Part I . . . Sometimes I just can’t help thinking about “what if’s”. I know it’s fruitless, but there’s a wacky string theory other dimension time machine kind of fascination for me. I always come back to the convergence of John R, technology for the masses, and WLAC going to 1000 watts at 11 PM. Sound waves from Gallatin, TN (now pulsing through deep space) drifted down to Tampa in the mid ‘50’s, loud and clear most nights, just in time for me to take that newfangled transistor radio under the covers and listen to Little Willie John and Hank Ballard interspersed with big baritone ads for White Rose Petroleum Jelly (your first aid kit in a jar) and Silky Straight, until my heart beat so fast that tears ran down my face.

I had no idea what was going on then, and I still don’t, but I’m forever thankful that the reception was clear. My parents’ newly purchased bedroom window unit AC encouraged me to sneak the car out of the driveway many late nights just to drive across the bridge with wind in my hair and “It’s Too Late”, “For Your Precious Love” and hundreds of songs I’ll never hear again pressing permanent wrinkles into my smooth little brain. A few years passed. My girlfriend from Birmingham had Hank Ballard records and we listened and danced in the garage every day after school. I learned about race records and evil women when her mother smashed them to bits. Many years passed. I was booking live music at a tiny and v. un-hip club in San Francisco, mainly so our band could have a place to play. I had stupidly given my home phone number to every eager band in town, so the night Hank Ballard called, the machine took the message as usual. My partner at the time, always superior in musical one-upmanship, recognized the name but wasn’t exactly sure . . . . . well of course he didn’t know John R. either. . . . to be continued