Ain’t Too Proud to Beg

‘I know you wanna leave me,But I refuse to let you go.

If I have to beg and plead for your sympathy,I don’t mind because you mean that much to me.’

“Join me in prayer as we come to the

end this Sunday’s program, won’t you folks?”

Reverend Jim would be drenched in sweat

by the end of his twenty-six minutes. Shirt

collar yanked open, tie loosened during an

especially molten bit from--almost always--the

Book of Revelation, his spittle flew against the

slanted glass wall separating the studio from

my post at the board.

Reverend Jim always tried to capture my

gaze and preach directly to me.

Every Sunday. A long twenty minutes of a

young guy’s life. He seemed to feel that I was

included as part of the half-hour buy for a four

month schedule, half an hour on Sundays. At

seven a.m. Paid in cash. Upfront.

“Kneel along with me by your radio set,

won’t you?”

He remained standing, one hand caressing

the microphone stand, the other armed with a

well-worn tambourine. “If you’re in your

automobile, why not pull to the roadside and

pray along with us?”

“Lord Jesus, Lamb of God, relieve us of our

afflictions, cleanse us of our sins as we face a

new week in which to follow your word. And

help us, too, won’t you?”.

He began softly shaking the tambourine.

“To bring succor to God’s children? A few of

your hand-earned dollars propel our mission to

serve the Lord.”

“Many people say Satan works every day.”

He gasped and rattled the wooden ring with

jangles a--bang!--against his hip.

“Even Sundays.”

“Here’s a plea from Margaret in Mount

Clemens. Her husband needs the Lord’s

help” . . . to walk or talk again or not get the

cancer and be polio free and beat a case of TB

and diseases of the eye.

I soon tired of the Rev’s thunder every

week and worked out a schedule to more enjoy

my Sundays.

“Be sure to listen to Reverend Jim

every Sunday, here on on WPON, 1460 on your

AM dial, from the Riker Buiding in downtown

Pontiac.”

Station ID duties duly performed, I’d dash

down the gray-veined marble stairs, hands

sliding along the bronze handrail.

Flying from our top floor offices and studios

to the lobby and across the street to the donut

shop for six assorted and a large black.

Back at the station offices, I’d monitor

Reverend Jim’s show and savor my breakfast

at the reception desk deep into the six pages

of funnies in the Sunday Detroit Free Press.

Finishing my snack, I’d wave so-long to the

Reverend for a week, do the on-the-hour

station I.D. and switch to a remote broadcasts

from the many thunder and hell-fire churches

in the Detroit Metropolitan area. Each ran a full

hour and so gave me time to repair to the

men’s room to enjoy a private stall in which to

do my business and enjoy a Salem.

“This is WPON,” I’d intone in my best

baritone. This was the part I liked the best;

hearing my own voice on the air.

“1460 a.m., Pontiac, Michigan. The time is

seven o’clock. And, now, the news.”

Newsman Dave stood about five feet, two

and looked to weigh about a hundred pounds.

He had his own style in his oversize Oxford

button downs and his straw colored hair.

Good hair. Almost over his ears, the bangs

tossed casually across his furrowed forehead in

a nod to the times. Contrasted with a deep

back, thick-lensed pair of spectacles.

“Emergency news just in.” He looked more

serious than I thought possible of him.

Newsman Dave had a remarkably deep and

sonorous voice, keeping his timbre adjusted

perfectly by smoking Pall Malls everywhere, all

the time; especially during his news

broadcasts.

“Detroit Police warn there is a continuing

civil disturbance at Twelfth Street near

Clairmount Avenue and advise drivers to avoid

the area. Reports of street disruptions,

nearing riot levels, are crossing our desk in

great numbers.“

The news came from a short pile of tear-

offs from the UPI teletype.

This cacophonous machine, housed in its

own glassed-in closet to muffle the non-stop

keystroke clattering, delivered the newest

news from Bureaus and reporters around the

world; calling for our special attention to

important stories with a ringing red bell.

Newsman Dave would assemble a stack of

tear-offs to read on air, then turn to the next

report as he dropped the previous page silently

to the carpeted floor.

The last cigarette butt would be silently

extinguished in a puddle of water in his

ashtray. His voice lost a certain conviction as

he wrapped up the newscast with a human

interest item. Ownership liked a happy ending

to the news. A kitten saved from a well,

something along those lines.

Dave did all of the above while writing a

note in large letters and holding it up against

the studio glass so that I could read: ‘Do

Emergency News Teaser. NOW!’

I grabbed the Operations Manual from the

shelve over the board and found the approved

announcement, checked that the board mic

was on, quickly turning the volume so that the

needle in the meter stood straight up, just

bordering the red zone, “Please stay tuned,” I

solemnly announced, “for more breaking

news.”

Black Day in July

‘Black day in JulyBlack day in July

In the streets of Motor City is a deadly silent soundAnd the body of a dead youth lies stretched upon the ground

Upon the filthy pavementNo reason can be found.’

Until we signed off at midnight, I’d dial

dials, flip switches, check remotely on our

antenna and do my best to understand what

was wrong in my immediate world.

I would have had a better understanding if

I had found time between my donuts and

coffee and bathroom runs and comic reading

and Salem smoking to have listened to the

day’s many sermons by many pastors pleading

with their people and the police to stop the

looting and the burning and the shooting and

the deaths. All on the air, straight from WPON.

From right here in the Riker Building, about

twenty two miles from the epicenter of the

rioting, just about fifteen minutes down a very

wide and flat Detroit Expressway.

"Today we stand amidst the ashes of our hopes." -- Detroit Mayor Jerome

Cavanaugh, July 1967

In the early morning hours of that

Sunday, July 23, 1967, the Tenth Precinct

“cleanup squad” consisting of a Sergeant and

three patrolmen was cruising along Twelfth

Street. The cleanup squad was the precinct

equivalent of the headquarters vice squad,

housed in the Main Station in the more

prestigious “downtown.” The vice and cleanup

squads were directed to combat, prostitution,

illegal liquor and gambling activities, and to

raid and close after-hours, unlicensed “blind

pigs.” Officers on the detail were expected to

close down a certain number of blind pigs

every month. They knew that if they didn’t,

they would be returned to a regular beat.

Violators who were arrested were fined one

hundred dollars, and the next week would be

back in business. It was simply part of the

dues of living the life.

That Saturday had been a real Michigan

Summer. It started out warm, quickly became

jungle-humid, and finally thick with smog in

the Detroit night air. Clouds of mosquitoes

attended to any parts of your body not yet

miserable.

By midnight, as usual, Twelfth Street was

swarming with miniskirted prostitutes jive-

talking with dope pushers, loan sharks

attending to their accounts and felons with

pockets of cash looking for a private place to

shoot some craps, all joining in the sweltering,

sauntering parade.

At the corner of Twelfth Street and

Clairmount stood an old commercial building

housing the Economy Printing Company on the

first floor, and above it the United Civic League

for Community Action.

The police had known the United Civic

League premises to be a front for a blind pig

ever since it had opened a year and a half

before. The Tenth Precinct cleanup squad

raided it the first time in February, 1966. Their

later, repeated attempts to bust the place had

failed. The rival vice squad, however, up-

staged them with a successful raid, on June 3,

1967, less then two months previously.

At 3:34 A.M. on Sunday, the 23rd, the

clean-up squad observed that vigilance at the

blind pig had become less vigilant and a

plainclothesman was able to walk in behind

three women.

Ten minutes after the undercover man had

gone inside—time enough to have bought a

drink—the Sergeant radioed for a Tenth

Precinct cruiser. Two police cars responded.

The Sergeant then ordered the door of the

blind pig smashed open with a sledgehammer.

Once inside, the police discovered the

place was being used to hold a party for

servicemen, two of whom had recently

returned from Vietnam. The Sergeant had

expected to find a score of people at most, but

instead he discovered eighty-two. Yet, he

decided to arrest everyone and called for a

paddy wagon to take them all to the station.

Over an hour and four paddy wagon

trips were eventually required to remove

everyone. It didn’t go unnoticed. In the balmy

Sunday early hours, there was still an

observant audience on the stoops, in the

streets. Folks came out from all-night cafes

and restaurants. They stared from upper floor

apartment windows. Others came out from

their apartments to the street. About two

hundred spectators joined together. They were

observing the newest police action on their

street, a common occurrence and one that

didn’t provoke hostility on the crowd’s part.

Usually.

As people were herded into the paddy

wagon, many were pushed by the police. A

rumor spread that the cops had manhandled a

woman. As the last police car left the scene at

five o’clock Sunday morning, an empty bottle

smashed against its rear window. Rocks were

thrown. In a few minutes the police returned to

the area. A lieutenant was struck by a brick.

It was the beginning of the forever

destruction of Detroit. In the remaining months

of 1967, 68,000 people moved from the city. In

1968, the figure was 80,000, in ’69, 46,000

people ‘out-migrated’. The city still shrinks

today.

By six thirty that morning, the Tactical

Mobile Unit, the first formed in the country for

just such an emergency, mobilized its eighty

men. The night shift was held over, and the

day shift for all of the West Side precincts was

called to duty an hour and a half early. Looting

and fires spread through the Northwest side of

Detroit, then crossed over to the East Side.

Within 48 hours, the National Guard was

mobilized, to be followed by the 82nd airborne

on the riot’s fourth day. As police and military

troops sought to regain control of the city,

violence escalated.

At the conclusion of 5 days of rioting, 43

people lay dead, 1189 injured and over 7000

people had been arrested. The Detroit riot

ignited similar problems elsewhere. National

Guardsmen or state police were deployed in

four other Michigan cities: Flint, Saginaw,

Grand Rapids and Pontiac.

The July Sunday morning that began for

me with Reverend Jim’s preaching would hence

be known as The Day of the Blind Pig.

At a black power rally in Detroit just weeks

before the Riot, H. Rap Brown forecast the

course of future events, stating that if

“Motown” didn’t come around, “we are going to

burn you down”.

The Ugly Duckling

Radio spoke to me since I was a small

boy and my Mother would tune in a bedroom

set at night for my brother and me to doze off

to. To me, radio was a world apart. Born with

a speech impediment, the art of enchanting

listeners with the tones of your voice seemed

pure hypnotism to me. And I was all for such

endeavors in illusion.

My mother set me up for my first job in

radio. She had five kids, two jobs and no

support. She steered me to the job. You have

to look out for your own. And I needed some

attention. A husky kid with a flat-top and

baggy pants to compliment my never-ending

acne and constantly frustrating speech

impediment, I worked after school at a

‘Retirement Center’ where any friendly old

client of the day before would often be laid out

in a sack on a gurney when I reported to work.

Almost one died every day and I had to

help roll them out. I was coming home

depressed. Mom thought a High School guy

needed something with more panache and

promise and fun. My nightly reports of the

death/s of the day were driving everyone in my

family nuts. She also told me I needed a

girlfriend. My Mom.

Looking back, though, I had also been

writing a great deal of depressed and

depressing poetry during that period. Leaving

my Poe inspired ditties here and there

throughout the house, further creeping my

siblings out.

Fifteen is a tough time for a young guy. At

that age, we most need a Dad to go to. Many

of us are denied that and can’t help but look

elsewhere. You are becoming a man, for God’s

sake, you can’t ask Mom everything. Plus, you

could really use some encouragement that you

were okay, from a Dad’s voice.

Mom was a close social friend of the owner

of the station. I had met him twice at parties

my mother held at our house. He wore his hair

in a razor cut, an always tan (impossible in

Michigan), Country Club Republican in a

snappy blazer and white slacks and shiny,

shiny shoes.

About these parties, I’d like to explain. Five

kids are five gotta-be-fed kids. We’re talking

groceries. We were resourceful and my older

brother and I worked always after school. Still,

we’d go broke occasionally and things could

get depressing around our house. These were

the times at which my mother would invariably

decide to throw a party.

And her whole fun crowd would come.

Once divorced and free to be herself, Mom was

a magnet for new friends and interested men.

She was also one original progressive

Liberal, and so the circle of people open to her

friendship was very wide. This means she had

friends who were Black and Jewish and

creative and interesting and all-in-all one very

witty group of people.

Including the owner of WPON. The guy

probably never had a chance. He explained

the requirement of an FCC license for even the

lowliest radio station job and I listened.

I wrote a letter to the F.C.C. and received

the necessary forms and applications and test

dates in the Detroit Federal Building. I sent

away for the study guide. I took the test and

got the license. And called Mister Owner for an

interview.

Closely inspecting my freshly printed,

official FCC license, he smiled.

“Well,” he said, “it looks like we have to

find you a job here.”

To this day I’m not entirely sure the license

requirement wasn’t meant as a kind brush-off.

I was the only fifteen and a half year old on

the payroll. This is the job where I also fell in

love with the concept of a regular paycheck.

Every two weeks. Amazing.

I was put to work as a Boardman Third

Class; in charge of technical tasks as such as

reading the antenna power levels and actually

turning the station ‘on’ every Sunday morning

at five a.m. for the first of many religious

broadcasts.

Things were starting to work out well

for me. The Chief Engineer was a nice old guy

who would cover my mistakes while showing

me the right way to do things. Dave The

Newsman and I got along as well as anybody

got along with him. There was the Afternoon

Jock, though. In between playing ‘Wichita

Lineman’ and ‘Eleanor Rigby by the Montavani

Strings’, the jerk would point out that I didn’t

have much of a future in the industry due to

my ‘problem with speaking’. It drove me mad.

I was fine reading any lines or book put

before me, but called upon to extemporize I

came across as a stuttering idiot. It was also a

problem with girls.

It was surprising when I was called from

home on an August afternoon to come meet

with The Owner at the station. He was up from

Florida for the day.

“I’m going to need to change your

schedule, Rick.” You could see all of downtown

Pontiac from his office.

“Um. I hope I’m not disappointing you, sir.”

“How could you be disappointing me,

Rick?”

“Well, Reverend Jim doesn’t seem to like it

at times when I’m not paying close attention

during his preaching.”

“Hell, I’m just amazed you can stand to be

in the same building with him. And for two-fifty

an hour.” He shot me a brilliant white smile as

I smiled back, recalling my many escapes for

donuts and smokes during the Reverend’s

shows.

“No, I’m going to need you at nights,

Monday through Friday, six to sign-off.”

”Okay,” I said. The time slot was filled with

our Sunset Serenade featuring ‘Jackie

Gleason’s Music For Lovers’ or an occasional

uptempo thing like the soundtrack to ‘Sound of

Music’, perfect for our older audience to nod off

to. Those who were still with us. At six p.m.,

our signal dropped from 1000 watts to 750.

There were virtually no commercials,

simply a ton of pre-recorded Public Service

Announcements. This was through no sense of

altruism but simply a reflection of the fact that

seven to midnight on an A.M. station firing 750

watts is utterly worthless for any advertiser.

Still, it meant no more Reverends or

Pastors or Ministers or Healers every Sunday at

ungodly hours.

“May I ask why the change?” I was hoping

it was some sort of promotion. Director of the

P.S.A. Program, perhaps?

“You ever hear of the Ugly Duckling?”

“You mean the folktale?” I was hoping he

wasn’t about deliver some sort of confidence

building talk to me.

“That’s funny,” he truly laughed. “I guess

he is a sort of folktale.”

Larry Dixon, the Ugly Duckling of

Detroit radio, was coming to do a weeknight

show on WPON. And he needed a Boardman to

spin the records, run the spots on time, run

out to his car for a package or fetch some

great BBQ from places in parts of town I’d

never seen before.

Pontiac had always been a divided town. If

you stood outside Central High at final bell,

you would see all the colored kids go in one

direction and all the white kids walk in the

opposite. Pontiac was home to GM Truck’s

offices, plants and suppliers. The industry was

a well-paying magnet to Southern poor white

and colored people. Each group gravitated to

its special part of town, keeping the racial

ethics from Mississippi and Alabama and all

points in the backward South. Like it was

natural.

WPON was about to have a divided

character as well.

“We have a chance to make a difference

here, Rick.”

“We do?”

“That riot last month has torn this town

apart. I’m going to air Larry Dixon. He has a

loyal listenership, attracts solid sponsors by I

don’t know what means and has some

connection with someone that gets him all this

great, what R&B? Soul? It used to be called

Race Music. Can you imagine?”

“The Motown Sound,” I tried.

“That may become what its called.” I liked

this man. “Anyway, our measly 750 needs a

following, because it sure isn’t generating a

buck the way we’re going.”

“Makes sense.” This was my first ever

executive meeting and I was basking in the

moment.

“And you’ll be surprised, Larry Dixon is

very popular with both Caucasian and Afro-

American kids. It’s dance music.”

I loved working for Larry Dixon from

Night One. He was the first adult I ever met

who was truly ‘his own man’.

Proudly, I let people know that I was the

Boardman for The Larry Dixon Show. ‘The

Ugly Duckling’ himself. Mister Soul to any soul

brother anywhere. The real deal, pomaded,

scented, dressed in suits of fabulous designs,

arriving oddly early or late almost every night,

smiling like a prize-fighter; he arrived.

And the phones lit up. Anyone who loved

Motown Music and beyond tuned in, every

night, for the full five hours. The requests

would flood in, keeping me on the telephone

between cuing up records, running spots and

talking with Larry.

The Ugly Ducking would play as many

requests that got through. He had some neat

tricks. He would gang up a list of girls names

phoned in by their boyfriends.

“Mary, sweet lady, and Yvonne, you know

who I’m talking for. And this is also for you

Tammy and Belinda. Listen close now.”

He’d nod and I would spin ‘Reach Out I’ll

Be There’ and you could sense some young

hearts melting.

Other times, he’d stand and do a smooth

soul dance performed mostly with his hands

and expressive eyes.

Or turn on his mic during ‘My Girl’ and talk-

sing the lyrics along with The Temptations;

‘I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day

When it’s cold outside I’ve got the month of

May.

I’d guess you’d say

What can make me feel this way?

My girl (my girl, my girl)

Talkin’ ‘bout my girl (my girl).

Hey. hey, hey.

Hey, hey, hey.

Oooh.

The Ugly Duckling specially reserved the

last hour of his show for requests from ‘the

ladies’ only. By ‘requests’ I don’t mean Larry

let listeners select the song to be played. It

meant he’d mention their first name in front of

a song he selected. When it became known at

my High School that I was ‘Ricardo, my right

hand man here, Ducklings’, I became rather

popular with the please play my request crowd

of girls. They really liked ‘You Cheated’, I

recall.

Where’s he get this stuff, I was asked by

others at the station. Larry often ‘broke’ new

records that went immediately to the Top Ten.

Hi secret was simply that he searched out

local talent and had an uncanny ear. Period.

And he shared it with me over two and a

half years. And told me to buy a certain sort of

face scrub that had always worked for him.

And taught me that clothes can make the man,

as long as you don’t talk too much.

And take your time talking with a girl.

Take a breath. Smiling is always good. The

whole reason to chase them is because it’s fun.

Sooo . . . have fun.

And this place has no future for you, My

Main Man. It’s Vietnam or the Plant, and we

know both are dying propositions. Looks like

San Francisco is where it is all gonna be

happenin’, Rick.

Hey, run on down to Bagley-Wesson BBQ.

I’m about to do them an ad as a favor, so

they’ll have two platters for us.

And stay cool, Brother. Stay cool.

He’d slap my palm after I drove him home

some nights. Now, go straight home, promise?

And I did.

The Ugly Duckling and I made a horrible

duet, singing along off-mic to the Motown

greats in the privacy of the studio.

In spite of my race and later, and eager,

participation in the peace and pot culture of my

times, Motown music became the theme song

to my life.

“Ricardo, you are a very well-spoken fellow

now. But, man, you cannot sing. Just so you

know not to try and make a living that way if

you run off to San Fran.”

It was my turn to migrate. I was eighteen

and needed to make a life for myself,

somewhere peaceful, somewhere with promise,

somewhere far away from the Motor City.

And the time came and I left for California.

Motown Man

The Detroit News June 14, 2007

DJ Larry Dixon Dies

Larry Dixon, the smooth voice of Detroit’s R & B

powerhouse radio stations died after a long battle with

cancer on June 4th. He was 78 years old.

Many Detroit radio personalities had a part in Motown

Records’ success back when AM radio was king. But

Dixon was truly crucial.

In 1959, he tipped off United Artists in New York about a

hot local hit, Marv Johnson’s ‘Come To Me‘ put out on

Tamla Records by Berry Gordy, Jr. United Artists did more

then pick up ‘Come To Me’ for distribution, they bought

out Johnson’s contract altogether, allowing Gordy to come

home with $25,000 in his pocket to get his fledgling

Motown Records off the ground. The sultry-voiced Dixon

was known for dedicating the last hour of his show to

‘ladies only’ requests, with many steamed girlfriends

having ‘You Cheated’ played for their errant beaus. A

memorial concert, ‘Larry Dixon’s Last Dance’ is in the

works for sometime in August.

“So many entertainers want to come by and do the song my

Dad broke for them,” son Ed Dixon said. “Whenever they

were coming to town, they always wanted to know where

Larry Dixon’s record hop was, because that’s where the

black kids, the whites and the Latinos would all be. My

Dad was a bridge to bring everybody together.”

I stayed true to Larry’s original

suggestion and have called San Francisco

home for forty-one years. During that time,

I’ve experienced--voluntarily or not--the widest

possible range of music of this past half-

century.

Now, I’m sort of an aging hipster, nearly

sixty years of age with the required silver hair

and matching convertible. Be careful as to

who you make fun of when you are young, you

may very well become just that fellow

But still, sometimes, when the road is

smooth ahead, the air sweet with Spring, the

wind enveloping me, my arm on the door--

warm in the sun, the car’s engine a soft

humming, the dashboard radio will surprise me

with the music the Ugly Duckling introduced to

me. Like Martha and the Vandellas.

‘Callin’ out around the world

Are you ready for a brand new beat?

Summer’s here and the time is right

For dancin’ in the streets

There’ll be laughin’, singin’, and music swingin’

And dancin’ in the streets

Philadelphia, P.A. (Philadelphia P.A.)

Baltimore and DC now (Baltimore and DC now)

Yeah, don’t forget the Motor City (can’t forget

the Motor City)’

And for a quickly passing magical moment in my life, I’m Motown Man. Can’t forget the Motor City.

. . .

Cover design: ryanhumphries.com‘Ain’t Too Proud to Beg’; lyrics by Norman Whitfield; Edward Holland, Jr.‘My Girl’; lyrics by Smokey Robinson‘Dancing in the Street’; lyrics by Marvin Gaye; Ivy Jo Hunter; William Stevenson

Copyright, Motown Records‘Black Day in July’; lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot, Copyright Gordon Lightfoot