by Ben Rehder
That first generation of rockers was born in the 1930's while David Lee Roth, Tommy Lee, Bono, and Michael Stipe were born in the 1950's and 60's. Rick was aiming at the generation in between, the rockers born in the 1940's. These were the people who were classic rock by Rick’s definition. Lennon, 1940. McCartney and Hendrix, 1942. Jagger and Richards, 1943. Cocker, 1944. Fogerty, 1945. Allman, 1946. Plant, 1948.
So that was one thing. Date of birth would carry weight with his format. No classic rock station would ever play both Buddy Holly and Jimi Hendrix, so why would they play both Van Morrison and Van Halen? Sure, they were all under the big rock umbrella, but they each spoke to a different generation.
By the time he walked into the station at noon on Sunday, Rick felt he had a basic set of criteria that would allow them to define his version of classic rock. The meeting was in the station’s conference room. It was Rick, Autumn, J.C., and Rob. They ordered pizza. J.C. brought some beer, though he wouldn’t let Rob have any.
Rick stood in front of them and said, “I was in Los Angeles not long ago and I heard the big classic rock station there play White Wedding every single damn day I was there.” He shook his head. “Now Billy Idol’s music may be a lot of things, but it’s not classic rock. When he was born, John Lennon was already fifteen years old. They are not of the same generation.” Rick sat on this desk and continued. “The biggest problem with most classic rock stations is that they’re after the wrong demographic. They seem to think rock and roll is only good for attracting a young audience so they jam new rockers in with old rockers hoping they’ll appeal to high school and college kids.” Rick made a face and shook his head. “Well, I’m here to tell you that the people who grew up with the Moody Blues and Lou Reed ain’t so young anymore. In fact, here’s a good way to think about things,” Rick said. “Every artist who performed at Woodstock is now either dead or eligible to join AARP.” He paused to let that little nugget sink in before he said, “Folks, classic rock is an oldies format. Let’s embrace that instead of trying to hide it. What we need to do is figure out when true classic rock started and when it ended.” He held his arms out wide. “Anybody want to suggest some dates?”
A few moments passed before Rob said, “How about ‘62 to ‘82? An even twenty years.”
J.C. shook his head. “No way. Dylan doesn’t show up until ‘63 and the Beatles and Stones hit in ‘64. And even then, their albums were just collections of singles. They didn’t start making real FM albums until, like, Rubber Soul and Revolver which was what, ‘65?”
“Sixty-six,” Rick said.
J.C. thumped Rob on the head. “And ‘82 is waaaay too late. Jesus, next you’re going to suggest Toto is classic rock.”
“I like Toto,” Autumn said.
“I like ‘em too,” J.C. said. “Well, a few songs, but that’s not the point. Toto was just a bunch of session guys trying to make pop rock radio hits.”
Rick said, “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
J.C. shrugged. “No. Besides, you get the point. I mean, you think that’s what Hendrix was trying to do?”
“Okay,” Autumn said. “For the end? How about August first of ‘81, when MTV went on the air?” She nudged Rob. “Remember that?” She started singing Video Killed the Radio Star.
Rob shook his head. “I wasn’t even born then.”
J.C. held a hand up. He said, “Okay, that’s better but it’s still too late. By ‘81 punk had come and nearly gone, so you know classic rock was way in the rearview.” J.C. took a bite of pizza and kept talking. “I propose a test for any band we consider for the format. I call it the Fillmore East test.” He looked askance at Autumn.
“Yes, I’ve heard of Fillmore East,” she said.
“Okay, so if a band would fit on a bill at Fillmore East, they’re in.”
Autumn said, “Is that place still open?”
“Nope,” Rick said. “Bill Graham shut her down in the summer of ‘71.”
“I wonder whatever became of the Joshua Light Show?”
Rick said he had no idea. “Okay, moving on. How about 1963 to start, so we can play The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan?”
“What about his first album?” Rob asked.
“It was a folk record,” J.C. said.
Rick held up The Billboard Book of Top 40 Albums. “Let’s look at the charts,” he said. “Okay, things were middle-of-the-road until ‘63 and Top 40 until ‘67.” He pointed at one of the charts. “The top albums of ‘66 include Barry Sadler’s Ballad of the Green Berets, Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night, the Doctor Zhivago soundtrack, and two by Herb Alpert.”
“Oooooh, rock on brother,” J.C. said.
“Also three Beatles albums, Mamas and the Papas, and the Supremes, so we’re starting to get to our music at that point. In ‘67, three of the top seven albums were by the Monkees, and one each by the Supremes, Bobbie Gentry, and Herb Alpert, not exactly classic rock.”
Rob couldn’t believe it. He said, “What about Sergeant Pepper and The Doors and The Byrds Younger Than Yesterday?”
“Pepper was the only one to reach the top of the album chart,” Rick said. “But you’re right, there were plenty of classic rock albums that year.” He thought of Pink Floyd’s Piper at the Gates of Dawn. “The charts are just a rough guideline. Even though the The Doors isn’t there, you can see the charts changed radically between ‘66 and ‘68.”
“Summer of love, baby,” J.C. said, holding up a peace sign.
Rick traced a finger down a page. “In 1968,” he said, “the charts show Cream, Hendrix, Doors, Big Brother, Rascals, plus two each by the Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel.”
“No Dr. Zhivagos there,” J.C. said.
They kept whittling it down. Rick suggested that the midpoint of classic rock could be mid-1970. “The optimism of the mid-sixties had faded,” he said. “Think of it like a bell curve, the music ascends to the infamous Isle of Wight Festival in August 1970. In the next two months, Hendrix and Joplin both died. After that, I think it’s fair to say, classic rock begins its descent to the end.” Everyone agreed. Now they just had to figure out how many years on either side of 1970 the format would cover.
There was a contagious energy in the room. Rob continued to impress Rick with his knowledge of a body of music that was recorded decades before he was born. Autumn’s strength was making points about the end of the era. J.C. played devil’s advocate against their arguments and went off on tangents about his favorite obscure bands. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Osibisa,” he said to Autumn. “They were world music before anybody thought of the term. Sort of Santana meets Tower of Power with a whole Afro-Cuban jazz thing rumbling alongside.”
As J.C. went down that road, Rick remembered that he’d seen six or seven Osibisa records in Captain Jack’s collection. Next thing he knew, he was back to wondering what had happened to Jack Carter. He thought back to what Lisa Ramey had told him. Her admission that she’d slept with Stubblefield lent some credibility to Clay’s other claims. The most interesting thing Lisa had revealed was the possibility that Clay had Dixie Mafia connections. But what the hell IS the Dixie Mafia? Are they a real organization? Is it families like La Cosa Nostra or is it just a loose affiliation of mean-ass crackers, constables, and Southern politicians?
“How about this?” Autumn said, recapturing Rick’s attention. “The classic rock era ended when Jefferson Airplane became Jefferson Starship?”
Rick thought about that for a moment. “That’s not bad,” he said. “Musically, it was true for the band, but I think that was around ‘73 and that’s a little too early.”
“Ohmigod,” Autumn said. She pointed at Rick, suddenly getting it. “I see what you mean! This is a niche market.” She slapped her thighs and wiggled like a cheerleader. “I mean, think about it. If you grew up in the sixties, like my dad, you probably don’t care about Megadeath, right? And, like, vice versa? That’s what makes us different from WWRK. So that’s our unique selling proposit
ion.”
J.C. looked at her. “Our what?”
“Our USP,” she said. “It’s an advertising term.”
“You’re an evil corporate drone,” J.C. said. “But you’re okay on the air, so we’re not going to kill you just yet.”
“Hey, what about this?” Rob said. “You know how some stations say, ‘Classic rock that really rocks?’ How about classic rock that’s really classic?”
“That’s good,” Rick said. “We need more stuff like that.” He wrote it on his notepad, then looked up at the clock. It was nearly six, a good stopping point. “Okay, let’s recap.” He read from his notepad. “For now, we play nothing before ‘63 and nothing after, say, ‘79. Artists have to pass the Fillmore East test. The music has to have some sort of attitude that distinguishes it from pop. What else? Oh, an artist cannot have grown up listening to classic rock artists and also BE a classic rock artist. And finally, just because a song is on a classic rock album doesn’t mean you should play it. There’s a lot of drek out there so be careful.”
J.C. cupped his hands around his mouth and said, “Paging Iron Butterfly.”
Rob raised his hand. “What about R and B?”
“Generally speaking, it’s in. Otis was at Monterey with Jimi and personally I don’t want to listen to a station if it’s not going to play James Brown at the Apollo every now and again.”
J.C. nodded. “Hoo-dang! Amen! And bow up!” He did a James Brown spin up on the ball of one foot, his arms tucked tight to his chest. When his other foot landed, he screamed. “Oww!” Then he snapped his head back and headed for the studio to do his shift. “I feel good! Da-ba da-ba da-ba da.”
Autumn and Rob helped Rick clean up. Autumn said she had an idea she wanted to discuss with Rick, so they set a meeting for later in the week. They split the remaining pizza before going their separate ways.
As much as Rick had enjoyed talking about the music and homing in on the format, he was eager to get back to the trailer so he could listen again to the next part of the tape.
Rick laughed and thought about Osibisa. Didn’t they do a song. . .” He thought for a moment. “Yeahhh, on the Happy Children album.” He couldn’t help but think of several other songs of the same title. The Robert Gordon version of Springsteen’s song or the Pointer Sisters, or the one hit wonder of Arthur Brown, or the classic by Hendrix. And, as fate would have it, just like Robert Palmer’s Blackmail, this also had a muscular one-word title: Fire.
14.
When Rick got back to the trailer, he tossed two slices of pizza on a cookie sheet and put them in the oven. He grabbed a beer and his little pipe and went outside where a plastic chair leaned against a wooden cable spool turned on its side as a makeshift table. He took a hit and sat there, feet up, sipping his beer. It was warm out but pleasant and the mosquitoes weren’t bad. Just over the top of the pine trees Rick could see the outline of a water tower against the dusky sky.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air reminded him of his youth. He could taste the green pines, and their sap, and the clay, and something sweet like honeysuckle in his nose. Rick told himself he should take a walk through the woods like he used to when he was a kid. That was the kind of thing he had to remind himself to do anymore. As a kid, he did it by instinct. But it had been trained out of him. Now almost every waking hour was spent inside. Note to self: Get out more.
Rick tilted back in the chair and looked up. The sky was clear and it was quiet out, except for the drone of crickets and cicadas. Then, a deeper noise. A bullfrog. Rick figured there must be a creek nearby. Yeah, I need to get out there and walk some.
As he sat there with his feet propped up, Rick fell into the thing he frequently did when he got stoned. He got to thinking. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I’m halfway through my life. Now, on average, at my age, with my level of education and the number of years I’ve been paying into Social Security, I could be within shouting distance of retirement, yet all I’ve got to show for my life is an old cable spool and three pieces of leftover pizza. And the cable spool’s not even mine. What the hell am I doing with my life? Moments like this seemed to be coming more frequently for Rick these days, even though he tried to avoid them. It’s not that he was against taking stock now and then, he believed a little self-reflection was worthwhile, but lately his conclusions were too depressing. Why did I take this damn job? This one? Why am I still in radio at all? I mean, how humiliating is it that I make my living playing Wet Willie on the radio in a small town. Not that it would make any difference if I were playing Tchaikovsky in Chicago. I wonder, is it too late to switch to hate-talk radio? At least you can make a living and you don’t have to think much. But, no, you can’t fake that sort of narrow-mindedness. Maybe I should go back to school, get a degree. But in what? I’ll never be a doctor or a lawyer. I don’t want an MBA. Am I just lazy? Am I such a mediocre human being that I’m satisfied with this? He paused for a moment. Hey, I wonder if that pizza’s hot.
Rick finished his beer went back inside without answering any of his questions. He found it was easier to carry on if he ignored them and just plowed ahead as if the questions might go away if he paid them no mind. He turned on the radio. A bunch of Brits were playing a song by a guy fromTippo, Mississippi. “That’s John Mayall with Eric Clapton from the Blues Breakers album, 1966,” J.C. said. “The Mose Allison standard, Parchman Farm. Hey, speaking of ole Mose, I ran into him down at the Jazz Festival in New Orleans a few years ago and. . .” J.C. proceeded to tell the longest shaggy dog story Rick had ever heard. It was about neither Mose Allison nor the Jazz Festival nor John Mayall nor Eric Clapton. Rick finally concluded that the story had no point, other than to allow J.C. to talk about himself.
After his rambling monologue and a spot break, J.C. went into a set of Foghat, Z.Z. Top, and Aerosmith. Rick slid his pizza onto a plate, grabbed a paper towel, and sat in the Barcalounger. As he chewed to the chugging beat of Foghat, Rick kept looking over at the reel-to-reel player. Ever since Lisa Ramey suggested a possible connection to the Dixie Mafia, Rick had been rethinking his new hobby. He wasn’t sure there was much to be gained by crossing the local thugs. Still, curiosity tugged.
After finishing his pizza, Rick went to the kitchen to wash his hands so he wouldn’t get grease all over the gear or the tape. He kept the reel hidden on the off chance that whoever had come looking for it once (if, indeed, that’s what had happened) might come back. Captain Jack’s hiding place still tickled him. It really was a canny idea but Rick decided it could be improved. Instead of having the records right next to the box, which had triggered him to investigate in the first place, he seeded the records throughout the entire collection.
He was threading the tape onto the reel-to-reel when he heard car wheels crunching on the gravel outside. Rick stopped. Clay Stubblefield was the only person he could think of who knew he lived there. He couldn’t imagine any reason for Clay to drop by on a Sunday night – or any other time, for that matter – but who else could it be? A spooky sensation passed over him. Maybe it’s Captain Jack.
Rick pulled the tape off the machine and put it back in the Chicago box which he slipped back into the record collection before crossing to the door. He was reaching for the knob when the door jerked open. A man stormed into the trailer yelling, “Where’s the fuckin’ money?” He was a big son of a bitch. Rick figured he was about the size of Meatloaf.
“What money?” Rick was backing up when he said this, trying to stay out of the guy’s reach. “What are you talking about?”
The guy pointed at Rick. “You don’t pay, I’m ‘onna tie your asshole in a knot!”
Rick looked around as the intruder advanced on him. The record collection blocked a window he might otherwise jump through to escape. The only other way out was past the bull moose presently bearing down on him. Turning to face the man, Rick held out his hands and said, “Now hang on a second.” The next thing he saw was a fist. The blow knocked him across the trailer,
into the kitchen. Rick’s tongue found a loose tooth. Using the back of his hand, he wiped blood from his mouth and screamed, “You got the wrong guy!”
“‘At’s bullshit!” The intruder grabbed Rick by his shirt, yanked him to his feet. “Tell me where that money’s at or I’m ‘onna preach your funeral.” He punched Rick in the gut.
Rick got a second taste of his pizza but managed to keep it down. The man let go of his shirt, dropping him to the kitchen floor.
The man leaned over and yelled, “Get up, you pissant or I’m ‘onna cut the blood outta you lyin’ rat there on the floor!” He started rooting through drawers, looking for a knife.
Gasping, Rick lay there wondering why he had never really learned how to fight. How come no one had ever bothered to show him so much as the rudimentary aspects of boxing or kung fu or something? His father had refused to send him to the Boys Club to learn, saying that wasn’t how you became a sophisticated and refined person. Just now, Rick could see the folly in that line of reasoning. A moment later he got his breath. He looked up and said, “Stop! I’m not the guy!”
“Bullshit!” The intruder kicked him in the ribs. “Them the clothes you wanna die in?” He kicked again. “Gimme the goddamn money!” The man grabbed one of Rick’s feet and started to drag him out of the kitchen. Rick reached out for something to hold and found the handle to the storage drawer at the bottom of the range. He reached inside and came out with a Griswold number five. It was the smallest cast iron skillet they made. It was easy to swing and if it didn’t actually break the man’s shin, at least it broke his spirit for a moment.