud-and-fast rule, we can’t play half of Deja Vu.”

  “You’re right,” J.C. said. “Helpless is a slow country song.”

  Rick held up both his hands as if pleading. “If every single track on Deja Vu isn’t classic rock, I don’t know what is.”

  J.C. shrugged. “But it’s not rock ‘n’ roll.”

  “So we can’t play any Joni Mitchell?”

  J.C.’s head rocked back and forth. “There’s some stuff on Miles of Isles and Court and Spark that’re maybes. But she’s a folkie. Hell, she’s one of their leaders.”

  Autumn cleared her throat and tapped the face of her watch.

  Rick ignored her. “So, J.C., we can play Foxy Lady but not Castles In The Sand?”

  J.C. paused a moment. “Well, now, Jimi’s different don’t you think? He was a rocker.”

  “So if an artist plays enough songs loud and fast enough, you’d allow their slow and quiet stuff, too.”

  J.C. fussed with his mustache and said, “I see your point.”

  “That’s right, otherwise you can’t play Black Mountain Side.”

  “But that’s Zeppelin!”

  “And it’s a fine song too,” Rick said. “But it’s English folk mixed with a whole Middle Eastern sounding thing, and it’s not rock and roll. All I’m saying is too many classic rock stations have let the hard rockers hijack the format. Zeppelin and Cream and Black Sabbath and all that was only a part of the music and not always the best part. What we want is to find a good balance of the two.”

  Autumn rustled her piece of paper again. “Uh, Mr. Shannon?” She looked at him hopefully.

  Rick looked at her and said, “The problem is with the word ‘rock’ don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair and gestured vaguely around the room. “Maybe we shouldn’t even call ourselves a ‘classic rock’ station. Maybe that’s misleading if we’re going to be playing John Prine and Jesse Winchester along with Savoy Brown and Black Oak Arkansas.” Rick looked like he had a sudden notion. He pointed at J.C. “Speaking of Jesse Winchester? You remember the last track on side one of Nothing But A Breeze? That’s me.”

  It took J.C. a few seconds to figure out what Rick meant. Then he said, “Ohhhhhhh. No problem. Gotcha covered.”

  Autumn, who had been following the conversation up to this point, lost them on that turn. Her patience wasn’t far behind. She started tapping her foot and drumming her fingers on the desk top. She planned to start whistling soon.

  J.C. said, “What’re we gonna call it if we don’t call it classic rock? Classic rock-pop-folk-psychedelic-soul?”

  “I liked Rob’s slogan,” Rick said. “Classic rock that’s really classic. But there’s still the problem with the word ‘rock.’ I think it does imply loudness.”

  J.C. said, “How about, ‘WAOR-FM, your classic music station’ and let the listeners figure out what we mean by classic music?”

  “That’s it!” Autumn slammed her palm down on Rick’s desk top. The two men jumped. “Jesus Christ Superstar!” she shouted. “Why don’t we just call it The Shit Rick Likes and be done with it!”

  J.C. and Rick looked at her for a moment as if considering the idea. Finally, Rick said, “Nahhh.”

  “What do you mean, ‘nahhh’? It’s perfect,” Autumn said. “It describes the format and doesn’t use the word ‘rock.’ And it brings to a conclusion this pointless conversation!” She looked at them both. They were momentarily stymied. “Good? Okay, fine. Moving on.” She put the piece of paper in front of Rick. “Now would you please sign this?”

  Rick was about to sign it but he stopped. He looked at J.C., then at Autumn and said, “Well, it’s not really true.” />
  “What isn’t?”

  “We’re not talking about playing only stuff I like,” Rick said. “I’ve never been a huge fan of Rush or Wishbone Ash but we play their stuff.”

  Autumn issued an anguished sigh. “Okay.” She sat on the corner of Rick’s desk and looked around the office. “All right. Let’s see. Old stuff, right? Not just fast and loud. Soft antiques, hard vinyl? No. How ‘bout, loud dinosaurs and quiet ones too? No. Uhh, rockin’ all over the road, no. Hhow about WAOR, our rock’s not just hard anymore. . .” She paused to look at J.C. “I bet you already say that.” Autumn winked at him then, after a beat, she cracked a big smile and said, “I got it.”

  “You know, a little sarcasm goes a long way,” J.C. said.

  Autumn cleared her throat. “WAOR-FM. Redefining classic rock.” She hopped off Rick’s desk as if dismounting the balance beam.

  Rick and J.C. looked at one another with surprise for a moment before J.C. said, “How about ‘Classic Rock, Redefined.”

  “What-ever!” Autumn leaned across the desk. She grabbed Rick’s hand, clamped it around a pen, then put it on her paper. “Signing.” After Rick scribbled his name, she snatched the paper from under the pen. “Thank you.” She flashed an exaggerated smile, waved preciously, and said, “Buh-bye.” Then she left.

  J.C. turned and yelled “Bow up!” as Autumn disappeared down the hallway. Then he wagged a finger at the empty doorway and said, “She’s pretty good.”

  “Yeah, Redefining Classic Rock might work,” Rick said.

  J.C. stood and did a little dance toward the door while singing the chorus from Jesse Winchester’s Twigs and Seeds. He pinched a finger and thumb together and held them to his lips. “Uh, Ree-charrrd, is this an e-merrrr-gency?”

  “No, whatever and whenever is fine, thanks.”

  “You got it.” J.C. nodded and disappeared out the door singing I Want to Take You Higher.

  Rick spent the next couple of hours writing commercials to promote the format change, including the thousand dollar cash giveaway. He couldn’t decide if he liked Rob’s or Autumn’s suggestion more. Both had something to recommend them. Classic Rock That’s Really Classic. Redefining Classic Rock. Rick decided they both had merit so he wrote two different spots, each revolving around one of the phrases.

  WAOR had two rivals in the market. One was an automated station billing itself as Rock Hits of the 70's, 80's, 90's, and More! The other was a Clean Signal station that ran the homogenized version of the classic rock format which consisted of a play list of about fifty songs cycled over and over. Meanwhile, those same fifty songs were also being played on the automated rock station where they were jarringly mixed with a hundred other songs from different eras. Rick nearly bit off part of his tongue when he heard them go from Procol Harem to Quiet Riot on afternoon. He was confident his format would stand out.

  After polishing the copy, Rick made a list of the potential music to cut into the spots. He wanted to use hooks and riffs and lines from tunes that would make people go, “Oh yeaaahh! I haven’t heard that in ages,” and reach to turn up the volume. He composed a list about twice as long as he would need and then he started to narrow them down. After a while, it started to get harder than trying to cut friends from the wedding party. Rick was also running out of gas. He needed a break before he started his air shift. His head slowly drooped until it thumped on the desk top. He lifted his head and dropped it. And again. After doing this a few more times Rick heard a knock at the door. He stopped with his head still on the desk and said, “Yes?” He turned his head sideways and saw Traci standing in the doorway. She was wearing a short sleeveless sweater that revealed an alluring pierced belly button.

  She said, “When you’re done banging your head against the desk, how’d you like to buy a hungry girl some Tater wads?”

  16.

  Rick tried not to stare too much as he drove but something about Traci made him look. She had a teased blond mane that could have fronted a hair-metal band. But it was her bent for cosmetics that really appealed to a questionable aspect of Rick’s character. And it wasn’t just the blue eye shadow. She also had a heavy hand with eyeliner and mascara that Rick purely loved.

  Traci looked over from time to time as she made small talk but she didn’t seem to notice how Rick’s eyes were always on her. Or maybe she did notice. Maybe she didn’t want him to stop looking. Rick could never tell about these things.

  When they arrived at Kitty’s Road Café, there were several semis idling out front. Local long-haul drivers back for supper after trips to Texas and Illinois. Rick parked off to the side and they headed for the front door. Crossing the parking lot, Rick couldn’t help but watch how Traci walked. Every time she got in front of him to squeeze between two cars it reminded him of a funky bass riff from a Brothers Johnson song.

  Traci slowed in time for Rick to get past her to reach the door first. He held it open for her and she smiled like he’d passed a small but important test. They stopped at the hostess stand. The hostess took them to a booth and gave them a couple of menus. Traci opened hers, glanced at it briefly, then looked over the top at Rick. “What do you recommend?”

  “You’ve never eaten here?” It seemed weird, the place was so close to the station.

  “Once.” She shrugged. “But I like the Steak ‘n’ Surf better.”

  “Really.” He sounded more disappointed than disparaging.

  “Oh yeah. Their Sizzling Shrimp Skillet Sensation’s my favorite.”

  Rick pointed at her menu. “Yeah, well, these Tater wads are so good they’ve got their own registered trademark,” he said. “And Kitty’s biscuits? They’re little pillows of flour and lard. And the fried grits with tomato gravy is a singular gustatory event.”

  “Gustatory, huh?” Traci looked at the menu and said, “I like more vegetables than that.”

  Rick spoke from behind his menu. “Well, if you think about it, tomatoes are vegetables. And grits are corn. And I’m pretty sure potatoes are plants. This is almost vegan.”

  “Except for the lard.”

  A shadow drifted onto the tabletop. It belonged to their waitress who had shuffled up to their booth. Her name tag identified her as Ruth. She put down two glasses of water, looked straight at Rick, and said, “You again?” She sounded like two cartons of cigarettes.

  “Yes, Ruthie-dear. I have returned,” Rick said. “This time with a guest.”

  The waitress never changed expression. She wiggled her order pad in Traci’s direction. “He kidnap you or sumpin’?” She didn’t smile, just stared for a second before turning back to Rick and saying, “We got a special on the soft shell crabs.” She leaned over and lowered her voice. “But they little bitties. Look more like soft shell ticks, you ask me, lying there with those little legs startin’ to crick up like ‘at.” She made her hand into a little soft shell tick puppet, upside down, with fingers curling toward her palm.

  “Thanks for the tip,” Rick said. He looked at Traci. “What’ll you have?”

  Traci closed her menu and handed it to the waitress. “Fried chicken salad with a side of Tater wads, please.”

  “I’ll have the fried grits, tomato gravy, side of sausages, and two biscuits. And ice tea.” Rick wasn’t sure if his loose tooth could handle sausage but he figured he could just chew on the other side.

  “I’ll have a coke,” Traci said.

  “What kind you want?”

  “Uhh, Mountain Dew.”

  As Ruth shuffled off, Traci pulled one leg under the other and leaned onto the table. “So,” she said. “What do you think of McRae, Mississippi so far?”

  From her tone of voice, Rick gathered he was supposed to be unimpressed. “It’s okay.” He pulled a couple of napkins from the dispenser and handed one to Traci. “We used to drive through here on the way to the coast when I was a kid,” he said. “So I had an idea what it was like. It’s grown more than I expected though. This where you’re from?”

  “Yep.” Traci’s
eyes dropped to the table as she straightened out her knife and fork. “Been here all my life.”

  Rick was spinning his water glass in its circular puddle. “You make it sound like you were sentenced.”

  She shook her head, still looking at her flatware. “Oh, it’s not that bad.”

  Ruth returned with their drinks and croaked, “Yafood’ll be out in minute.” She tossed a couple of straws onto the table and lumbered off.

  Traci nodded at Rick and said, “Hold your hand up. Like this.” She demonstrated how she wanted it done. Rick complied, holding his right hand out to the side of his head like he was swearing to something. Traci tore off one end of the paper sleeve and blew into the straw. The wrapper corkscrewed into the air missing Rick’s hand by several feet. “Damn,” she said, plunging her straw into her soda. “So what about you? Clay showed me your resumé. You’ve been all over.” She sipped her drink. “That must be great, moving around, living in different cities all the time.”

  Rick gave an ambiguous shrug. “I actually used to like it. Used to enjoy the change of scenery and a little sense of adventure, I guess. But it got old pretty quick and there’s no real change of scenery anymore. Everywhere’s pretty much the same now.” He was hoping to steer the conversation seamlessly around to Stubblefield and Captain Jack and anything Traci might be able to tell him -- however inadvertently -- about the people mentioned on the tape. As he waited for the chance to change subjects, Rick fished the wedge of lemon out of his tea and gripped it for squeezing. “Once? Just after I’d moved to a new job? I woke up in the middle of the night and had no idea where I was,” he said. “No idea what city or state. Nothing.” He squeezed the lemon and a seed shot onto the floor.