Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 8 -- The Beach Boys

Hawthorne, California is one of those very blue collar, working class towns.

For years it was headquarters to one of the largest aerospace corporations in the world -- Northrop Aircraft. It was just two miles down the road from plants run by Rockwell International and McDonnell-Douglas Aircraft.

Those companies, now parts of larger corporations, built the aircraft that helped win World War II.

Many of the factory workers that toiled in the wartime plants lived in Hawthorne -- from a very young Norma Jean Baker who worked on an aircraft assembly line before emerging as Marilyn Monroe, to Murry Wilson, a guy who ran a machine shop in the aerospace industry.

Even after the war there weren't many frills in this gray little town, not much for the kids to do other than hang out at the local A&W or go to the beach, where they were all learning the new sport in town -- surfing.

Before The Beatles burst upon the scene and led an invasion of moptop bands to the Colonies, The Beach Boys were already recording songs and performing at sock hops and community fairs. Murry's sons Brian, Dennis and Carl recruited their cousin Mike Love and a neighbor friend, David Marks, to form the band, which leaned heavily on the harmonies of The Four Freshmen and iconic riffs of Chuck Berry to write and perform songs that thrust them into musical nirvana and placed the band as the greatest spokesmen for the southern California lifestyle.

They wrote about a fantasyland California, a place of the endless summer where there were always two girls for every guy, it was cool to be true to your school and it didn't matter if daddy took your T-bird away, you were still the prettiest little girl in school and your life would continue to be nothing but fun, fun, fun.

It didn't take long for The Beach Boys to become America's favorite band. They reflected an image of wholesomeness from their red and white striped short-sleeved shirts and white pants to the innocence of their songs.

Meanwhile, beneath the surface, there was darkness.

Murry would never win father-of-the-year awards. He was brutal -- particularly so to his most sensitive son, Brian. He battered the boy so much, according to folklore, that he deafened his right ear. From what I've been told over the years, that's not true. As I heard it, Brian suffered deafness in that ear from birth. The brutality? That part was true. Murry was a tyrant, a frustrated musician himself, who mismanaged the band for years before they finally fired him. When they did, he signed on a copycat band called the Sunrays to compete with his own sons.

I had always been a fan, even during the psychedelic '60s when many of my friends turned away from The Beach Boys because, well, they said they just weren't cool. They were a pop band, a bunch of bubblegummers, many of my friends said. Yeah, but they sure could sing.

That's why I was really stoked, as they would say, when I got my first opportunity to meet them.

I was working at the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner and it was early summer. The band was rehearsing for a huge tour at a place called SIR Studios in Hollywood. SIR Studios rented equipment and rehearsal halls of all shapes and sizes. There was one aircraft-hangar-sized room where bands with a more elaborate stage and production could work out the details before going on the road.

On this day, the room was filled with a huge replica of a sailing vessel, decked out with a multi-level stage where The Beach Boys would play. Up on one corner was a roost where Brian Wilson, who had just come out of a couple of years of self-imposed solitary confinement in his bedroom, would play as he rejoined the band.

Dennis was the first to arrive. He walked up, looking nothing like The Beach Boy Denny of old, with a scruffy beard, long hair, khaki cargo pants and tank top T-shirt.

"Got any pot?" he asked me.

Times were fairly dry and so I had to tell him, "No."

Still, he sat down and started chatting like we had grown up together. He was all excited about the rehearsal, the gig, his brother's return to touring with the band. After about a half an hour, he asked who I was. That's how it was with Denny, the eternal puppy, who sought friendship and compassion at any cost.

Denny had always been the first Wilson brother over the fence. If there was trouble to be found, he found it first. It was Denny who got tangled up with Charles Manson and his group of homicidal lunatics. It was all just fun until the sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll turned into ugliness on a scale that propelled Manson into international headlines and sent Denny into decades of fear. He was just there for a good time, Manson wanted to be a rock star, and Denny tried to help. When he couldn't and when Charlie became too deranged and demanding, Denny cut the ties. It was Dennis Wilson and his buddy Terry Melcher -- Doris Day's son and a well-respected record producer in his own right -- that the Manson clan was after that night they slaughtered Sharon Tate and her friends. Denny carried the fear of Manson with him until the day he died.

It was Denny who came home from the beach one day and told Brian, "Hey, all the kids are surfing. You oughta write a song about that."

His skills as a drummer were fairly limited in the early days, so much so that session drummer Hal Blaine played percussion on most of the band's early records. Still, Denny developed a unique style and eventually became fairly skilled behind the drum kit.

The concert was a smashing success, the band had made what was, at that time, it's third rebound in popularity and Denny? Somewhere during the tour he stole Karen Lamm away from Bobby Lamm, keyboard player and lead vocalist for Chicago, which served as opening act.

Flash forward a few years to a very warm and comfortable recording studio a stone's throw from the beach in Santa Monica. Brothers Studios it was called.

In the control booth, Denny is sitting behind the console, mixing down tracks for one of the songs on his vastly underrated solo album, "Pacific Ocean Blue," his beautiful tenor coming through the playback speakers bolted to the walls.

"I'm gonna lay down more tracks tonight...about 3...you play?" he asked. "I'll give you album credit."

"Well, I learned to play drums by listening to Beach Boy records," I told him. But, alas, my shot at stardom had to go unfulfilled because, well, I had this thing called a job and God knows how many hours I would have ended up in the studio with Denny or what condition we would both be in when it was all over.

His then-wife Karen Lamm-Wilson, as she liked to be known, waltzed into the studio.

"What have you given my husband? He's in a great mood," she asked.

"Nothing, he was like this when I got here," I told her.

"Come by more often," she said.

After lunch at a seafood joint a couple blocks away, where we could see Pacific Ocean Blue just across the street, we returned to the studio. That's when I witnessed one of the many breakups of one of the most famous bands in the history of the world.

I was sitting with Denny at the mixing board when Brian walked in. He had one arm folded across his bulging belly, the other at a 90-degree angle with his finger pointing upward.

"I just called Johnny Carson and we're going to do his show tomorrow night and sing 'Johnny Carson,'" Brian said, referring to a cut from the band's latest LP.

"You what?" Denny asked incredulously.

"Yeah...we're gonna do his show," Brian responded.

"Brian, you're my brother and I love you, but no...you can't just book The Beach Boys like that," Denny said.

He started out compassionately, but anger soon took over as Brian wouldn't budge. About 15 minutes into the argument, their younger brother Carl arrived to hear, "well...you can do the show, but not with me...I'm out...no more Beach Boys," Dennis screamed, leaving the studio.

Brian meandered to an outer office, Carl stood frozen, tears rolling down his cheeks.

We went into one of the other empty studio rooms and sat.

"It's been like this a long time," he said. "I don't know what to do anymore."

We chatted for an hour. I already knew that during Brian's down time, when he had his nervous breakdown and lost the will to perform live with the band, that Carl was the one who held the band together, did his own brand of wizardry in the studio when Brian was too stoned or crazed and actually forfeited some writing credits to his older brother, just for the sake of family harmony and continuing the illusion of the Endless Summer. Even when I mentioned that Carl, as sweet a human being as ever walked the face of the Earth, downplayed it all.

"So...it's over?" I asked Carl.

"You were here...you saw it...you tell me," he said.

"It's over...for now, I guess," I said, leaving with a completely different story than the one I had come to write.

The rift pushed more distance between Denny and Mike Love, who had never been on the best of terms anyway. Al Jardine? The guy who replaced David Marks, because Murry Wilson didn't think it would be good for business to have a very Jewish-looking kid playing lead guitar, was just a hanger-on, a hired hand, never really as much a part of the band as he would have liked to have been. I could understand because what chance did an outsider have against the Wilson clan and their cousin, Mike?

The band was about six months into its breakup when I got a call one day from Mike Love, who was recording with his new band, Celebration.

"C'mon up to the ranch in Santa Barbara and I'll show you how I can levitate," Love said.

Huh? Levitate? Now, I had been invited to interview Bootsy Collins once, a guy who would only do the interview if I showed up on a Saturday morning, take a tab of acid and eat Fruit Loops with him as he watched cartoons. Honest. I took a pass. And, I had been offered trips to go watch other bands rehearse or perform on the opening leg of their tours. But, I had never been invited to see someone levitate.

"C'mon...the hometown paper...hometown band...it'll be cool," Mike said.

I took a pass. There was a concert that night and I didn't feel like driving all the way to Santa Barbara to see a follower of the Maharishi fall flat on his ass. Besides, I knew that if Mike got you stoned enough on rock star grass, you'd actually believe he was levitating. And, Santa Barbara would be a long, long drive home.

But, we chatted about his new project anyway. I asked about The Beach Boys and he said not to worry, they'd be back, but to make sure I listened to "The TM Song" very loud. It was his ode to transcendental meditation, which he learned to practice while hanging out in Rishkish with The Beatles.

"I'll do that," I said, glad I didn't have to go all the way up the coast to listen to hours of chanting and God knows what other kinds of madness.

A few months pass and I get a call from Sandy Friedman, the Rogers & Cowan publicist who served the band loyally for years.

"Tomorrow they're playing a street party at a sorority at USC," Sandy said. "Jan and Dean will be there and it should be very cool."

I was on board for this one.

So, I show up at the sorority about the time the roadies are dressing the stage. Mike is in the backyard, chatting up the young ladies. Carl and Brian arrive in the lounge. No entourage, no publicists, agents, or managers.

"Do me a favor?" he asked. "Watch Brian for awhile, please? I gotta make a beer run."

"Why me?" I asked.

He mumbled something and was off.

So, here I am with rock 'n' roll's most eccentric personality, charged with his welfare while his brother goes on a beer run.

"Brian? You know Ed...he'll be with you for awhile. I gotta go for a bit," Carl told his older brother before he left. Brian just nodded.

We chatted, but Brian was not terribly responsive. He was going through his therapy phase and was not very communicative unless he was sitting at a piano. So, to get through to him, I walked him over to a grand piano in the center of the room and we sat on the bench.

Immediately, he started playing. Old Beach Boy songs, old Phil Spector songs. He was in the first verse of "Da Doo Run Run" when he elbowed me in the ribs to sing along. For a couple of guys with only two good ears between them we did OK on the harmonies. Finally, Carl showed up with his beer.

"Hey, where's Denny?" I asked.

Turns out Denny got busted. He was caught the night before in Phoenix with a 15-year-old girl, who turned out to be Mike Love's daughter. Yeah...and they eventually had a child together.

Sill the USC gig was very cool, especially when Jan and Dean hopped on stage about two-thirds of the way through the set and they did all those great surf classics.

The years passed. Denny died in a drowning accident. Carl passed away from brain cancer. The Beach Boys, however, continued to tour and they were coming to Cedar City, Utah, where I was living and working.

I set up a phone interview with Mike.

"Oh, my God," he said as we recalled some old times. "Well, come backstage and say hello, OK?"

I did.

It was a decent show and certainly nostalgic to see a 60-something guy dancing around on stage wearing a red and white striped shirt, white pants, and tennis shoes while singing about fast cars, big waves and an endless summer.

And, even though the band was pretty much nothing more than a pleasant nostalgic act, it was still cool to see.

Rock 'n' roll never forgets Pt. 7 -- The Big Man

"When the change was made uptown and the Big Man joined the band.

From the coastline to the city all the little pretties raised their hands.

I'm gonna sit back right easy and laugh, when Scooter and the Big Man bust this city in half with a Tenth Avenue freezeout..."

E Street is closed to through traffic tonight. The buses don't run there right now and the happy noise that ruminated from it is stilled forever because the Big Man, Clarence Clemons, finished his gig Saturday night and went home.

I had several days of brief encounters with Bruce Springsteen when he was touring behind "Darkness on the Edge of Town," one of my favorite albums. I had flown to Berkeley, California to catch the show and interview Springsteen afterwards.

It had been a remarkable show. Springsteen was exhausted. I caught up to him in one of the backstage dressing rooms. He stood there quietly, a puddle of sweat at his feet. He was nothing like the wild man who had just rocked the Community Theater. He was quiet, introspective. We chatted for a good hour, maybe more, and I had to leave to catch the red-eye back to Los Angeles.

He had another show a couple nights later at The Forum, then a surprise gig at The Roxy, which was broadcast on the legendary KMET. That Roxy show, by the way, was the heart of a live album he put out several years later.

The shows were stunning, powerful. Springsteen was a commanding figure on the stage, backed up by a most incredible band. Miami Steve was laying down some very cool guitar licks, trading leads with Springsteen, who has always been a bit underrated as a guitar player. Max Weinberg was flailing at his drums. But, the soul of this dynamo known as the E Street Band was the Big Man, Clarence Clemons.

What a figure he cut on the stage.

A man of large proportion, he dominated the right side of the stage, up front. Not many sax players can command as much of the spotlight as Clemons, but, then again, few could play the horn like he did.

I spent a lot of time that week with the Springsteen entourage, wrote some decent stuff, I guess, because I got a mention in Rolling Stone for my stories. Springsteen called me out after the Forum gig at the after party and gave me one of the biggest hugs I have ever received. His people put me at Gary Busey's table at The Roxy. Now, Busey was riding the crest of his performance in the Buddy Holly film. It took him a few tumblers of Wild turkey to loosen up, but he finally got into the show. Afterwards I saw Springsteen again and we chatted as members of the band rambled around the empty nightclub. He gave me the nickname "L.A. Ed with Glasses," according to my friend, Harvey Kubernick, who was in Springsteen's inner circle.

Let's be straight about one thing here, if there had been no change uptown and the Big Man hadn't joined the band, Springsteen's career might have been dumped by Columbia Records about the time "Born To Run" came out. You see, the first couple albums didn't fare well and label was all about sales. There was also a huge beef between Springsteen and his former manager Mike Appel that prevented him from doing much of anything but touring. So, Springsteen and the E Street Band hit the road, gigging incessantly from coast to coast.

When the beef was finally put behind Springsteen and Appel, Springsteen was able to go into the studio and lay down the tracks to "Darkness," a remarkably mature album comprised of dark characters and a yearning for something, anything, to free them from their demons.

Clemons' saxophone haunts Springsteen's storytelling on "Darkness." Without it, the album is a lesser novel of the struggle known only too well by the working men and women on Planet Springsteen.

If Springsteen was The Boss, Clemons was his Lead Man.

He was the spirit of the band. He could pick them up on stage with one of his thrilling sax riffs. Springsteen, you see, would get the band to whatever venue they were playing early in the day. By the time showtime came around, they had been playing for a good four or five hours, running through songs, rehearsing, trying new fills, working on new material. By showtime, they had done the equivalent of about three sets. By intermission, they were ready for a breather.

They would close the first half of the show with "Pradise by the C," an instrumental piece that was a real showcase for Clemons, who would breathe life into a tired, ragged bunch just before it took a rest between rounds.

They would always come back from the intermission ready to rip the roof off the joint.

On the road, it was Clemons who would break tedium of the long bus rides. If things got too glum, he'd strip naked and march up and down the aisle of the bus playing The Village People's "Macho Man" on his saxophone. It lifted everybody's spirits.

He could make the saxophone soar, like on "Born to Run," or weep, as in "Jungleland." He could play the role of Springsteen's sidekick or steal the show, depending on what was needed.

But, beneath it all, he was a musician's musician, respected by the oldtimers and the new breed. In fact, he recently flew to New York for his last recording session -- a gig at the request of Lady Gaga. She asked him to do some work on her new album. He was on a plane within a couple hours of getting her call.

And, now, he's gone. Complications from a stroke took him.

And, sadly, another change was made uptown and the Big Man left the band.

Beavis and Butt-Head mentality towards political sex scandals

"Huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh..."

"Yeah...you said 'Weiner!' Yeah! Yeah! WEEEEEINNNNER!"

"Yeah...he Twittered his tweeter...cooool!"

From Barbara Walters to Bill Maher, the self-inflicted scandal that Rep. Anthony Weiner, a Democrat from New York, is trying to dig out from under is yet another embarassing example of the Victorian, prurient, titillation-oriented mindset of the American public.

"Huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...You said..."

Weiner, who disappeared into some sort of rehab facility after finally admitting that he had, indeed, sent explicit texts and photos of himself to I'm not sure how many women, is done. His own party leaders are calling for his head.

"Huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...You said...!"

There are major concerns abourt ethics violations. He may have, according to one report, taken the photos or written the texts while in his Congressional office. There is concern he might have used a government cellular phone to photograph himself and send the messages.

Never mind that. The voting public wants to see the photos and read the racy texts. Ethics? What's that?

I mean, one of the big online posts about the Weiner affair was Walters' reaction to seeing the photos, which she described as "flattering." Maher took a segment of his show Friday night to read from the texts. Even the legitimate press is recoiling in mock horror, proclaiming in tabloid-style stories "She's pregnant!" in reference to Weiner's wife, overseas right now with her boss, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, who also knows a thing or two about sex scandals -- remember la affaire, Monica? That was, of course, of equal proportion when it came to rousing America's lusty side. The sad thing is I'll bet you more people knew what Bill Clinton did with a cigar than why he was impeached.

Americans are pretty uptight in general when it comes to sex. It comes, of course, from its Puritanical roots. And, when it involves a politician, they get even more uptight and morally indignant when, truth be known, they wish they were on the giving or receiving end of whatever transgression was committed.

And, it is also an opportunity for members of the opposing party to do a little partisan bashing. If it's a Republican caught in the midst of a scandal, the Democrats will point to the hypocrisy of the GOP's proponents of family values getting caught with their pants down, so to speak.

"Huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...You said..."

If it is a Democrat who is caught, the Republicans will bray about how liberals are out to destroy the core of morality that the nation was borne under, which is just as ludicrous because, well, the Founding Fathers were a pretty randy bunch.

"Hey, Butt-Head, isn't Randy that ass-munch from 'American Idol' who calls everybody 'Dawg?' Yeaahhh...thought so...What's he got to do with this?"

"Nothin', dumb-ass...randy means, uh...huh-huh-huh...you know..."

"Oh, yeah...right...got it!"

Our North American neighbors from Canada and Mexico scoff at the feigned indignation; our European friends wonder why it really matters if no laws were broken. They sort of understand that as long as their leaders are truthful about what happened, then it becomes a personal matter and nothing more, which is as it should be.

But, Americans don't react the same way, which is why almost every politician caught up in one of these things immediately tries to deny it.

You'd think they'd have learned by now that it's not so much the act as the cover-up that gets these guys into trouble. And, yeah, I mean guys. Political sex scandals are pretty much exclusive to the boys' club. Very, very few women, except for Rep. Helen Chenoweth, R-Idaho, who railed against Clinton for his affair with a White House intern, get caught. Perhaps they are smarter, better liars, or more discreet.

But, rarely is the law broken in any of these scandals until the investigation begins and they swear to high heaven they are innocent. Of course, they also justify their actions with some rather interesting definitions of what cheating is and isn't and then parse their statements like a lame, jailhouse lawyer who knows just enough about the law to sound stupid.

It really doesn't matter because the public isn't interested in all that legal stuff,just give 'em the dirt and they're happy. Perjury? Ethics violations? Misappropriation of government funds or equipment? Who cares? Tell them, instead, how many times they scored, when they scored, how they scored and where they scored.

"Huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh...You said..."

Rock 'n' roll never forgets, Pt. 6

There's nothing like live music.

I've spent a lot of money over a lot of years just to go some place where a band can turn it up and make people smile. It's why I always jumped at any opportunity to go out and play with friends in the local bars.

Whether it was some local dive, which I've played plenty of, or some race track where 250,000 people have gathered for a full day of rock 'n' roll, I've been there.

I've seen the famous, the almost famous and the guys who should have been more famous.

Some of my favorite shows were when I'd go out to The Roxy in Los Angeles or the world-famous Palomino in North Hollywood to see Jimmy Rabbitt and Renegade.

Rabbitt is one of those guys your mama warned you about. I guess that's why I loved him for so many years.

I first came to know him when he blazed a trail through the L.A. radio scene. Back then, even if you never met the people on the air, you knew them because the good ones made you feel like they were talking directly to you. He worked in L.A. for just about every station that built a tower and threw a signal into the night air.

Didn't matter, either, what the station "format" was, Rabbitt turned it into his own.

Fresh from Dallas, by way of Tyler, Texas, Rabbitt was pioneering what was known as "freeform, progressive rock" on the radio long before anybody knew what that all meant.

He could segue the most incredible music sets -- whether through music or lyrics -- you could imagine. In fact, some of them you couldn't imagine until you heard them. Radio has always been the most intimate medium to me. It was somebody sitting behind a turntable, talking directly into your ear, playing music to touch your soul, lift your mood, make you think or just flat out entertain you. I was lucky to meet and get to know some of the legendary radio personalities from a time when radio was still worth listening to before the consultants got hold of it. Guys like Murray The K, B. Mitchel Reed, Jim Ladd, and, of course Rabbitt.

About the time I got to meeting him, he had already done a couple albums, including one produced by Waylon Jennings, and he was working at KROQ in Pasadena, where he was tearing it up in his usual fashion.

Music was music back then and when Rabbitt opened a mic, the playlist went out the window. It got him in trouble on more than one occasion when some station exec would ask why the hell he was playing stuff by Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, or David Allan Coe, with whom he wrote "Long Haired Redneck."

He was playing a lot of what was called "outlaw" country music at the time, mixing it in with the rock stuff in an eclectic blend that was like nothing else on the air. He was also playing places like The Roxy, Sweetwater and the Palomino pretty regularly with a band comprised of Matthew and Daniel Moore on back-up vocals, Don Preston on guitar -- all three, by the way, had been part of the Joe Cocker Mad Dogs and Englishmen tour/album -- with Dave Johnson on bass, sometimes Frosty (who played previously with Lee Michaels) on drums and the Flying Jerry Zaremba, as I used to call him, doing his handiwork on lead guitar.

Zaremba, who played Eddie Cochran in the Gary Busey film about Buddy Holly and did the major guitar work on the soundtrack, was sizzling. He became known for his table walks where, during a song, he would step off the stage, onto a table and walk along the tabletops while pumping out blistering leads. Uh, yeah, he did face-plant at least once that I know of, but, even then, he never missed a beat, even while facedown in a heap of drinks and food.

Rabbitt and Renegade were gearing up for a gig at The Roxy. I was the L.A. Herald-Examiner rock critic. I had done some radio stories -- my favorite was one on the crew from the Mighty Met, KMET -- and, well, I wanted to meet Rabbitt and write something.

We got together at the KROQ studios, near, I believe, the Hilton Hotel in Pasadena. Rabbitt wanted to get out of the studio so we walked to the hotel lobby, plopped ourselves in a couple of chairs and then I waited as he excused himself for a moment and reappeared with a couple of tumblers, which he proceeded to fill with Wild Turkey he had somehow carried into the hotel with him.

Now, the Pasadena Hilton was a pretty classy joint, as I recall, and there, sitting in the lobby, sipping Wild Turkey, were a couple of guys in "old, faded Levis," rock 'n' roll T-shirts and sunglasses, passing the time of day. I'm sure it freaked a few people out.

But, we really didn't care.

It was a cool interview and Rabbitt had me set up for the show at The Roxy.

I remember being seated right down front, against the stage. Some rock 'n' roll magician was opening the show and he was pretty lame. Maybe it was the whiskey, I don't know, but somehow I pissed the guy off and ended up handcuffed. Don't know to this day how the son of a bitch did it, but the magician snuck a pair of metal bracelets on me, moved back to centerstage and did a good portion of his set before doing some weird magician thing involving a big white napkin he put over my hands while he cut me loose. It was a bit awkward.

Ever try drinking a whiskey and Coke with handcuffs on? I don't recommend it.

Rabbitt and Renegade hit the stage in full force, a tub of beer at the rear of the stage, an open bar tab for the guy in the front row who had just gotten out of handcuffs.

And, did he deliver. "Ladies Love Outlaws" and "Luckenbach, Texas" still ring in my half-deaf ears.

It was a rave review and Rabbitt said he'd set me up any time he played locally.

Next time I saw him was at The Pal, one of the truly great bars in American history. Everybody, as Tommy the Owner once told me, would eventually pass through there. Elton John played there. Rod Stewart played there. Ringo Starr played there. John Lennon played there. Waylon and Willie practically lived there when they were on the Left Coast. And, one night George Harrison, Bob Dylan and John Fogerty were at somebody's house, drunk and jamming, when they decided to pack up a couple of guitars and wander over for a jam session. I wasn't there, but I heard it was pretty crazy.

So, anyway, it was another boy's night out, so to speak, that ended up with Rabbitt telling me a day or two later, "You can come see me any time, but you're off the tab!"

Guess the bar bill was a little steep.

I miss those days when radio was something special, when the jocks would broadcast live and actually put together sets of music instead of dropping in little spots on a computer between songs. I miss those days because those folks were storytellers. They could give you a set with social relevance, political awareness. They introduced me to music I never knew esxisted. In fact, I think the first time I heard Willie Nelson was when Rabbitt spun one of his records.

Since the early '80s, radio has been held hostage by the consultants. Everything is rigidly controlled by playlists, audience data and research, completely washed of personality and that intimacy we once shared. That's why a radio station in the middle of the Great Plains sounds exactly like one in New York or San Francisco unless you escape to one of the NPR stations, where they still know how to tell stories.

There's some hope. You can still hear guys like Rabbitt online (KOCI -- out of southern California at http://www.kociradio.com/ and KAFM at http://www.kafmradio.org/ in Grand Junction, Colorado) and, I'm happy to share, Geno Michellini who does a really cool, freeform thing at http://www.turntablehits.com/ every Friday. And, yes, he still "bangs the drum," as some of you who remember him from his days at KLOS -- where he invented the "Five O'Clock Funnies" segment, might remember.

As far as Rabbitt?

I still don't know if my liver has recovered.