Walk, Don't Run

by Steven Jae Johnson

  Even as I said it, I wondered if it were really true. Could I really give up the dream?

  A silence fell between us. Both of our minds were working overtime about the past years, the future, and what we had given up. Through the silence, Eddie tried to speak his mind.

  “It’s the hardest thing in the world to try and make your living at what you love to do. It’s the greatest challenge. That’s why our frustration is so deep. There’s a purpose. Music is the dimensional fusion between all people. All nations. Between light and shadow. Don’t quit now and let the world break us.”

  I shook my head as if trying to clear it.

  “There’s a purpose,” Eddie said softy, almost peacefully. “We will win at this.”

  I now felt foolish about my outburst. I knew Eddie was right. I felt successful and special for what we’d obtained so far and knew deep inside that we’d prevail and win. Being part of a great band meant everything to me.

  There was nothing more seductive than being inside the music and watching how it actually transformed people. Eddie had said the same thing his father said: “The hardest, but the most rewarding, thing to do in life is to make your living doing what you love.”

  That was it! When I’d thought of that, the cobwebs cleared and I could focus again on what our passion was in this quest. Art was to me the great calming factor in a stressful world. I knew Eddie and Joey felt the same way. That’s why we were drawn together. But we’d been at it long enough to expect better treatment from the record labels.

  That’s what was driving me crazy.

  “I know you, Olmos,” I said. “You always cut to the heart of the matter with that poetic mind of yours.”

  I laughed, then grabbed Eddie by the shoulder and led him back into the club.

  Eddie laughed. “So you’re not quitting, after all.”

  “Hell, no! Someone has to show you how to sing.”

  10

  Johnny B. Goode

  It was a cool afternoon, and the band had just arrived at the offices of Vance Music, hoping to get a record deal. We were both nervous and excited.

  “Hi,” Eddie said eagerly to the secretary. “We’re the Pacific Ocean. We’ve got an appointment with Steve Vance.”

  “One moment, please.”

  As we waited, Ronnie said, “I thought we’d be on Easy Street by now before Capitol Records shot us down.”

  “If the majors aren’t interested, we’ll make them interested with our success on a small label,” replied Eddie.

  A few moments later, Steve Vance greeted us and ushered us into his office. He was a tall man of thirty-five years dressed in a beautiful black three-piece suit. His full, jet-black hair was perfectly combed like Elvis Presley’s.

  “Gentlemen, I’m very happy you came in today. We’d like to discuss the possibility of having you do an album for Vance Music. We’d be very interested in signing you to a one album deal for twelve months, plus a single release. This, of course, would be backed up with a seven-year option clause if the single takes off and we can generate sufficient album sales.”

  “Can you give us any kind of dollar amount on how much you’d spend to promote us?” Eddie pushed.

  “Well, that really depends on how well the cuts do in a trial marketing phase. Of course, the expense of the studio time, pressing, jacket sleeves, and so on is ours. As the album nears completion, a buzz starts and we try and turn that into airtime, usually at smaller stations in the Midwest first. Then if it takes off, we close in on the bigger city markets and do the heavy work.”

  “If it doesn’t fly, do we owe you any money?” Eddie asked. He was always shrewd like that.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Worst case,” said Toney. “Let’s say it doesn’t take off, God forbid, and our contract expires, are we free to try and market it ourselves through other channels?”

  “Of course,” Steve answered.

  Eddie pulled out his notebook and took a piece of paper from it and handed it to Steve. “These are the songs we’ll do,” he said confidently. “They’re our babies. We know them inside and out.”

  Steve read the list out loud. “They’re fine with me.” He stood up and picked up a wooden cigar box. He opened it and turned it towards us. “Care to have a cigar?”

  “Listen up, guys. I’m going to tell you right now,” Eddie said from the front seat of Ronnie’s 1960 Chevy, “that getting airplay in this business is not as easy as it looks. Even with a single pressed and an album to go along with it, we could wind up nowhere fast. We’ve got to get the jump here in L.A. Toney and I got a list yesterday of all the radio stations in L.A. and Orange County. We’ve already broken it in half.” He handed some papers to me. “You and Ronnie take this half of the list and Toney and I will handle the other. We’ll load our cars with records and hit every station on the list. Most will balk and say that’s not the way they put things into rotation, but some just might play it. We’ve got to see if it can be done. Offer all of them free tickets and dinners at Gazzarri’s. I got Bill to open us a charge account we can pay off weekly.”

  Each day for the next two weeks, we hit every radio station on the list. Ronnie and I were not having much luck and Eddie and Toney were getting told pretty much the same thing at every station they went to: “If you just want to leave your record here, I’ll pass it around and see what I can do.”

  Tired, frustrated, and feeling dejected, Eddie looked at the list to see where he and Toney would next try.

  “Dig this…Our next stop is the Wolfman Jack Show.”

  The two disheartened musicians made themselves as jazzed as possible before they approached the receptionist at the front desk. She pressed a button on her intercom and informed the Wolfman that he had two visitors with a record they would like him to play.

  “Sure,” came the Wolfman’s low-growled reply, “let them in.”

  Eddie and Toney, not used to receiving anything but rejection, gathered their wits and charged on to meet California’s hottest DJ during his commercial break.

  “Hello, boys. What do you know?” Wolfman Jack greeted them.

  “Hello, Wolfman,” said Eddie. “Thanks for letting us come and meet you. My name is Eddie James Olmos and this is ‘New York’ Toney Carr.”

  “Nice to meet ya,” said Toney.

  “‘New York’ Toney, huh? I like that. Where are you from, Eddie?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Does that mean you’re ‘L.A.’ Eddie?” Wolfman joked.

  “Sure! Anything for the Wolfman!”

  “How can I help you, ‘New York’ Toney and ‘L.A.’ Eddie?” Wolfman asked.

  Eddie told me later that he was still a little shocked at this great turn of events, but he launched into a speech he had been rehearsing in his mind since the first radio station they had visited.

  “Wolfman, we have a band at Gazzarri’s on the Sunset Strip called the Pacific Ocean. We’ve been there for some time now and we’ve just finished our first album and single. We’d love it if you would play the single.”

  “What’s it called and what kind of bag is it in?” Wolfman wanted to know.

  “It’s called ‘I Can’t Stand It.’”

  Over the loudspeaker Eddie and Toney heard Wolfman’s engineer say, “Jack, thirty seconds to air. What we doin’, big guy?”

  “Throw the guest mic on,” Wolfman Jack answered with a twinkle in his eye that reminded Eddie of Santa Claus. “All right, boys, it’s your lucky day. We’re going to do an on-the spot interview with you. Plug yourselves at Gazzarri’s, plug the record, your album, and the label it’s on. And at the end of the interview, I’ll play your forty-five. I’m taking a bit of a chance here, guys. There are no dirty words in the song are there? Anything that could get me in trouble?”

  “Naaa,” Eddie fired back in joyous excitement. “It’s a story about broken-hearted love, that’s all.”

  The engineer’s voice came over the speaker again. “Test your mics, guy
s. I need a level.”

  Eddie and Toney spoke up. “Testing, testing. Toney here.”

  “Eddie here. This is a test.”

  “Fine,” the voice said. “All right, Wolfman, here’s your count. And 5…4…3…2…1….”

  “A-woooooooooooo! This is the Wolfman comin’ at ya, baby, from the Greater Los Angeles Basin. And speaking of Greater Los Angeles, I have two young men, well, they’re musicians and singers, so I don’t know if your mama wants you to bring them home, baby! Hah! But they stopped by to visit the old Wolfman and we’re going to plug ’em right into your ears and hearts. But before we play their new song, ‘I Can’t Stand It,’ I want you to meet them. Say hello to ‘L.A.’ Eddie and ‘New York’ Toney, babies.”

  “Hi, everybody! Hello, Los Angeles!” said Eddie.

  “Where you boys playin’ right now?” asked Wolfman.

  “We’re performing six nights a week at Bill Gazzarri’s famous Gazzarri’s on the Strip on Sunset Boulevard. The name of the band is the Pacific Ocean.”

  “Now tell me, ‘New York’ Toney and ‘L.A.’ Eddie, what label is this forty-five and album on, so the friends of the Wolfman can go to the record shop and dance at home to the Pacific Ocean?”

  “Vance Records,” Eddie told him. “It’s in some stores now. It’s a new label with some fine rock ’n’ roll and rhythm and blues acts. We’re proud to be associated with them and they’ve treated us real well.”

  “Well, Eddie and Toney, the Wolfman is putting you to the supreme test right in front of all of Southern California by spinning your new single right here and now.” The Wolfman lifted the tone arm of the record player. “Go see the Pacific Ocean at Gazzarri’s,” he told his audience, “and remember, you heard them first on the Wolfman Jack Show! Aaaaa-wooooo!”

  During the three and a half minutes of the song, Wolfman Jack danced in his seat and spoke up loudly over the song to Toney and Eddie. “That scream is monstrous! Outrageous! Scandalous and notorious! Who is that screaming?”

  Toney pointed at Eddie. “He’s our lead singer.” He glanced at Eddie. “And screamer,” he added with a grin.

  The Wolfman nodded his head to Eddie. “Pure screaming genius! You must have learned it from me! Hah!”

  The record bashed to a final finish and Wolfman never let up from the minute it stopped.

  “That’s the Pacific Ocean,” he thundered, “with the incredible scream from Eddie James—or ‘L.A.’ Eddie, as I like to call him—Olmos. These guys are mammoth! They will levitate you. They just hypnotized the Wolfman, baby, with this outstanding song and tremendous scream!”

  The Wolfman kept rolling. “I’ll make a promise now in front of them, my station manager and boss, and the entire Los Angeles listening audience: For one straight week—that’s seven straight days—the Wolfman is going to play ‘I Can’t Stand It’ every hour on the hour. So you can all hear the scream that reminds the Wolfman of himself. And Eddie and I will scream together! Yeah, baby. That is a promise! Every hour on the hour for one straight week. Tell your friends and let’s get this band rollin’! Aaaaaaa-woooooooooo!”

  Brushing off his headphones, he turned to Eddie and Toney, who were completely dumbfounded.

  “Wolfman, I…” Eddie struggled for the words to express his gratitude. He couldn’t find them. “I don’t know what to say,” he confessed. “That was incredible! Sometimes the simple way is the best way. Thank you,” he said.

  Their benefactor waved it off. “Don’t mention it, gentlemen.”

  Then he sat forward as the fire caught him again.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got another idea. I’m hosting some high school and college dances around the Los Angeles area over the next couple of months. I think you guys should come with me for some promotion. There’s pay and the PR will be great for your record. And I can tell all the kids to come out to support you.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” asked Toney incredulously.

  “No, I’m not,” Wolfman Jack assured him. “With Eddie’s scream, I think I can put our two things together and make us both some money. I’ll send someone to Gazzarri’s tonight to hear your live set. I’ll even try to make it myself. But if I can’t, my assistant can take care of any booking arrangements.”

  He prepared to take back the air after commercial. “Okay, now tell the kids while you’re playing to listen every hour for your song and to follow you to the gig also, okay?”

  “Great!” Eddie told him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to. You guys are great. We’ll be in touch. I gotta get back to work now. But listen, every hour on the hour.”

  Eddie and Toney walked from the radio station in stunned silence. Hoping to get one play, they had confidently—but gingerly—come to the station. But they had never expected this reaction.

  “I don’t believe what just happened!” Toney said as they left the studio.

  Eddie just shook his head. “Man, Johnson and Henslee are not going to believe this.”

  They got in the car with the trunk full of records and drove to tell us what had happened.

  For the next seven days, Wolfman Jack kept his promise.

  “All right, babies, this is the Wolfman, bringing to you as promised the dynamic scream of the Pacific Ocean!”

  He’d start screaming first, then the engineer would turn the song up and the two screams of Eddie and the Wolfman would blend into each other. He played the song every hour and plugged us at Gazzarri’s.

  Best of all, the Pacific Ocean was now a part of The Wolfman Jack Traveling Rock and Roll Show.

  I stepped into the wind. I was tired from the last Wolfman Jack concert we would do. The texture of a cold September draft greeted us in swirling gusts as we left the backstage of the auditorium of the Los Angeles Valley College. The usually crowded Coldwater Canyon Boulevard simply let an occasional car slowly propel itself down it’s thick-necked apex.

  From the rear doors we exited, the voices of the young junior college audience could be heard like a low-flying airplane landing at Van Nuys Airport. The smell of sweaty girls’ perfume lingered along with us. The female bodies that danced wildly to our music stayed with me this night like ghosts at an all-night Edgar Allen Poe party.

  “That’s it for the Wolfman shows for now,” Eddie lamented. “Kind of sad, actually.”

  I caught Eddie’s sad air. Eddie’s eyes moved away quickly, pretending to look out across Burbank Boulevard.

  After a moment, I tried to change the mood.

  “Come on, girls,” I razzed playfully. “Wolfman said he’ll have us back. What are you worried about?”

  “What I’m worried about, Rusty,” Eddie returned with an edge, “is that other groups from Gazzarri’s are jamming to the top. We’re not.”

  This unusual side to Eddie lay dormant until things really had him against the wall. He possessed a quality of resilience most people could only dream of. It seldom failed him, but when it did, it was usually well-deserved.

  “We’ve been breaking our backs for years and it still isn’t happening,” he went on. “The album’s not taking off. Wolfman’s been playing the damn thing forever and we’re still not on the charts in Los Angeles or any other major city.”

  Feeling the sting of Eddie’s frustration, we all grew silent, drifting in contemplation of our own worries, of the directions of our lives.

  Toney shuffled uncomfortably. “I dig, Eddie,” he said. “But how can we stop now?”

  “Dig,” I cut in. “This topic of getting insecure in the band business is what we live with. It’s at the heart of what we’re trying to do.”

  Eddie rubbed his temples and breathed heavily.

  “So,” I said indifferently as Eddie and I drove to an audition for a new club that was opening. Kenny, a friend of ours from Gazzarri’s had told us of a place called The Factory that was looking for a house band. He thought that the Pacific Ocean fit the bill perfectly and arranged for us to meet with
and audition for the owner’s talent coordinator.

  “Kenny tells me some hot shot Beverly Hills attorney named Ronald Buck had this idea that he could assemble a board of governors, Hollywood style. His partners in the venture are Paul Newman, Sammy Davis Jr., Pierre Salinger, Peter Lawford, Tommy Smothers, and a stage producer, Jerry Orbach.”

  “Get outta here,” Eddie laughed. “You mean if we land this mother, those guys will be our bosses.”

  “Yep!”

  We turned on La Pier Avenue to see Kenny standing there flanked by Ronnie and Toney. They were busy unpacking the mounds of equipment.

  “Kenny, why in the hell couldn’t you get this chick to come see us at Gazzarri’s?” Toney thundered as he unpacked his guitar gear at the curb.

  “She’s got to hear the band in the room, man. This ain’t no average man-off-the-street gig, Toney. The clientele is show business royalty and she can’t take any chances. I only got you guys in here because your name has been on the Gazzarri’s marquee for so long. She’s heard of you.”

  “I can’t believe my eyes,” Ronnie said as he pushed his Hammond organ off the elevator on the second floor. An old freight elevator had been restored with wrought iron to lift the famous from the ground entrance to the second floor entertainment center. Black and red leather chairs and couches were positioned for easy conversation and intimate dining. In the rear of the newly built club was the billiards room. Eight large top-of-the-line pool tables were at the members’ disposal any time.

  “Heavy,” I said dumbfounded, feeling as if I’d just stumbled into the land of Oz.

  “Wow, totally bizarre,” Toney exclaimed.

  “Dig the bar,” Ronnie gasped, running his hand along the finest glossed oak he’d ever seen.

  “Arronson said something about this bar was brought in from the Hearst Castle. It’s gotta be a hundred feet long,”

  I gasped.

  “Guys,” Eddie said as we moved our equipment out over the dance floor to the stage. “This is Jan Martin.”