Michael Muirhead, Boulder's Hypnotic Radio Voice of the Early '70s

By Peter Rodman 


Somewhere in everyone's memory is a person so charismatic, so inscrutable, and so cool, you'd have trouble explaining why you even knew them in the first place.  

I've only known a handful of full-on rogue characters in my life.  They are fugitives from convention, answerable to no one, and able up 'n leave any setting, no matter how comfy or for how long they've been there, and completely reinvent themselves someplace else entirely, never lookin' back.  I guess that’s how true 'outlaws' usually define themselves, but like most people...it seems foreign to me.  

Still, there's always that person, somewhere in your past.  

One such person, for me at least, was Michael Muirhead.

Photograph Copyright 1975 & 2015 by Peter Rodman. 
All Rights Reserved.

But let me stop right there.  
All that 'rogue' talk doesn't even begin to explain how he ushered me into radio--eased me in, really...either purposely or accidentally...and I'm still not sure which. 

When I first met Michael, he was THE coolest DJ in Boulder, on the remarkably Pacifica-like ‘underground’ FM  radio station, KRNW.  They were known for being uniquely 'Boulder,' at a time when all the downtown shops were local, and there was no 'Pearl Street mall.'  (Even a new Earth Shoes outlet was looked upon as some kind of corporate sell-out.)

At that time, the town was unselfconsciously setting the pace for counter-cultural living, and America-at-large was only just beginning to notice.  Against that backdrop--and the crisp blue skies and wafting pine-sap, mixed with the occasional stench of patchouly oil and 'b.o.'-- KRNW held court, roughly 18 hours a day.
But the prime time for radio, in that late-sleepin', alternative lifestyle town, was Michael Muirhead's shift. 

Every afternoon from 2 to 6, he’d assemble 40 minute sets ranging from Les McCann to Bad Company to Foghat and back, fairly challenging the listener to even hear him when he spoke, as though somebody just woke him up and he had better things to do, anyway.  My very first in-person 'radio lesson' was this:  
Dead air works, for the best on-air talents.  

I saw it for myself, and that counter-intuitive adage still holds true, to this day.
Which leads me to Lesson #2:  Bosses don't know anything about broadcasting.  Break their rules--and let your listeners in on it--and you will forge a stronger bond than any programmer can break.  That too, still holds true.
I could swear nobody else in America played Little Feat more than Michael, but that may well be because they had a ten minute track he loved ("Cold, Cold Cold/Tripe Face Boogie"), and at a station where nobody else is even there but the DJ, long cuts can be a very helpful thing.
(Especially if you have to pee.)

And now, for a personal detour...
I was a skinny, hyper New York guy, fresh out of years in retail and wholesale records, and full of as much knowledge as a fella could glean, from liner notes and headphones. 
On my first day in town--June 1,1972--I'd landed a job managing ‘Budget Tapes & Records’ “on the Hill.”  Unbeknownst to me, it was the sole company-owned 'flagship' store for 163 outlets in the west.
Right around the corner was a unique venue named ‘Tulagi’ that booked national club acts, six nights a week. 
I quickly realized that every single show dovetailed perfectly with my musical tastes, and got to see Doc Watson, Mance Lipscomb, Linda Ronstadt, Joe Walsh’s Barnstorm, and too many more classic acts to mention there, up close.
The booking genius behind Tulagi was a mercurial guy named Chuck Morris, who made his mark booking a remarkable string of national acts there between 1970 and 1972.  

Under Morris, Tulagi lured college kids in search of a ‘3.2%’ beer high to $5 shows, wherein the likes of  Earl Scruggs, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and Bonnie Raitt held court.  Word quickly spread about this venue, one of only six or seven in the nation serving up the Ry Cooders and Linda Ronstadts, for an intimate party like no other. Those college kids never knew what hit ‘em…and pretty soon, every act--no matter who Chuck booked--was packing the house, for two shows nightly.
As fate would have it, Chuck had the inevitable 'falling out' with the owner, Herb Kauvar…and left town to open a new club in Denver, named Ebbett's Field for his beloved Dodgers’ foresaken Brooklyn home.
Kauvar was happy to be rid of a guy who’d outgrown him, and even knew how to book the place himself--but being an older man, with little to no knowledge of rock or roots music, Herbie had no idea who to book.  Once he ran out of 'repeats' from Chuck's act roster, Herb was lost.
He began showing up at the record store to ‘pick my brain‘ every week, trying to figure out how to book Tulagi without Chuck.  Though he canvassed the whole neighborhood, he always ended up in my store, trying to make a final decision. “What do you think of Tower of Power?” he’d ask. “Who’s Claudia Lennear, anyway?” 
After several months of this, I decided to make him an offer: 
How about if you pay me for all this information?  Why don't I come to work for you?  In truth, I knew nothing about how to run a major  nightclub.  I was 21, for God sakes!
But he was desperate, and soon enough I left the store to run Tulagi for Herb.
I had no idea what I was in for.  
For one thing, the job entailed overseeing three places:  Herbie’s Deli and ‘The Sink’ were The Hill’s most popular hangouts and lunch spots--and Herbie owned them both, in addition to Tulagi.  
As his 'General Manager,' suddenly I was in at 7:30 every morning, ordering massive amounts of salami, and dozens of kegs of beer (which are always delivered just after dawn, for some reason)…and never got home 'til after midnight. No wonder he didn’t wanna do it! 
I began to gently remind Herb why I was hired in the first place, and pretty soon I was mainly just booking Tulagi, and managing the staff there.
Now the onus was on me, to SELL the shows I’d booked. (“With my money!” he always reminded me.)

Thank you for your patience. The detour is now over.

One of my standard ploys in promoting Tulagi shows was to arrange radio interviews for my acts. (Today, that's a given;

Michael Muirhead, manning the board at KRNW in Boulder, Colorado.
Photographs Copyright 1974, 1975 and 2015 by Peter Rodman.

back then, a rarity.) 
Whether it be Asleep at the Wheel, Elvin Bishop or Tim Buckley,  I needed to ‘get the word out’ any way I could--and Boulder’s ‘underground’ FM radio station (KRNW) seemed like a great place to start.  For one thing, it literally echoed through the streets--as every single boutique or head shop played it inside (and sometimes outside) their stores!
Part of the reason for the station's popularity was the diversity of music you could hear--from droning Indian sitars, to country rock; from David Essex to David Bromberg; from John Fahey to 'Mahavishnu' John McLaughlin.
Its DJs  all had very specific tastes, so you kinda knew what to expect from each one…but then again…it was ‘free form’…so…not always. 
Truth be told though, the main reason for its ubiquitous presence in Boulder was probably signal-related. 
Boulder sits in a very dramatic valley, backed up against a stunning wall of mountains (the ‘Flatirons’), which are its trademark. FM radio is, by its nature, almost a 'line-of-sight' (technically called a 'straight line') signal.  Ergo, the puny 55 watt KRNW was omnipresent in town, while Denver’s mega-hit FM stations never quite cracked the ‘hipster bubble,’ there.
So now I began ferrying acts (in my ‘66 Bel Air) to KRNW in earnest, focusing on the afternoon show, which was most closely associated with those hip retailers, and where I’d first heard it…places like ‘The Co-Tangent’ and ‘The Carnival Café.’  It was 1973. 

Sitting behind the microphone every afternoon was the most matter-of-fact, dismissive, likeable, charming, smug, handsome, preoccupied, engaging, conceited,  rockin', nefarious, articulate,  condescending, lady-killing rogue I’d ever met. 
Michael Muirhead, it turned out, was also the nominal 'Program Director' for KRNW.  (What that meant, I'd find out for myself, later on...)
That calculatingly cool voice I’d heard throughout the town, veritably murmuring his 'back-sells,' after disturbingly long (but somehow addictive) pauses was Muirhead, who went beyond being just the ‘arbiter of hip’ in town. (Which he clearly was, at that time.)
In truth, he was almost more like a ‘code-talker,’ or some kind of Pied Piper…and (most impressive to this lifelong radio fan) his listeners followed him, wherever he took them.
Few will remember that Michael almost single-handedly elevated Boulderite Tommy Bolin to ‘Rock God’ status, by playing the obscure James Gang track “Alexis” in such ‘high rotation’ it became, for a time, a kind of default Boulder, Colorado theme song.  The cult status that track--and in turn, Tommy himself--achieved in town was truly Michael's radio invention. And Bolin's wider success began, in large part, with the three-story staircase waiting lines, to see his local band 'Energy,' just one floor up from KRNW, at The Good Earth niteclub...because listeners flocked to see him.  The rest, as they say is...well, forget the cliches. Listen:

Though well known as the former guitarist for Zephyr, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that Tommy Bolin’s international career as a 'guitar icon' got jump-started on Michael Muirhead's show.  None.  Michael's afternoon program was Ground Zero, for Tommy Bolin's launch into infinity...and eventually, sadly...oblivion.

Anyway, back to me for a moment--the long haired neophyte club manager, still anxiously peddling radio interviews to sell tickets, lest he be canned from his gig--a seemingly daily threat from his nervous club owner. 
Though it sometimes seems to have been pre-ordained, my entry into radio was quite by accident.   

Illustration Copyright 1973 & 2015 by Amanda Rodman.
Graphic Design/Lettering Copyright 1973 & 2015 Peter Rodman.

KRNW was the first radio station I had actually ever even  gone to, in person.  Suddenly, I’d fallen back under a spell begun by Murray the ‘K,’ back when I was 10, listening to the radio in my father’s woodshop, and imagining I had my own radio station.

Strangely enough, Michael Muirhead already had designs on what to do with me, but for the moment, my main concern was “Will he pull it together, and focus on Ray Benson, here?  I need to sell some tickets!”
Being ‘cool’ requires distance.  Muirhead had cool down to a science--but in the case of interviews, his slightly detached, always unimpressed manner could either click…or not. 
Eventually I realized, it was either hit or miss with him. 
He really didn't care if an interview went well or not. Leon Russell could kiss his ass, if he didn’t like it. No star, big or small, was ever bigger than Michael Muirhead, on his show. 

My primary job for Tulagi (let’s call it booking and ‘artist relations’) became even more challenging, when my only viable conduit for radio promotion (Michael) was either 'down the hall' being naughty, or just said “Peter, why don’t you do it?” and left me alone at the station, to do just that! 

Peter Rodman at KRNW, 1975
Photograph by Michael Muirhead.
Copyright 1975 and 2015 by SNPR/Peter RodmanRadio Archive.

In truth, Michael Muirhead was a sun, not a planet--and if you could cop a decent rotation around him, fine.  If not, that was fine, too.
Every time I thought I was maddeningly pissed at the guy, he’d basically sit there, staring at my innocent face, waiting for me to get a hold of myself  (he knew I would)…and man, he could wait! 
That may be 'a cool guy’s' greatest gift--waiting out the rest of us.  He didn’t need.  But he sure knew I did.

Michael Muirhead carried the first ‘Anvil case’ I ever saw. 
Brought it to his show every afternoon, and never spoke about what was in it. 
In fact, if I was there--whether with an artist or just visiting, as I had begun to do shortly after I first showed up--he’d often ask me to leave the room, if somebody more important came in.
“Listen.  I gotta do some business here.  Can we have a few minutes?”
I acted like I knew what was goin’ on--you always did, around Muirhead--but really, I had no clue.  Sometimes he’d up and leave the station altogether. “Take over for me.  And don’t mess up!”
Pretty soon this was happening almost daily.
RADIO, at last...I was home!

  
By the end of 1973, Herbie decided to sell Tulagi--but I had  already found another purpose in life. 
For whatever his other peccadilloes might have been, Michael Muirhead gave me that.  He saw something in me (beyond just my availability, I like to think) and nurtured it, even as he kept me at arm’s length.  Michael effectively groomed me to be his personal substitute...and eventually, his successor...before I even knew what was goin' on.  

He never tried too hard. 
Talent, like looks, came naturally to Michael.  (I, on the other hand, have spent a lifetime doing nothing but trying too hard.)
You can actually hear these opposites, on an early tape I found, wherein--just before taking over his show for good--Muirhead decided to have me on as a performing guest.  

The Boulder Daily Camera had done a feature on me, headlined Closet Songwriter Comes Clean, to promote a gig I had at Shannon’s--and probably just for his own amusement, he mumbled offhandedly (almost derisively), “Why dontcha come on tomorrow...and play some of your 'songs'?”
Talk about pressure!
A rarely heard link to that moment in time (February 26, 1974) exists on cassette, and is a priceless encapsulation of our relationship.  It begins with Muirhead's trademark laid-backness, with...several.......seconds of......pure..... silence....after an album cut ends:
MM (in low tones): "Anyway......that was, uh......let's see w't we got.  Peter's, uh...gonna make his, uh...performing debut, after uh........"
PR: "...a three year hiatus?"
MM: "A three year absence. (chuckles)  Or as it says, uh...Closet Songwriter Comes Clean..."
PR: "...so to speak."
MM (perking up more formally): "G'd afternoon, Peter!"
PR: "Hello, Michael...it's good to be here on KRNW."
MM: "...as always. Peter's gonna be down at, uh...Shannon's.  On Sunday night...for uh, like we said...the first live performance, in a...in a while. Scared?" 
PR: "Yeah..."
MM (suddenly snapping at me) : "How 'bout now...?"

This was like a tourist getting in the ring with Muhammad Ali, but instead of fakin' it...he was throwing real punches.
So I ducked, bobbed, and weaved my way through it. I had to.
He was the confidant Alpha Male; I the goofy, but anxious-to-please Court Jester, repeatedly saving my ass with quips, filling in awkward silences after each song, and answering questions he never even bothered to ask. 
It’s very obvious from the tape, who had the confidence and who didn’t, at that point--or maybe, on some deeper level, in retrospect...it isn't.
And while he may have let me flail a little too much for comfort, he never quite let me drown.  In fact, though I was totally wrung out at the end of an hour on the air, sparring with him and playing live originals, deep inside I knew he’d actually just taught me how to swim.  (Via the 'dunking' method, but it somehow worked.)

Pretty soon after that,  I was doing more afternoon shifts than he was. I knew something was up, but I didn’t know what…at first…until one day later that Spring, Michael got busted for something drug related...I think.

Michael Muirhead ducks offstage,
after taking a rare turn as 'emcee'--very
likely for Tommy Bolin, at The Good Earth.
Photograph Copyright 1974/2015 by Peter Rodman.

To know him though, I'd have to say he was more into the Anvil case and the intrigue,  than the drugs themselves. I never saw him out of control.

To this day, all I know is that he ‘went away’ a few months later.  His afternoon show fell into my lap, and KRNW’s owner (Robert N. Wilkinson) adopted me as his new boy--to hand out paychecks, do all the scheduling (including showing up to cover shifts at all hours, if/when others didn’t) and be the (de facto) ‘Program Director,’ for what turned out to be KRNW’s last three years.                              

Michael Muirhead gave me my radio career. After he resolved his legal problems a year or so later, I didn’t see him again, although I heard he was still in town.  By this time things had gotten pretty busy for me, and the new show was high profile enough that you couldn't miss it...so I know he was aware of it, but I always wondered what he thought of  Sunday Night with Peter Rodman on KBCO.  Still, during my next eight years in Boulder, I never heard from him again.

Peter Rodman on the afternoon shift at KRNW, 1976
Photograph Copyright 1976 & 2015 bySNPR/The
Peter Rodman Radio Archive.  All Rights Reserved.

Eventually I moved--first to Chicago for seven years, and then to Santa Barbara in 1991.  
One day out in California, I was hosting my sister and her husband for a visit from back east, so we stopped in to the most infamous tourist joint in town--Rocky’s, on lower State Street, near the beach. 
You know the scene... Very high ceilings; a deafening cacaphony that challenges your lip-reading skills over drinks;   goofy illustrations of local celebrities on the wall (like they have at The Palm, only more risque); tall tables and stools, and a vast back room for dining.
 
I went to the bar to order a round, and there he was...
Michael Muirhead--and he was runnin’ the place.
“Wow!” I said, reverting to my naive, 21 year old self, from two decades earlier.
“Hey, Peter…how ya been?” he said, barely moving his lips.
It was like he'd never left.  Cool as ever. 
Behind him, on the wall, was a perfect caricature, of... Michael Muirhead.
“How’d you end up here?” I began.  “Wow, Michael…What have you been doin’ all this time! Where’d you disappear to?"  Now I'd worked up a head of steam, and was fairly gushing with enthusiasm. "Are you still with Caroline? What ever happened to you, when--”
He’d heard enough. This outlaw cut me off at the pass. 
“Peter, listen: These people know nothing about my past.  I’d like to keep it that way.  I’m happy to see you. We’ll talk another time, I promise…I’ll tell you all about it then. Enjoy your drinks. Tell everybody you’re my friend; they know to take care of you, I promise. I gotta go now.”
And that was it.  1992.  Last time I ever saw him.

Michael Muirhead died last week.
Hit by a tractor trailer, in a small town in upstate New York, crossing the street…or maybe not.  His obit doesn't mention the accident.  It simply says he died "after suffering from years of severe anxiety and depression.” 
Which makes you wonder.  (If anyone would want to choose his own way out, or leave on his own terms...it would be Michael.)
    Update, 3/31/15: Michael's death has been ruled a suicide.
The saddest part was to read about the depression.  I could never picture Michael suffering.  Most unlike the Michael I knew was the part about 'severe anxiety.'  His exterior was so convincing, I just assumed he took everything in stride. 
Kinda makes you think about 'cool.' What's it good for?  I'm sure Michael thought about that a lot. 
Right ‘til the end, he had world-class movie star looks--square jaw, perfectly symmetrical features--like a sort of Errol Flynn for hippies, back in the early '70s when I knew him.

Michael Muirhead, in his later years
(Photo from newspaper obituary)

But behind every swashbuckler lies a mere mortal--as we all are.  I'm ashamed to say I never found the vulnerability behind the mask.
Lesson #3: 
Look harder next time.
Because if anyone ever followed the adage, ‘Never let ’em see you sweat,’ it was Michael Muirhead.
I think the good part is, he knew people were drawn to him.  He knew they automatically loved him.  He knew they didn’t understand why he’d take them out to the edges of reason and test that love, but he knew he could do it, and they’d love him anyway.  Michael enjoyed bein' on a roll, and he usually was.
This was one cool cat. Though he could be maddeningly aloof, I always liked him a lot. (I can picture him now, saying "What's not to like?")
One top of it all, I’ll always be deeply grateful to him--for the generosity he showed, in jump-starting a three decade radio career for me.  He certainly didn't have to help me--his direct opposite, in terms of being 'cool'--out. 
We were an unlikely pair, that's for sure. 
All these years, I've kind of felt like I 'snuck in the back door,'  to get that radio career going--but now that he’s gone, I know his was my best possible training, as squirrelly and nefarious as it sometimes seemed, at the time. I had to learn on the sly, but he trusted me to do it.
I was only two years younger, but couldn't even conceive of what his life was like...and in many ways, still can't.
Say what you will about him (and I know I just did), but it doesn’t even matter. Any of it.
Whatever anybody (including me) thinks, or ever thought about Michael Muirhead…he knew who he was, and he played the game of life like a guy carrying  four extra Aces in his inside pocket.
He had a damn good run, for life's first couple acts. That much is clear.  I'm especially saddened, to hear about those painful later years...and I've just gotta bet that his time at KRNW--that long gone, small-time radio station in Boulder-- was a highlight of his life...though I have no real way of knowing that.
All I know is, at a certain point in time--that being the early '70s--Michael Muirhead was the reigning Arbiter of Hip in Boulder, Colorado.
And yeah, I keep coming back to that one word...'cool.' Whatever that is, he had it. 
And if I said it was 'hard to know how to say goodbye' to such a person, I'd be lying...because Michael taught me well. Listen.
...it's a cinch, man:

Ciao, Michael.

______________________________________________________
This opinion column and ALL photographs herein are Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman, except as indicated. All Rights Reserved. No additional publication or copying of this material is allowed without the express written permission of the author/photographer.  
______________________________________________________

'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."

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

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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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