I came home to tapped-out momentum and DRAFT DODGER in red-bait neon. I received an unsolicited presidential pardon--my COWARD taint rendered it toilet paper. I became a vanishing act: BIG ROOM stints replaced by lounge gigs; national TV shots down-graded into local stuff. Fear and I played peek-a-boo--it always seemed to grab my balls and twist just when it felt like something inside me could banish all the bullshit forever.
I hit Victorville. L.A. radio had faded out--I'd been listening to shitkicker ditties. Apt: I pulled up to the Cooley ranchhouse soundtracked by Spade's own, "Shame, Shame on You."
The porch reeked: marijuana and sourmash fumes. TV glow lit up windows bluish-gray.
The door stood ajar. I pressed the buzzer--hillbilly chimes went off. Dark inside--the TV screen made shadows bounce. George Putnam spritzed late local news: ". . . the fiend the Los Angeles County Sheriff's have dubbed the 'West Hollywood Whipcord' claimed his third and fourth victims last night. The bodies of Thomas 'Spike' Knode, 47, an out-of-work movie stuntman, and his fiancee Carol Matusow, 19, a stenographer, were discovered locked in the trunk of Knode's car, parked on Hilldale Drive a scant block north of the Sunset Strip. Both were strangled with a sash cord and bludgeoned post-mortem with a bumperjack found in the back seat. The couple had just come from the Mocombo nightclub, where they had watched entertainer Buddy Greco perform. Authorities report that they have no clues as to the slayer's identity, and--"
A ratchet noise--metal on metal. That unmistakable drawl: "From the size of your shadow, I'd say it's Dick Contino."
"It's me."
Ratch/ratch--trigger noise--Spade loved to get zorched and play with guns.
"I should tell Nancy 'bout that 'Whipcord' sumbitch. She just might find herself a new pen pal."
"She already knows about him."
"Well . . . I'm not surprised. And this old dog, well . . . he knows how to put things together. My Ella Mae got a call from Nancy, and two hours later Mr. Accordion himself shows up. Heard you tanked at the Crescendo, boy. Ain't that always the way it is when proving yourself runs contrary to your own best interests?"
A lamp snapped on. Dig it: Spade Cooley in a cowboy hat and sequin-studded chaps--packing two holstered six-guns.
I hit Victorville. L.A. radio had faded out--I'd been listening to shitkicker ditties. Apt: I pulled up to the Cooley ranchhouse soundtracked by Spade's own, "Shame, Shame on You."
The porch reeked: marijuana and sourmash fumes. TV glow lit up windows bluish-gray.
The door stood ajar. I pressed the buzzer--hillbilly chimes went off. Dark inside--the TV screen made shadows bounce. George Putnam spritzed late local news: ". . . the fiend the Los Angeles County Sheriff's have dubbed the 'West Hollywood Whipcord' claimed his third and fourth victims last night. The bodies of Thomas 'Spike' Knode, 47, an out-of-work movie stuntman, and his fiancee Carol Matusow, 19, a stenographer, were discovered locked in the trunk of Knode's car, parked on Hilldale Drive a scant block north of the Sunset Strip. Both were strangled with a sash cord and bludgeoned post-mortem with a bumperjack found in the back seat. The couple had just come from the Mocombo nightclub, where they had watched entertainer Buddy Greco perform. Authorities report that they have no clues as to the slayer's identity, and--"
A ratchet noise--metal on metal. That unmistakable drawl: "From the size of your shadow, I'd say it's Dick Contino."
"It's me."
Ratch/ratch--trigger noise--Spade loved to get zorched and play with guns.
"I should tell Nancy 'bout that 'Whipcord' sumbitch. She just might find herself a new pen pal."
"She already knows about him."
"Well . . . I'm not surprised. And this old dog, well . . . he knows how to put things together. My Ella Mae got a call from Nancy, and two hours later Mr. Accordion himself shows up. Heard you tanked at the Crescendo, boy. Ain't that always the way it is when proving yourself runs contrary to your own best interests?"
A lamp snapped on. Dig it: Spade Cooley in a cowboy hat and sequin-studded chaps--packing two holstered six-guns.
(Hollywood Nocturnes, James Ellroy)
Whenever "J" comments I feel like we are getting Dick Contino's blues. From the source.
2 comments:
Am I the only commenter here who remembers seeing Dick Contino playing "Lady of Spain" on local L.A. television?
I think he had a show on KTLA ("the Good Looking Channel") that he always began with his schlocky take on that schlocky piece. Maybe it was on channel 4, the NBC affiliate. I don't remember the old call letters at the time. I think it was later that it became KNBC. I recall Dick Contino being on channel 5, KTLA, or maybe it was channel 9. It's been such a long time, and I have worked very hard at forgetting my miserable childhood-by-the-desert in So. Cal.
One thing I do remember, though, is that, without prompting, I decided the accordian, although a complex contraption, was amazingly tacky. Sorry, all you accordian players. The accordian is the Buddy Hackett of musical instruments.
Elroy took some serious liberties in his story, though, mixing it up with Dick Contino and Spade Cooley. I'm also old enough to remember Spade Cooley. I recall thinking that, as much as I liked Western Swing as a style, Spade Cooley's was just as schlocky as Dick Contino, each in his own way. That may have been Elroy's deeper inspiration for linking the two. I haven't read the story, so I don't know how much their both being crap musical birds of a feather plays into it.
Later, when I was at UC Santa Barbara, there was a local band called "Silver Dollar." It included a couple of music students I vaguely knew. They did Western Swing, West Texas style, near to perfection. I always liked when I heard them locally, but I think they baffled and/or irritated the everyday 1969 California college student. They were at once too Southern, retro and sophisticated. The closest most children of Okies (a plurality in 1968 California) wanted to get to their roots was Buffalo Springfield. Silver Dollar reminded them of the embarrassing stuff their parents used to listen to in Bakersfield in 1955. I remember talking with the lead guitarist and the bass player, both of whom, as I say, I vaguely knew. We all agreed that Spade Cooley sucked, and that his recent death was no great loss. Milton Brown and Bob Willis were a whole lot better. And they hadn't murdered their wives, either.
Nowadays, I listen to the likes of Johannes Ciconia, Okeghem, Bartok and Gloria Coates. But back in the day, I was just as likely to have Bob Willis and His Texas Playboys blaring out my dorm room window as George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra.
But I never, ever thought for a moment of playing Dick Contino, even for his camp value. I have no idea about "J," but, to me, Dick Contino and Carol_Herman, separated by maybe 60 years, define the concept of intolerability.
Or maybe that's "impenetrability," like Humpty-Dumpty said.
Are there words of fewer syllables to say how much accordians suck? If you use enough letters, maybe they'll just smother them.
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