Elegy for Chops

Once upon a time, a man slipped me his phone number. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

Benny "Chops" Arradondo had played trumpet with Basie and other big bands of the era, on tour and nearer to home in Deep Ellum. We met at an elementary school in South Dallas where he was a volunteer at the library, trumpet still at the ready to play a brief tune when the kids gave him an opening. He was in his 70s; this was the mid-'80s. I told him my late father had also played the trumpet in big bands early in his life, we talked about a few other things, and while I was saying goodbye to the librarian, Chops wrote down his number and said to call whenever I wanted to revisit the old days.

I did. During one of our long conversations, he mentioned that he and some friends played music of their era at nursing homes. (One of his bandmates: Buster Smith. Look him up.) At the time, Deep Ellum's revival was getting in gear, and I introduced Chops to Jeffrey Liles and Russell Hobbs one day at their Prophet Bar, which was in a building Chops remembered from his old Deep Ellum days. Talk happened, ideas flew, and the result was a new act for the bar: the Legendary Revelations. 

Any doubts we might have had about a group of retirees playing music from the past in this hip club just evaporated -- the crowd was well past capacity that night, and very appreciative of the tradition before them. Chops and his band were astounded. And very, very happy.

After Chops died, his Legendary Revelations carried on, and even supplied the closing track on the (otherwise current) Sound of Deep Ellum compilation LP. 

Once upon a time, Chops told me he was going to get the LegeRevs to learn Fats Waller's "You're Not the Only Oyster in the Stew" for me. Don't know whether they did, but -- Chops, I still smile for you whenever I hum it.

7 June 2023 

Larry McMurtry

Larry McMurtry used to drop by the Blockbuster where I worked because it was near the Dallas branch of his beloved Booked Up empire. Apparently he liked to collect obscure B-movie videos almost as much as he loved old books, because he never rented, only placed special orders with us.

One day, as he walked up to the checkout desk, my co-worker said, "Who's that guy? Why do people always get excited when he comes into the store?" He hit the desk in time to hear me say with a wink in his direction, "Oh, he has a great bookstore around the corner." Never seen a smile as wide and proud as his that some video store clerk "got" him. Whenever he came to the store after that, he always greeted me with a little wink. (And I did reveal the bestselling-author part of the story to the co-worker later.)

(Thanks to my Love, Lust and Other Facts of Life buddy Frank Crim for inspiring me with his memory of "Mr. Jazz," the actor George Segal who was a musician at heart. RIP to you both, Msrs. McMurtry and Segal, and here's to everyone with passion projects beyond their best-known occupation.)
27 March 2021

 

Memory dump 3: KLIF

Very early in my working life, I was Kelly Clarke, a disk jockey (ahem, radio announcer) at what had been the birthplace of Top 40 in years past, KLIF. As an AM station in a world where FM ruled music radio, we had to try harder to get attention, so we regularly appeared at onsite promotions. It was only natural that KLIF would sponsor the local premiere of the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band movie (starring Peter Frampton and The Bee Gees!), and the promo department announced that it would involve some "very special guests."

The premiere was scheduled for a multiplex in the Dallas suburb of Garland. (Garland was a major inspiration for the setting of the cartoon King of the Hill, so try to imagine what kind of movie premieres there and what kind of "special guests" might actually show up.) We, the on-air talent, learned that WE would be the special guests, dressed in colorful band jackets rented from a costume shop. Y'know, like on the cover of the Sgt. Pepper album, right?

So Allen Farmer, Steve Scott, Harry Nelson and I arrived at the premiere in a limo, but stayed inside hidden behind the darkened windows, building what we were assured was a frenzy of anticipation and excitement, until the audience was seated in the theatre and ready for the movie to start. Then we walked in together under a spotlight -- like anyone would recognize our faces anyway since we worked in radio -- and the only reaction was "Hey, that isn't Frampton and the Bee Gees!" We had to sit there in our cordoned-off seats wearing smelly old band jackets through the entire awful movie (rated 3.4 out of 10 on imdb.com; the Zap2it.com description is "Sgt. Pepper's grandson and three other guys form a band and fight bad guys. Based on a Beatles album."). The promo guy wouldn't let us leave during the screening while the house lights were safely out. I hope he's shilling for the ghost of Enron now.

I recall discussing that evening with my fellow suffer-ees only once afterward, when we decided that the TV show WKRP in Cincinnati, while billed as a sitcom, was actually a documentary.

(NB: Possibly the most bizarre twist in this story is that my cousin, the late Terry Southern, also had a connection with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band ... the original one. He was among the faces on the cover of the album -- wearing dark glasses, not a short red band jacket. Sigh.)

Memory dump 2: Before he was a wild and crazy guy...

Imagine being a 15-year-old standing in the high school hallway (sporting what looks like a strawberry-flavored Mickey Mouse mask because you didn't apply sunscreen before you donned ski goggles and hit the very sunny Colorado slopes over winter vacation, but that's beside the point) and telling people that the best part of your trip was going out to a club one night and seeing this breath-stoppingly hilarious comedian whose shtick involved playing the banjo while wearing a fake-arrow-through-the-head and ended with a poem about all the things he had done and seen, including the memorable line "I've put a telephone in my nose and called my mother."

Imagine the looks you would have gotten, even from people who usually got your offbeat sense of humor.

Of course, we all know now who that comedian was. In 1973, nobody in San Antonio did. What fun to remind my classmates years later that I discovered Steve Martin. At least, before they did.

The show was a benefit for the Aspen Free Clinic, and most of the talent had local connections, such as headliners John Denver and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and other, less famous acts. Albert Brooks presented his one-man performance of "Blue Moon" as the Albert Brooks Big Band, providing vocals, instrumentation and backup vocals -- all a capella. Then there was the guy with the banjo ...

Think about Steve Martin's old standup act. How do you explain his brand of performance -- usually punchline-free -- to someone who's never seen it? And how does a 15-year-old girl convey the hilarity of the line "I've done terrible things to my dog with a fork"?

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