15/09/2021
Excerpt from Radio Dreams: The Story of An Outlaw DJ and A Cosmic Cowgirl - A memoir by Joe Gracey & Kimmie Rhodes TO PURCHASE A COPY CLICK HERE > https://amzn.to/3AaDnyK
It is daytime and I am out on the street, two blocks away from the radio station. There is a gray metal public address horn on the corner of the building where I work, inexplicably broadcasting my radio show out into the parking lot. I realize that the record that I had put on is now about to run out and I am out here for some reason, much too far away to get back in time, even if I run. I listen helplessly as the sound of the needle in the end grooves begins to repeat endlessly. It is the DJ’s worst nightmare. I wake up. . . .
When you work on the radio, especially in 1960s-era Top 40 radio, you learn that dead air is the cardinal sin for the operator of the control board. Everything has to move fast, fast, fast, be overlapped and slammed home and yelled loud and insistent. No gaps or pauses allowed. Dead air is anathema, not tolerated. Being a DJ in a format like this is exhilarating, a mad dash from the beginning of your show to the end, slugging coffee (or worse) and lighting cigs and talking fast and moving your hands over the controls in a constant ballet, a coordinated, practiced caressing that never stops. Records are cued up by rocking them back and forth by hand, then rolled back to a precise point before the start of the music so that when I touch the turntable start switch, the song starts exactly when I know it will. Ads are on endless tape loops inside plastic cartridges shoved into automated tape players in correct order, cued and awaiting my finger on the start button, their last line typed on the label so I know when to jump in. Everything is within easy reach of my hands, the microphone suspended a certain exact distance from my mouth always the same spot in relation to my face, my ashtray and coffee cup always exactly where my hand falls to them, my ad copy and promos positioned exactly eye level on a pedestal over the board, where all of the volume and start/stop controls are. It is my world for four hours every day, my reason for being, my connection to people that is much more intimate than I can ever be face-to-face. When I turn on the microphone switch, I can feel the electrons coursing through the giant power tubes in the transmitter on top of the hill, pausing just that tiny moment to listen to the sound of air before I begin to speak, my deep resonant voice causing the massive tubes to pulse purple and red in the night, the antenna tower blinking red and the wind singing in the wires. Oh, baby, I love being on the radio. . . .
It is 1956 in Fort Worth, Texas, in a suburban frame house in a new part of town. In the kitchen, a five-year-old boy hears “Heartbreak Hotel” come on the radio and is swept up into it. “Mommy, why don’t you like Elvis?” he asks. Mommy, whose strong opinions on everything from Communists to Christmas include frequent denunciations of Elvis, is only able to say, “Well, I like his singing, but I don’t like the way he moves,” which means nothing to the boy. The boy,—me, Joe Ellsworth Gracey, Jr.—loved the way music sounded on the radio. Everything sounded good on the radio.
I was born in Breckinridge, a West Texas town in the middle of oil fields and cattle ranches. My first memory is of the smell of burning hide as the cowboys branded the calves at roundup. My grandfather set me on the top rail of the silver-painted pipe fence to watch. The calves bawled, jumped up, and ran around. The air stank. Dust clouds filled the sky.
My second vivid memory is of standing in the front seat of our car watching the dust motes falling through the hot, still West Texas air, while listening to “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window” or one of the many terrible pop songs of the pre–rock and roll era while my mother shopped for groceries. (Imagine living in a time and a place where you could leave an unattended three-year-old in public.) I memorized those songs and liked them because they were all that we had to listen to. It was a long way from that song to “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Hound Dog,” songs that would change our world. My father, a conservative lawyer and WWII vet, said that Mad Magazine and the Beatles ruined my generation. In reality, Elvis ruined it, if you think it was ruined, which I don’t.
When I was three we moved to Fort Worth and I got my own little record player and some albums of Glen Miller’s band. I remember one record called “Mairzy Doats,” which I played over and over, but one day I somehow got a copy of Tennessee Ernie Ford’s “Sixteen Tons”; it changed my life. I sat in a little rocking chair and listened to that single a billion times. I can still see the old purple and silver Capitol Records label going round and round. The song had elements of the blues, pop (it had a clarinet), and country. It was truly cool and was a great Merle Travis song to boot. His deep voice, the dark mystery of the lyrics, the sound of the upright bass, the clarinet, the little reverb trail on the record, all mesmerized me. I was hooked—hooked as a singer, hooked as a picker, and hooked as a record producer—at only five years old. I never had a chance to become anyone else. One day as a man, I shook hands with the great Merle Travis and felt a circle closing in my life.
I think back to my mother’s insistent drumbeat: “Travel is good, food is worthwhile, new experiences will make you a better person.” I would simply not be who I am had she not been there to weave that into the base fabric of my being. I would not be writing now, for the same reasons.
"English is a beautiful language and writing an art that is worthwhile. Reading is fun, but it is also a learned skill and one that will repay you a thousand ways. Intelligent people read newspapers and books and learn from them, and never stop. A writer is as much an artist as a painter or a violinist or a dancer."
I didn’t just make those things up; she taught me those things, over and over again. Mother, Mary Ann Gracey, was a “closet liberal.” We were raised to have respect for other cultures and races and languages. I learned from her to despise racial and cultural bigotry. I learned the story of the Jews and the terrible history of the African Americans. I learned to respect and tolerate other opinions as long as they were morally acceptable. There were no closed minds in my home. Everything was open to discussion and debate, and sometimes opinions changed. We somehow even managed to get through my Vietnam protest, long hair, and dropping out of the fraternity. She hummed along to my Beatles records, drove me to Dallas to get my first bass guitar at Sears, and took me to my first radio job. She cussed the liberal media but loved Walter Cronkite and was proud of me when I started writing for the Austin American-Statesman, even if it was a column about rock and roll music. She thought it was funny when my father’s friend, Walter Caven, said, “Our kids would be fine if we could just knock some of these damned principles out of 'em.”