'Dylan/Cash/Cats' is a 'Hall of Fame' Hall of Fame Exhibit

By Peter Rodman

If they ever decide to build a Hall of Fame Hall of Fame, the Country Music Hall of Fame should be ‘first in.’ 

The Country Music Hall of Fame~Nashville, Tennessee
Photograph Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman.

Leading the way in every aspect--from sheer growth to technological innovation, to scholarly application--the CMHOF continues to outdo any other hall of fame/museum in America...from Cooperstown to Canton to (most pointedly) Cleveland, hands down.

The fact that it’s probably the best financed hall/museum around--well that doesn’t hurt, either. But this isn’t so much an economical place as it is an ecumenical one.  In recent years the CMHOF has made a concerted effort to bridge the gap between fans from casual to connoisseur; contemporary to classic; outlaw to upstart. 

Toward that end, they've scooped up every scholar and/or renowned music writer they can, either to guest (Peter Guralnick, Chet Flippo) or to collect and curate (Michael McCall, Jay Orr, Peter Cooper)--with the mission being total accuracy, attention to detail, accessibility, and best of all: No Pandering. 

Photograph Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.

Instead of being dominated by Reba’s outfits (though they have those) this Hall of Fame seems obsessed with enriching the lives of its music fans, the most avid of whom are always ready to learn (and hopefully love) something new.  
It all comes back to the history of the music here--as opposed to the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame, which is nothing but an overblown Hard Rock Cafe minus the good pulled-pork sandwiches. As a result, even the most casual tourist dropping in to the Country Music Hall of Fame will usually leave the place with something to talk about besides just artifacts.
The ‘Dylan, Cash, and the Nashville Cats’ exhibit takes this ethic to a whole new level.

That's me, on the right...a happy man, to see this newly unearthed
photo of Dylan, Cash and producer Bob Johnston, obscured here by
...well, me.  It's inscribed by Dylan as well, and was found in a stack
of papers donated by Johnston to the University of Texas, by
guest curator of the CMHOF exhibit, Pete Finney.

Even just walking into the Hall earlier this week, the first thing I heard over the speaker system was Eric Anderson’s “Blue River.” (That’s when I knew I was in for a treat!)

It was a signal moment that once again, this place got it right, for a major new exhibit. 

The entire program illustrates a mandate of excellence and accuracy, which explores not just the melding of country and rock, but the cultural building of trust between those two worlds--at a time in our history (read: Vietnam) when they truly seemed to be planets apart.

Tracy Nelson, who fronted the 'underground'
blues band 'Mother Earth,' back in the '60s.

I won’t recite the whole narrative here, since I don’t have the energy--nor could anyone do better than they have. Curator Michael Gray and ‘Guest Curator’ Pete Finney have meticulously documented and researched seemingly every scrap of findable paper and ephemera necessary to draw the visitor fully in, to another time (the ’60s and early ’70s) and another whole place (Nashville, then) altogether. 
Though too text-heavy to avoid delving, even the most casual visitor will certainly ‘get the gist’ in short order.

Did you ever imagine you'd see a whole display surrounding Paul McCartney's
brief stay in Nashville, 41 years ago...and focusing on a favorite collectors'
'B side' in particular, "Sally G?"?  If ya live long enough, everything happens!
Photograph of CMHOF exhibit display by Peter Rodman.

At the opening reception, I saw visitors from Texas posing in front of Lloyd Green’s Sho-Bud steel guitar. (That’s the one he used on Paul McCartney‘s “Sally G.”) There’s something very right about that. It sort of reminds me of the first time I ever heard the Grateful Dead sing “Okie from Muskogee.”  　 
Whether you're a tourist, dipping your toe in the water...or an ‘expert level’ liner notes reader...you will surely find stuff to love (and learn) at the Country Music Hall of Fame’s latest exhibit.  Better still are the programs surrounding it. This week alone, they’ve hosted some fascinating ancillary events.

A larger view of the original 1932 poster by Jo Mora, from which the
Byrds' 1968 Sweetheart of the Rodeo album cover was fashioned.

One detailed the acquisition process, fascinatingly recounting flights of fancy to faraway places, just to uncover artifacts like the Dylan photo above.

Another event saw dozens of mothers with  their children, crayons in hand, “reimagining” (get this!):
...the Byrds’ Sweetheart of the Rodeo album cover.

Talk about stuff I never thought I’d see! (Artist Jo Mora just chuckled again, from six feet under.) There may have been  more people in that room workin' on their 'new' covers than bought the record during its first few months in existence, back in '68!  And weirdest of all, this little exercise surrounding the once-obscure classic took place a half century later...and well into the next millenium!  Who’d a-thunk?

'The Nashville Cats' perform ~ (from left:
David Briggs, Charlie McCoy, Norbert Putnam)
Photograph Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman. 

Saving the best for last, on Saturday afternoon the actual (surviving) “Nashville Cats” (deriving their name from the John Sebastian hit for the Lovin’ Spoonful) performed a two-hour, once-in-a-lifetime concert. Led by the astonishing harmonica genius and 'ringmaster' Charlie McCoy, fellow session giants David Briggs, Norbert Putnam, Wayne Moss, Lloyd Green, Mac Gayden, and Kenny Malone breezed through versions of countless hits you’d know, that they played on. “The Boxer,” “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” “Everlasting Love,” “Down in the Flood,” “I Want You,”(featuring Wayne Moss recreating his amazing guitar licks) and more made eyes mist over with nostalgia and delight. Gayden even replicated his 'wah-wah' slide guitar work, from J.J. Cale's "Crazy Mama." In short, it was unbelievable. 

Country star Deanna Carter, representin' for her
 Dad...the late Fred Carter--a key 'Nashville Cat.'
Photograph Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.

Sadly, it’ll never quite happen this way again. In recent years, the herd has thinned considerably, as fellow “Cats” Fred Carter, Ben Keith, Hargus ‘Pig’ Robbins and more have passed on. And since nobody’s getting any younger, it was particularly heartwarming to see that many of the players had brought family members to witness this group playing together, perhaps for the very last time. They’d been together in various combinations before--The Escorts, Area Code 615, and Barefoot Jerry among them--but the legacy isn't in the names they adopted. It's in the piles of records we all used to have...songs on which even ‘experts’ sometimes can't identify the players for sure, but these guys can...because it was them! In too many cases,  only they know it's them, on the radio.

An overview of the 'Nashville Cats' finale at the
Carnegie Hall-like 'CMA Theatre,' newly added
to the Country Music Hall of Fame~March 28, 2015
Photograph Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.

The next best thing to seeing them live is still right there, in the Country Music Hall of Fame's 'Dylan/Cash/Cats' exhibit. They deserve a lot of credit for doin’ us all proud, on this one. 

I decided to wear my old Sweetheart of the Rodeo album cover t-shirt, which took a little while to even find after so many years, and I’m glad I did.  In 30+ years, that shirt has never gotten as many compliments or appreciative glances as it did there today. Tourists, ushers, clerks, waiters, elevator operators...you name it, they said something. Just thinking about all those people loving that particular music so much...well, it's an indescribable feeling.

 Kenny Malone-- one of the 'Nashville
Cats' being celebrated in the exhibit,
and one of the most recorded drummers
in history--from "Don't It Make My
Brown Eyes Blue" to "Drift Away."
Photograph Copyright 2015 Peter Rodman

Fact is, an amazing amount of regular staffers at the CMHOF are music experts themselves. 
Robert, a clerk in the book shop, regaled me with his knowledge of The Band--even though he could not possibly have been alive, when Big Pink was hatched. 
A well respected Nashville bass player (and fine artist) I know loves his 'day job' at the CMHOF, helping design exhibits--and seems especially proud of the role he played in helping perfect this one. 
Earlier in the week, a very young museum greeter enthusiastically spoke of her love for Chris Hillman, and his contributions to country rock.  

Steel guitar legend Lloyd Green meets Jeffrey Dunn,
a true fan of his work on The Byrds' 
Sweetheart of the Rodeo, after the show.
 Photograph Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.

And Jeffrey, the CMA Theatre usher pictured here at left, fairly glowed when he met his Sweetheart of the Rodeo idol, steel guitar legend Lloyd Green, after the show. It wasn't just 'impressive' to find all these avid music lovers among the CMHOF staff; it was completely inspiring, and spoke to the totality of the museum's mission. Like me, and like many of you, these folks have found a way to combine their passion for music with their life's work.  
That, I believe, is some kind on heaven on Earth.

There's an awful lot of bad news these days, I know...but to me, this means a whole lot more feels right in the world, tonight.

The only thing I missed at the exhibit itself was the Lovin' Spoonful song "Nashville Cats," which rang in my ears the whole time I was in the museum.  Understandably, the particular conceit that excludes it is the fact that the track--which popularized the term 'Nashville Cats' in the first place--wasn't actually recorded here with Nashville cats. Still...one good 'exception' for it would have cleverly signified yet another positive reach across any remaining breach. And isn't that what it's really all about?

Setting that tiny quibble aside, Michael Gray, Pete Finney and the CMHOF have done an outstanding job here.
As have around 1,352 guitar pickers.  Go check this thing out, if you can. Who knows?

Maybe you’ll even come away feeling as good as I did!   

"...and I sure am glad I had a chance to say a word, about the music and the mothers in Nashville."

__________________________________   

This article and all photographs herein are Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.
All Rights Reserved.

__________________________________

Remembering the one-of-a-kind....... Al Bunetta

By Peter Rodman


There are certain people you'll never forget as long as you live.  People whose offices you can just 'pop into' whenever you like, even if it's been a year since you saw each other.  People whose unvarnished opinions and outlandish humor make of this life a delicious layer cake.  People who know good marinara from bad.  People whom you could never picture this world being without.

Al Bunetta was such a person.
As most folks know, he guided John Prine and Steve Goodman's careers, never leaving during the lows... and always sharing the highs as a friend, not a businessman.  But a businessman he most certainly was, and anyone who ever booked one of his acts got the added treat of bantering back-and-forth on the telephone with one of the truly great storytellers in all of music.  

Al Bunetta w/John Prine and Steve Goodman
London, circa 1977

That Steve Goodman was able to continue touring well into his trials with cancer is owing in no small part to Al Bunetta's support and encouragement.  
From their earliest days in Chicago, it was Al who was the protector.  Al who listened, Al who talked, and Al who implemented the plan--and always, once he considered the options...Al had a plan. 

Very few managers would have thought it wise back in 1983, for Steve Goodman to openly refer to his deepening struggles with leukemia in song at all, let alone deliver an album heralding the situation, called Artistic Hair.
Al thought it was hilarious--and more than that, it would make Steve, whom he adored--and ached for--happy.  But even more than that, Al knew he could make all this work...which he did.  The album remains a beloved part of Goodman's legacy, to this day. 


Peter Rodman and Steve Goodman
Rodman's home; Boulder, Colorado~ circa 1979

And when Steve succumbed during the following year (1984) at age 36, Al arranged for Jimmy Buffet to sing the national anthem at Wrigley Field, in his place.  But wait...there's more:  The Cubs still play one of Steve's many songs about them ("Go Cubs Go") whenever the team wins at home.  Yup...Al did that.
In many ways, Steve Goodman's life took on even more life, after he was gone.  In large part, that was Al's doing.

Unlike a thousand slippery managers you can name throughout the history of recorded  music, Al Bunetta--underneath a very hard shell--was sensitive, kind, and loyal...but the best of these was always: "loyal."

Long after Steve Goodman passed away, Al kept his vanity label 'Red Pajamas' going, as if there was always going to be new product to market. 
Thing is, there was. 
Al uncovered remarkable live performances, arranged and recorded a classic "tribute album" (one of the first anyone can remember) to Steve, and continued releasing newer artists' music on his various boutique labels (including the groundbreaking Mountain Stage series) right up until his own death.  
 
By the time I got to Nashville, Al had established a virtual--no, an actual-- factory in the garage behind 'Oh! Boy Records' on Music Row, where John Prine's brother Billy (himself a recording artist) served as more or less the 'foreman,'

Peter Rodman and Billy Prine
at Radio Lightning in Nashville
circa 1995

for organizing and shipping all of the labels' wide-ranging products.  (Full disclosure:  Billy's a dear friend, who was my production assistant on Sunday Night with Peter Rodman during the '90s.)
That's the whole point:
To say this thing remained a 'family' operation through the years, would be an understatement.  Prine, Goodman, and Bunetta formed a bond that plowed right through career setbacks, cancer and even death, as if they were mere speed-bumps. 

John Prine became a hero of mine from the first time I ever heard "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" on New York's underground FM station, WBAI.  Needless to say,

This was the favorite bumper sticker
for Vietnam hawks, back during Nixon's reign.
It meant: "If you disagree with the war...get out."

opening your debut album with a mock-country anthem--flipping off all the pro-Nixon, pro-Vietnam hawks in America (and their  "Love It or Leave It" bumper stickers) was seriously risky business, back in 1971.  But John seemed perfectly comfortable starting off his recording career this way, and in retrospect--knowing what I now know --Al Bunetta probably had a lot to do with it.  Because if you ever wanted anyone in the foxhole with you after a ballsy move like that, you wanted it to be Al Bunetta. 
That's the thing: 
If you were his friend, Al had your back.

A lot of it was Italian bluster--no doubt, there--but Al knew when to dial down the Godfather nonsense.  That wasn't him...although he could play it as well as the next guy.  

In 1994, Al arranged for me to come to Oh! Boy to interview John Prine, for my radio program.  I'd gotten to

Joe Ely, John Prine, Peter Rodman at the Bluebird Cafe's
kitchen pick-up window, circa 1992.
Photograph by Townes Van Zandt

know John a bit by then, hangin' around at the Bluebird Cafe's kitchen window, where all the good writers always commiserated, only occasionally glancing at the shows through a specially-angled mirror.
Anyway, what resulted was a two-hour interview session, covering anything and everything I ever wanted to ask John Prine.  Al later said he thought it was the best interview John ever gave.  (We briefly thought about issuing it as a national radio promotion, but sound problems at the studio kept it firmly on a local level.)  
In it, John related for the first time in detail, stories he has since told ad infinitum...like the one where Steve Goodman virtually kidnapped Paul Anka into seeing John play at Chicago's Earl of Olde Town, long after the club had closed up for the night, and the chairs were upside down on all the tables.  (That event ultimately led to both acts getting record deals.)  

Back in the mid '90s, after John Prine had won 'Americana Artist of the Year' I was in Al's office the next morning, and happened to congratulate him. 

Prine, Goodman and Bunetta
London, 1977

"Yeah," said Bunetta with his usual backstage candor, "but what's it mean?  I mean, I 'get' the whole genre...we've been doin' this forever! --but what the hell good is it? Will it sell another record, or more tickets to the next show? So, John's #1 on 'Americana'...I mean, it's nice...but what's that mean?" 
With that, he began to giggle...and whenever Al laughed, it made you laugh. 
Now he was on a roll.
"Oh, look, I won 'Americana Artist of the Year!'" he said to an imaginary person. 
Then the imaginary person spoke: "Who gives a fuck!"
To know him, you'd have to realize this was all in jest. 

John Prine--April 19, 2014--at the Country Music Hall of Fame
Photograph Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman.

Nobody was prouder of John's award  than Al...but this was just his silly, odd way of expressing (believe it or not)
...humility.  

Though we shared many such laughs (and a few heart-to-heart talks) through the years, there was that one time...when I seriously fucked up. 

A relationship with Al Bunetta was something like one of your favorite street-kid friends, when you were little...so an 'occasional misunderstanding' or skirmish might occur.  And it did for me, in a most surprising way.

After years of trading jibes and not-so-gentle rank-outs (with me, mostly, on the receiving end) one night Al walked into the Sunset Grill with a few mutual friends. He put his arm around me, and I could see he'd been out in the sun all day, at least. But as I looked down I saw he still had on either swimming trunks or shorts, and I instantly blurted out, "Hey...nice shorts, Al!  Those are comin' back, for sure!" 
Unfortunately for me, this got a big laugh, at the bar. 

Al was not amused. 

What ensued was a tantrum that made Joe Pesci in Goodfellas look tame. Worse still, Al was so incensed he couldn't let it go, and eventually--even after several giggly apologies, which admittedly only made things worse--he was politely asked to leave.

Though I knew I'd meant no harm, I felt really bad about it.
It was just "wrong place, wrong time" for him--and I understood that. He was too tired, I was too blunt--whatever. 

I knew what I had to do. 

The next time I saw him was a few months later. We were seated around a tiny, tall table across the street at Faison's, around six of us, including some 'names' you might know... all very good, mutual friends.  Soon after we exchanged greetings and cordialities...I suddenly realized, "It's time."  

I couldn't stand the cold any longer.
"I don't mean to bring everybody down here," I began. Suddenly (and quite annoyingly) tears welled up in my eyes.  "But I have something to say to this man, whom I love...and who I embarrassed one night--something I never wanted to do.  I'm sorry, Al.  I was wrong. I love you, and you deserve a public apology for my thoughtless remarks.  I mocked you, and I never meant to mock you.  I hope you'll forgive me.  I was wrong, and it hurts me, that it hurt you.  And to the rest of you I'm also sorry, to have had to do this...I know you'll understand...if you love this man as I do, I had to do this this way."
The rest of the table (we were all together) didn't seem to mind at all...but now all eyes were on Al--who was slightly taken aback at first, but soon gave me a look of love I'll never forget--since it was definitely in his 'code,' to forgive (if not forget) when someone apologized mano a mano.  

I'd watched him searching my face for sincerity as I spoke, and lucky for me...he found it.  He truly seemed touched by the fact that I meant it, and my guess was right:  He'd still been mad, right up until that moment.
His arm reached toward my shoulder, and he rested his hand there for a few seconds until he had my full attention, saying simply, "I appreciate that." 
He had felt hurt and insulted by my comment, but once he said I was forgiven...I was forgiven.
That was all I could have hoped for. 
The festivities resumed--and believe it or not, nobody seem fazed by it at all.  We all had a grand old time. 
From that day to this, we continued our friendship--both realizing it was a miscommunication, and a matter of respect (Al was, after all, 9 years older than I) that would never be breached again.  

One night well after that, leaving a concert at the Ryman, I noticed Al and his lovely wife Dawn and waved, as I got in my car.  Al asked if I'd mind driving them up the hill to another lot, to

Al and Dawn Bunetta

find their car.  (Maybe at TPAC?) 
Anyway, as we looked around for it, Dawn asked who that was, singin' on the CD player ...and I said, "Oh, that's Roberta Flack--my favorite track ever by her...but it's never been released."
"I thought so!" she said of the singer. "But I've never heard this before..."
It was Cole Porter's "Someone to Watch Over Me," which I'd taped right off the end credits of a VHS copy of the movie of the same name.*
Even though we'd by now found (and pulled up next to) their car, the Bunettas decided to sit and listen to the song a second time, before heading home in the night towards Gallatin. 
"That...is really beautiful," said Al.  I'll always remember how innocent and absorbed he was by the music, at that moment in time.  We all were--and if I'm not mistaken, that night was their anniversary.
Soon after that, I delivered a custom-made copy of the still-unreleased track to Al's office, for he and Dawn.

There would be untold ups and down in his life (Goodman's death and Prine's own bouts with cancer among them) but none quite like losing his son Juri, a few years back, to a car accident.  After that, it seemed Al needed to spend more time away from the office. 

"I'm slowin' down now," he told me a few months ago, shuffling a few papers on his desk. "You could almost say I've  retired from all the commotion--lunches, and what-not. It's not for me, anymore. I stay home a lot. Got good people here; the place almost runs itself now."
Then, in a trademark indication that you were talking to a human being, and not just some self-absorbed 'manager,' he looked up at me.
"How about you?" he said.
"How're you doin'?  Are y'okay? ...ya healthy?" 

I don't know whether by that time Al had any symptoms yet or what.  If he did, he wouldn't have told me anyway.
                        Why bellyache? Take it like a man.   
It was a standard he held himself to, but when it came to others...not so much.  Al's 'TLC' was lavished on the same few people throughout almost his entire adult life, and they know who they are, each and every one. 
Tonight it must feel, to those few people, like they are missing not just a person, but one of their own limbs. Al Bunetta was always the "someone" who watched over them.

All I know is, I'll never forget him.  And although I've mentioned the one bad incident we had here, it never came up again for us.  In fact, he might wish I hadn't written about it--but to me, it stands as a great example of his capacity to move on, and always remain 'a lifer.' 
It's sad to think of a world without Al Bunetta.  
Characters (and souls) like that rarely come along, and when they do, you just know you're onto something special.
So right now, I don't exactly know what to do. 
I've written this blog, but there's an emptiness in my heart today.  I'm gonna miss him. 

I dunno...
I might just go over to Savarino's Cucina in the Village, and order myself an "Al Bunetta." (That'd be the chicken cutlet with roasted peppers and balsamic vinaigrette, on Italian bread.)
I figure it would make him feel good to know his friends got some extra business, because of all this.   

Yeah, that's what I'll do.


*And for any who might doubt that love and romance were a huge part of the man, here's a (temporary) link to that unissued Roberta Flack performance, in his honor.  The memory of this one will forever be Al & Dawn's, in my mind.  Listen: Roberta Flack's never released version of "Someone to Watch Over Me" 


We're gonna miss you, Al.
      
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This column is Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.
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Remembering a Special Friend...Billy Block

By Peter Rodman

In 1992, I moved to Santa Barbara and rented a house near Shoreline Park with my best friend John.  We were both newly single at the time, and right around 40. We each bought new cars, and started hittin’ the town in earnest. I guess you could call it a “mid life crisis.”
In short order, we both began to wonder why there were so few 'eligible females' over college age there.
Here we were--a couple of wild and crazy guys--with the means to have fun, and no one to have it with.
Everybody was either 20 or 60, but certainly not 40.
Pretty soon, someone clued us in to the town's long-standing punchline:  "Everyone in Santa Barbara is either newlywed, or nearly dead."   
My roomie had a job in town, but I was commuting up the coast to San Francisco almost every week, from which I’d fly to Hong Kong or Taiwan, and then return home four days later, totally exhausted.  All of this conspired to keep me indoors in SBA, while John happily jogged the beach and gave me daily ‘pulchritude’ reports. 
The irony was not lost on me:  Here I was in “paradise,” but way too beat to enjoy a minute of it.
Between business trips, I’d fly to Nashville, rent a car, and record song demos and/or play the Bluebird Cafe…often sleeping on a friend’s couch.  (At $200 a song, plus travel expenses, it wasn't long before I found myself in some serious credit card debt.)

I kept in contact with friends in Chicago, New York, Nashville, and L.A. via telephone (“long distance”... remember that?) and one of those friends happened to be Karla Bonoff.  We’d known each other since 1977, when she nervously gave her first-ever radio concert in Boulder.  Over the years there'd been many interviews and shows, so now--since 100 miles seems like less than a thousand--we'd occasionally catch up on a little gossip, exchange notes about our living situations, and/or keep up with each others’ careers on the phone

One day Karla asked me if I was aware of L.A.'s  'MUSIC CONNECTION,’ a weekly “insider” rag for aspiring musicians. (I was actually  kind of dismissive about it, having seen similar sheets growing up on Long Island.)  But Karla pointed me toward one column in particular, by a guy named “Billy Block.”
In his little nook, Billy excitedly reviewed recent shows and described new artists he had seen, as well as plugging albums and gigs for a wide variety of musicians, spanning all genres.
Not being in L.A. (Santa Barbara is 100 miles away) I couldn’t really act on any of it, but being a performer myself, I found it nourishing to eavesdrop on a scene I thought was really “too big” for me.
Lots of people think that about L.A.
Clearly, what Billy Block was doing was to break it all down into little, digestible pieces…and believe me, that made L.A.’s music scene seem far less intimidating--not just to an 'aspiring' artist like me, but even to an established one, like Karla.  Pretty soon she mentioned 'a little Monday night thing' Billy was hosting, at a coffee place called Highland Grounds, on Sunset. 
“I know it may seem hypey at first,” she said, “but Billy’s actually creating a little ‘scene’ here, and it gives some of us a place to go without being watched, or getting all

self-conscious--casual, like a real community.  L.A.’s never really had that--or at least, not recently--and this is really special, what he’s doing. You should come check it out.”

To know Karla Bonoff is to know a very careful person.  She does not seek attention; in fact, she almost purposely avoids it.  But now, after checkin’ it out herself, she was ready

to dip her toe in the water and perhaps play a few songs at this little weekly event Billy had started, called ‘Western Beat.’
One more digression, from before I met Billy:
A year or two earlier, I’d been living in Chicago, and when Karla had a week of shows booked at the Fairmont, she asked if I’d like to come along for the gigs, because she didn’t really know anybody in the Windy City.  Needless to say, I was flattered and delighted to do it.  But as much as it felt like we were friends, I would always be just a fan, underneath it all.
After she decided to play Billy’s ‘Western Beat’ show, Karla asked if I’d be interested in coming down to see it. 
 

Bryndle--from left, Wendy Waldman, Kenny Edwards,
Karla Bonoff, Andrew Gold--with Peter Rodman, circa 1995.

I've never been too keen on driving long distances for just a night out, but if I was ever gonna go, this would be it.
When I arrived, I could hardly believe how small the place was! Maybe 50 or 75 people crammed in, many behind poles which blocked your sight lines entirely, in booths that resembled a cafeteria, more than a concert hall.  And the “stage,” if I recall, wasn’t more than a few inches off the floor…if it was raised at all.
With Karla were Wendy Waldman and Kenny Edwards, whom I already knew, and Andrew Gold, whom I had also interviewed, but didn’t really know yet. 
I’d vaguely heard of ‘Bryndle’ from Karla and Kenny, but never suspected they were using that night’s get together as a “reunion,” 25 years after going their separate ways!

Each booth at Highland Grounds held only 4,  maybe 5 people, if you really squeezed in--so as Karla and the group greeted old friends, I decided I wasn’t even worthy of sitting there, takin’ up space.  (Okay, maybe the “fan” in me got a little flustered.) 
I stood leaning against one of the big, square poles that held up the place, trying not to interrupt, stare, or intrude…in short, trying to blend into the pole.
I’ve rarely ever felt so self-conscious, and I could tell by Karla’s glances that it really was getting awkward.
See, it’s like this:  You go to a party, but you really only know one person. Do you hang around (read: onto) just that person all night, or do you try not to?  
I opted for the latter...but soon realized I was still tethered to the booth, and it felt downright creepy to be nearby, trying to 'act casual' but sort of just hangin' around anyway. 
In short, I wanted to crawl under a rock.
At the height of my discomfort, well before Karla & company

played, a series of local acts were introduced by this white-haired 'Billy Block' character, with a kind of compelling ‘emcee-ness’ I hadn’t experienced since Bill Graham used to emcee his Fillmore East shows.  Each act got a nifty build-up, “…and I’m especially honored that she’s come out tonight, with no rehearsal, to play with our house band tonight! Let’s give a very special ‘Western Beat’ welcome, to ALANNAH MYLES!!!”  
He was part cool-guy, part P.T. Barnum, and all positivity.
I remembered what Karla had said, on the phone.  "I think you'll like him. He may seem over-the-top at first, but he's really got a certain knack for bringing the music community together, and we haven't seen that out here in a long, long time. I like him a lot."
Next thing I new, Alannah was singing “Black Velvet,” and Billy was bounding over to me, introducing himself--and exuding the warmth I would come to know and love for the next 23 years.
“Hey, Peter! Karla tells me you’re an old friend of hers, and you came all the way from Santa Barbara,” he began. “Welcome!  If you ever decide you want to play here, just call me and we’ll set it up.”
BAM.
All my self-consciousness went out the door.
There was a musical community here…and I was welcome!
(There still wasn’t enough room in the booth, though.)
From there things loosened up considerably, as Andrew, Wendy, Kenny, and Karla began including me in their network that night, introducing me to other folks I’d eventually know from that day to this, like the wonderfully gifted Kevin Montgomery.

Wendy Waldman first appeared on my radio show in 1975;  Karla Bonoff, 1977.  I’d done the same interview show in the ‘80s, too.  But here in Hollywood, nobody knew I'd ever hosted a show at all. 
Certainly Billy Block didn’t know a thing about me--except that I was a singer-songwriter, and knew some people whose own music he respect

Billy with Jim Lauderdale--Photo by Lawson Little

ed.
That night, Karla, Kenny, Wendy and Andrew got onstage and killed it, beginning a reunion that would last, on and off, until first Kenny and then Andrew passed away, a few years ago.
All this time, nobody knew that Billy himself had already fought skin cancer and won.

I moved to Nashville a few months later (mainly to save money on rental cars!) and re-started my long running music interview show (Sunday Night with Peter Rodman) on Radio Lightning 100, in December of 1993. 

Fast-forward to 1994:
SNPR had taken off. Artists, writers, session players, actors, producers, label heads, politicians, newcomers, legends, movie critics, sports figures and more populated the show, which became a sort of clearing house for anyone with something to say.
The radio station itself became pivotal to the Nashville music scene, hosting ‘Dancin’ in the District’ and other events-- which almost single-handedly revived the downtown area, and made it “the place to be.”
Around 1995, Billy Block moved to Nashville and began hosting weekly club shows here, just as he had in L.A.-- but with a decidedly more elaborate title:
"Billy Block's Western Beat Roots Revival."  
At first it was slow going, because quite frankly, most

aspiring  songwriters in Nashville thought only one place counted: The Bluebird Cafe.
Before Billy got here, there was NO significant outlet for aspiring singer-songwriters, besides the Bluebird. (In fact, Bluebird owner Amy Kurland constantly beseeched people to create more such scenes elsewhere, as her small venue had been virtually overrun by requests from out-of-towners and newbies, seeking to get a foot in the door.  There simply wasn't enough time in a week--nor enough staff--to sift through the growing mountains of cassettes, DATs, and audition requests besieging the ‘Bird.)  Still, no one seemed anxious to play anywhere else but the Bluebird, lest they be left out of the action.

Billy began by importing some of his rootsier L.A. friends,

like Rosie Perez and James Intveld. Building slowly, he started out at The Sutler on Franklin Pike, and soon moved on to the fabled (and much bigger)  Exit/In, where nights full of music included such up-and-comers as Keith Urban, Alison Moorer, and Jim Lauderdale.
Before it even had a name, “Americana” had found a home--wherever Billy Block was hosting his ‘Western Beat’ show. 
 

“For just 5 bucks,” said the posters,“You get a 6 dollar show!”
Pretty soon there was an ‘Americana’ organization, and ‘Americana’ awards shows. 
But nothing is permanent in radio (or nightclubs), so Billy would sometimes have to pull up roots (so to speak) and switch radio stations or venues in mid-stream, just to keep the newly retitled ‘Billy Block Show’ alive. 

I have to make a personal confession, here: I only have just so much energy, before I get discouraged.  My gig has always been a similar thing--giving new artists radio exposure, making established artists comfortable, presenting another side of the music, etc.  So Billy and I felt we had a lot in common.  But whenever we got together privately, I’d always marvel at his indefatigable resilience.  “How the hell do you keep picking yourself up off the canvas, Bill?  I can’t even imagine recovering so many times, and emerging stronger, every single time!”
He’d look me in the eye, always with those sky-blue eyes and a wide smile, and say, “I wanna know how you do it!”  But the truth is, he was being kind.  Billy knew very well I wasn’t even close to that strong...but we did share the odd distinction (mission?) of having spent a lifetime "presenting" great artists, in the best light possible. 
When my Lightning 100 gig ended in 1996, I never seriously looked to place my show anywhere else.  I walked away, content with what had been accomplished over three decades in radio.

Billy Block was another breed altogether.

A lesser man (see: me, above) would have quit after just one such venue change.  
Imagine carefully building a very delicate, beautiful house out of toothpicks--only to have some  club rube (or radio station) knock it all down, in a single motion.  Could you start over, from scratch--to rebuild your entire audience, each and every time it happened? 
New club…New time slot… New station... New bosses... New rules…?
That’s not me.
But none of this deterred Billy Block--not for even a nano-second.

In fact, to read his latest interviews or promotional blurbs, you could never even tell that switching venues wasn’t in his plan, all along!  That’s how smoothly he transitioned, from one venue to another. It was always done seamlessly, and with grace.

I used to say, “Man, you exhaust me!  I thought putting together 6 or 7 interviews every week was hard…but you never stop!” 

And he didn't.

I remember picking up his monthly newsletter for Western Beat, back when Tower Records was still open. So that's one  7-act LIVE show a week (have you ever juggled that many musical acts in a single night, let alone every week?) one self-published monthly magazine, and a weekly radio show. 
Years later, Billy would add a local American Idol-type competition for seniors, which he called ‘Silver Stars’--for those ‘of a certain age’ who still had talent and dreams but felt locked out, by our youth-oriented culture.  

And in recent years, he had even more spin-offs:  ‘Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang Blues Band,’ jokingly called “An Explosion of Pedigreed Bunk!” --a self-effacing reference to his ubiquitous hype machine, as “Mr. Nashville.”   He tirelessly promoted son Rocky Block’s band (very good, by the way!) and hooked him up with some dang good sidemen…including, on at least one occasion, E Street Band bassist and Rock 'n Roll Hall of Famer (and close Block family friend) Garry Tallent.  
Not bad, for a teenager!



At the risk of sounding immodest, about ten years ago, Billy took me aside and said, “Peter, I want you to know something…I was inspired to do this in Nashville by listening to your radio show.  When I got to town, I heard your show and said, ‘Man…that’s what I want to do!  I wanna be like him!’”
He repeated that compliment often over the years, probably because he knew it made me feel pretty darn good.  It stands as one of the highest compliments anybody's ever paid me--because I always had such respect for his self-starting mindset.  That's what it takes, to create something truly original:   Invent your job.
Obviously, Billy’s accomplishments touched countless more people than my little show ever could, but like I say...it sure felt good to hear such a thing, coming from someone I so loved and admired.   


At the end of each live 'Billy Block Show'--and believe me, they loooong...sometimes over four or five hours--no matter how many (or how few) people remained in the audience, Billy would jump onstage, sweaty but exhilarated, and plug about a month’s worth of upcoming shows, right off the top of his head!
And at the very end of the night, he would close with this:
“Remember: If you see someone without a smile, give ‘em one of yours!”

It wasn't about slogans; it was about messages.
“No Fear; All Faith” was his main cancer motto--typically not bitter…and it fit him to a ‘T.’ 
When he got sick a couple years back, I suggested he throw a benefit; little did I know he'd already planned dozens of 'em.

Billy plowed through the past few years like there were fifty years of livin’ to squeeze in.  He was right there for son Michael’s football conquests and state championships, at Hillsboro High.  Right there for Grady, Rocky, and Shandon, too--and the amazing Jill…always.
Life was like one big juggling act he loved, and Billy never dropped a single ball.  He kept it all in the air, always looking up, always with his eyes on everything that mattered.

In January, I got to see him one last time, at St. Thomas Hospital.  His face was ravaged with the scars of cancer, his lungs struggled to breath, and there was a distance to the sound he made, but his smile never let up, as he discussed his next round of treatments.

 

“It’s okay, Billy,” I said softly as we held hands...two grown men!  “You don’t have to expend any extra energy, telling me everything…just relax.”
“No, no!  I want to!” He insisted, unleashing a litany of plans and back-up plans they (he and his doctors) had assembled for the battle ahead. 
I walked into that room thinking he was in decline, and I needed to lift him up. 
But Billy knew better. He also insisted on taking this 'selfie' of us, and as he spoke I was on the edge of tears, realizing that my friend was wheezing and struggling just to make me feel better about everything! 

 St. Thomas Hospital~ January, 2015 
Photo by Billy Block

He knew that deep down, it was his friends who were hurting, and needed reassurance.
 
That was Billy Block. 
A true gift, and yet another ‘object lesson,’ from a life so full of them, you can't even add 'em all up.

 
Ultimately, I realize there are no words. 
Certainly no slogan or catchy title will ever describe the ‘whiz-bang’ life force that was--no, is--our friend, Billy Block.

Literally thousands of posts will be written by those he touched, near and far.  They are the real testament, to how one little guy can change the world. So is Billy’s family, with two sons and two adopted sons, all brought to blossom under the amazing greenhouse of Billy and Jill’s love.  Perhaps it’s a cliché to say this, but knowing Billy I believe he approached his passage exactly as he did all those little ‘venue changes’ I spoke of, earlier. 

“A lesser man would have quit after just one such change.  In fact, you could hardly tell that ‘switching venues’ wasn’t in his plan all along.  That’s how smoothly he transitioned, from one venue to another. It was always done seamlessly, and with grace.” 


...especially this time.






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This column Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.
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