This is Jackie Spinning

This is Jackie Spinning

HI, Y’ALL, THIS IS Jackie spinning. That’s right, it’s 7:00, Eastern Standard Time, and this is Jackie Whalen spinning the hot ones, the cool ones, the bop and the rock ones, and all for you, just you, little old you. And tonight’s show is a real joy-popper! Be sure to stick right by that radio, kids, because as our special guest tonight Jackie has got the lovely, luscious Kristene Long, singing star of Sapphire Records, as his guest. We’ll be playing Kris’s new smash “Mocking Love” as well as her hit parade topper, “Shagtown Is My Town,” a little later; and we’ll be talking to that living doll Miss Long, as well. But right now — right now — let’s hear a little of Ricky Nelson’s new one.

(Fade music up)

(Jackie Whalen, a short man with a great deal of curly hair tumbling onto his forehead, almost to the eyebrow line, cues the next record and stands up behind the consoles. He stretches out of his severely Ivy League sports jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his piqué button-down shirt, and scratching a wrist, rolls the sleeves up to the biceps. He pulls down the small four-in-hand knot of his conservative challis tie and unbuttons the collar of the shirt. Then, pouring a glass of water from the carafe at his left, he takes two small pink pills from the neat pile on the edge of the right-hand turntable, and tosses them off, with the water in close pursuit. His dark, angry eyes track across the control room and light on the sheer nylon-encased legs of the tall blonde sitting expectantly in the metal chair near the control booth’s big picture window. He smiles at her legs, and the smile travels up carefully, slowly, till it reaches her blue eyes, where the smile has magically been transformed into a leer. She smiles back insinuatingly. “Later, baby,” he tells her, licking his lips. She moves languidly in the chair, revealing a knee. Jackie Whalen reluctantly looks away from her, to the record that is almost ending. He sits down and flips a toggle switch.)

(Music up and out)

Well, that was Ricky’s new one, and there’s no doubt about it being number seventeen on your Top Sixty list this week. And speaking of the Top Sixty, all you tough teens, when you want a record to while away those hours, make sure you do your shopping at The Spindle, 6720 Seventeenth Street. All the boys out there, especially Bernie Glass the manager, they’ll take good care of you. Just tell ’em Jackie sent you, and you can expect that big Jackie Whalen discount.

But right now here’s one that your “disc Jackie” thinks will be in number-one spot real soon. In fact, if I can make a prediction, this will be number one. It’s that new star, the voice of Rod Conlan, singing and swinging his smash hit … “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much!”

(Fade music up)

(He cues the next record and turns to stare at the girl again. She grins at him and says, “Have you told your wife about us yet?” His face darkens momentarily as honest emotion shows through; then the façade of sleek, well-fed humor moves back into place and he replies, “Don’t worry about it, baby. When the time comes, she’ll find out.” The girl stands up, smoothing the tweed skirt over her thighs, and walks to him at the console. “Gimme a cigarette,” she says. As he shakes a filter-tip cigarette free of its pack, she adds, “Florey made some pretty broad hints in his column this morning. Won’t she read it and wonder where you were last night?” He lights the cigarette for her with a slim sterling-silver lighter, and the affected, boyish grin spreads up his face once more. “She’s not too bright, Kris. You forget I married her when I was with that dinky two-hundred-and-fifty-watter upstate. She’s a farm girl … she may have read it, but it won’t dawn on her that Florey meant me. She thinks I was at a retail record distributor’s convention last night. Don’t let it bug you; when I want her to know, she’ll know. Right now I’ve got bigger things to worry about.” The girl recrosses to her chair and sits down. “You mean things like Camel Ehrhardt and the Syndicate?” His face once more loses its sheen of camouflage and naked fear shines wetly out of his eyes. “You’ve been pushing that Conlan dog for over a week now. They’re not going to like it, Jackie. They covered Patti Page’s version with their own boy, and every other jockey’s fallen in line to give it the big play. You’re cutting your throat by pushing Conlan.” Jackie Whalen pulls at his petulant lower lip and replies, “To hell with those hoods. I’ve got dough in Conlan, and this could be the big one for him. They won’t press their luck. They’re afraid I’ll go to the Rackets Committee if they push me too hard. Besides, I’m working an angle. The Conlan gets the big shove from this jock!” The girl grins wisely and adds, softly, “Jackie, baby, I’d hate to have to lose you so soon. Those guys don’t play games. You know what they did to Fred Brennaman when he refused their stuff for his jukeboxes.” Visions of a man being fished from the river, hair matted with scum and plant life, flesh white, eves huge and watery, skitter across Jackie Whalen’s mind. He sits in the comfortable foam-bottom chair, and his thoughts consume him to such a depth that only the shushing of the needle repeating in the final groove of the spinning record brings him to attention.)

(Music down and out)

And that was the big one for Rod Conlan, kids. “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much,” and it’s going right to the top. I’ve heard ’em all for a good many years, but Rod has got it locked this time, if I’m any judge.

So I hope you’ll all drop over to The Spindle, 6720 Seventeenth, and pick up a copy of Rod Conlan’s big new one, “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much.”

And it’s time right now to run down the top five of the Top Sixty, kids, so here they are:

In first place is Kris Long’s “Shagtown Is My Town” — and don’t forget, in just a few minutes we’ll be talking it up with Kristene Long herself. In second place Fats Domino’s “When the Saints Go Marching in” is still holding its own, and third place this week is occupied by Sam Cook and “Nobody Could Hate the Cha-Cha-Cha.” Fourth spot goes to Steve Don and the DonBeats with “Foolin’ Around Too Long” and that big fifth place goes to Rod Conlan’s “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much.” So let’s catch Rod again with that smash, because we think it’s bound for the million mark.

(Music up)

(“You’re really digging your grave, Jackie,” the girl says, worry lines marring the ivory perfection of her forehead. “Oh, don’t get on my back, Kris,” he says, cueing the next record. “Sybil does the same damned thing, and I can’t stand her ” The girl winces at the comparison between herself and Whalen’s wife, and settles back with the stub of her cigarette. Whalen leans over in the console chair and pulls at his lower lip, mumbling to himself. “What?” the girl asks him. “I forgot to bring that damned revolver with me today,” he says. “I left it in the nightstand.” The girl rises once more, walks to the console and snubs the cigarette in the large ceramic ashtray. “You might need it today,” she says. Her face is unmarked by lines of annoyance or worry. It is obvious she thinks no harm can come to Whalen; it is obvious in her carriage, in her looks, in her voice. “What the hell,” he says, “I’ll pick it up when I go back to the apartment to change. It’s safe where it is.” “But are you? ” the blonde demands. He ignores her, and watches the black disc spinning under the rapier tip of the diamond needle. As it reaches the final grooves, he flips a switch.)

(Music under, Announcer voice superimpose)

… your cool lips have told me …

… I shouldn’t have loved you … so-oo mu-uch.

And that was Rod Conlan again, kids, swinging his big new one, “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much.” After this word about Blim the miracle cream that will rid you of unsightly pimples and blackheads in just one week, we’ll be back to have that talk with the lovely Kris Long.

(E.T. Commercial up)

(He riffles through a sheaf of after-commercial comments written by the continuity department and tosses over the console, “This Blim crap couldn’t remove dirt from a sand pile,” to the girl. She laughs lightly, and examines a fingernail with its polish chipped. She bites at the nail absently.)

(Commercial out, segue to Announcer)

That’s the straight stuff, kids. Blim is guaranteed to do the job, guaranteed to leave your skin fresh and clear and clean, or your money will be refunded. Don’t miss going to that hop just because of unsightly blemishes or blackheads. Jump out right after the show tonight, kids, and fall down on a jar of that great Blim.

And now, what you’ve all been waiting for, let’s call over that singing sensation of Sapphire Records, Miss Kristene Long, whose rendition of “Shagtown Is My Town” is holding tight to first place all around the country.

Hi, Kris.

“Hi, Jackie.”

We’re really thrilled to have you here today, Kris.

“It’s a big thrill to be here, Jackie.”

Kris, let’s get serious for a minute, and find out just how you got into the singing game. You’re a lovely girl, and you look to be — oh, about twenty-one.

“Ha-ha-ha. Why, thank you, Jackie. Actually, I’m twenty-five, and I first got my break singing with Earl Pettifore’s band in Detroit. It was just a step up to singing on my own, I guess.”

Well, that’s really tremendous, Kris. Tell me, how do you feel about the success of “Shagtown Is My Town”?

“Jackie, I’m really thrilled. I mean it’s such a great thrill to know you’ve recorded a song so many people like so much. When Al Hackey at Sapphire first showed it to me, I wasn’t too hot about it, but Al isn’t A&R man at Sapphire for nothing. He certainly — ”

— Excuse me, Kris.

For all you kids out there who might not be familiar with the term, A&R means Artist and Repertory, and it’s the title used by the man who selects the songs and who’ll sing them. Sorry to interrupt, Kris, go on, won’t you?

“ — well, all I was gonna say was that Al certainly knows a hit when he hears it.”

And so do we, Kris. So for all those kids out there who’ve made “Shagtown Is My Town” the number one song in the nation, here’s Kristene Long doing her rocking, socking version of that big sensation.

(Music up)

(Jackie Whalen cues and then draws a cigarette from the pack and lights it. “One for me,” the girl says, and he hands her the lit one from his mouth. “Much more of this kind of idiot chatter and I’ll be ready for Hysteria House,” she says, drawing the smoke into her lungs. He shrugs, “It’s what the teenaged morons want, so who am I to argue. It’s bought me a Porsche.” The girl points a finger at him, “Yeah and Florey called attention to it in that damned item. Why can’t you drive a studio car when you’re out with me?” Whalen rubs his lower lip with a manicured fingernail and waves her objection away. “Forget it. There’s no surprises left in this life for old Jackie Whalen, baby.”)

(Music down and out)

Kris, now that we’ve heard your number-one hit parade entry, what’s new for you these days?

“Well, Jackie, right now I’m in town for the opening of my new movie ‘Holiday Rock’ which opens at the Rialto tomorrow. It’s my first big singing role, and working with such great stars as Fats Domino, Tommy Edwards, Joni James, Gene Vincent and the Redcaps, and Bill Haley was a tremendous thrill.”

Say, that is news, Kris. I know we’ll all be down there for that smash premiere tomorrow at the Rialto. How about you giving us that title again, Kris:

“Holiday Rock, Jackie.”

Well, Kris, it’s about time for some more music, so why don’t we spin that new one of yours, “Mocking Love,” that has everybody so excited.

“That’d be swell, Jackie, and thanks a million.”

(Fade music up)

(Jackie Whalen cues the next record and turns to say something to the girl, who still sits behind the spare microphone at the right-hand turntable. He stops in midturn, for three men are looking into the control room through the huge picture window. He sighs tightly, recognizing one of them. The girl catches the direction of his stare, and turns to look. “What’s the matter?” she demands, looking between them. “Ehrhardt,” he says simply, staring at the squat man in the camel’s hair coat. The man has a brown snap-brim down over his eyes, and a pipe clutched tightly in a corner of his thin-lipped mouth. “I’m getting out of here,” the girl cries, starting to rise. He quiets her with a vicious, “Sit where the hell you are. I’ll handle this. I’ve been — been waiting for them.” He beckons to the men to enter the control room. The red ON THE AIR lights has gone off. One of the taller, silent-faced men with Camel Ehrhardt opens the door to the control booth, and the squat man enters. “How’d you get in, Camel?” Whalen demands in a cheery, false good-humor voice. The squat man draws a metal chair up to the console and sits down. He speaks with difficulty around the pipestem. “We have ways,” he says, in a cultured, dulcet tone. “We asked you to cooperate with us, Jackie. You know we have a lot of time and money behind Wally George. We hate to see all that dough going down the drain so you can make a buck off that dog Conlan.” Whalen begins to speak, but the record ends. He motions to everyone for silence, noting the half-crazed expression of terror in Kristene Long’s blue eyes. He flips a switch.)

(Music out)

That was Kris Long’s big new one, “Mocking Love,” kids. And here’s Mitch Miller and his orchestra on the Columbia label with “The Munich Drinking Song.” So, sing along with Mitch!

(Music up, automatic gain reduces volume set too high)

(Camel Ehrhardt draws a large, meaty hand from a patch pocket of the camel hair coat. A .32 Police Special is clutched in the hand. “Jackie, you’re going to make radio history tonight. Your listeners are going to be the first to hear a man actually die on the air.” Whalen cues in the next song and settles back in the chair, and the two sidemen of Ehrhardt move around the console toward him. “You can’t commit murder while we’re broadcasting, Ehrhardt.” He laughs at them. “Too many people saw you come in and too many people would see you — ” Ehrhardt interrupts rudely, “No-one saw us come in, no one sees us go out.” He takes the pipe from his mouth. Jackie Whalen’s full lower lip trembles and the girl is trying to cram her fist in her mouth. Whalen puts a flat palm against the air to ward off Camel Ehrhardt’s action. “Hold it a minute, Camel. I’ve been waiting for you to come around to see me. Look, there’s no reason why we have to be on opposite sides of this thing.” The squat man cocks a heavy eyebrow. “No? Why not? Am I supposed to like penny-ante chiselers who take nicks out of my till?” Whalen leans forward and the bully-boys twitch with readiness to pounce on him. “Listen, Camel, you can make twice as much as you’re making now.” Camel Ehrhardt’s face tilts querulously, and he says, “I’m listening to you.” The record rasps as it catches in the last groove, and Jackie motions Ehrhardt to silence for a moment.)

(Music down and out)

Mitch Miller and the “Munich Drinking Song.” Looks like another hit to follow “Bridge on the River Kwai March” and “Children’s Marching Song.” That one is really big this week. As my buddy Ed Sullivan says, “A reeeleee big shewww.” Old Jackie wants to take sixty seconds now to give you the word about Sparkle Tooth Paste, kids, so bend your ears around this word from Wayne Marks.

(Commercial record up)

(“Go on,” Ehrhardt says. Jackie looks at the huge clock on the wall, timing the commercial, and launches quickly into, “I’ve got Rod Conlan and you’ve got Wally George. So okay, why couldn’t the Syndicate — ” Ehrhardt snaps, “Don’t call us that!” and Whalen pales, then continues, “ — why couldn’t your group have both of them? That way you have two moneymakers going for you. And I could make you a mint on both of them, by plugging their hits.” Ehrhardt’s gun hand wavers, and he stares thoughtfully at Whalen for a long time. “You want to cut us in on Conlan?” Jackie nods. “What percent?” Ehrhardt asks. Jackie motions him to silence, and cuts in over the commercial’s fading sound.)

(Commercial out, segue to Announcer)

For teeth that shine like true love, kids, don’t get steered onto any brand but Sparkle. It contains the miracle ingredient PAX-60 and it tastes like fresh, clean mint. So when your toothbrush is empty, don’t be startled … be Sparkled!

Now here’s one you’ve been asking for, and we’re sending this one out to Angie and Phil, Marcia and Carl, Dave and Someone Special, and all the kids out at the Triangle Dairy Hop. Here it is, that big new one for Jerry Lee Lewis … “Rip Tide!”

(Music up)

(“Goddamit, Whalen, what percent?” Ehrhardt asks again. The gun hand has steadied. “No percent,” Jackie Whalen answers, cueing and grinning hugely at the same time. The girl draws a sharp breath, and the two bully boys cast appreciative glances at her sweater front. “Straight out sale, Camel,” Whalen says. “Fifty thousand and he’s yours, contract and all with my personal guarantee that I plug the hell out of his records. As well as Wally George’s stuff.” The squat man licks his thin lips for a moment, and his face is a mask of imperturbability. “Why the fast change of heart, Jackie?” Ehrhardt asks. Whalen spreads his hands. “You boys don’t think I’m going to buck you, with your organization, do you? I bought Conlan’s contract so I could sell it to you. I’ve been waiting for you to come along for a talk. I’m only sorry you waited this long and thought I was crossing you. But now that you can see I’ve got a good property in Conlan, I know you’re businessmen enough not to knock off the goose that can lay the golden eggs for you.” Ehrhardt stares solidly at Jackie Whalen. Abruptly, he slips the still-silent weapon back into his coat pocket. With marked slowness he lights his pipe with a kitchen match. He shoves the chair back and stands up. “I’ll be talking to you.” He nods sharply to the side boys and the three men leave the control booth. As Jackie Whalen reaches for the pickup arm of the turntable the three men pause outside the great control room window, and stare at him.)

(Music down and out)

That was “Rip Tide” and it was Jerry Lee Lewis smashing. Don’t forget, The Spindle, 6720 Seventeenth Street, where you can buy all these hits with that big Jackie Whalen discount. Hits like this one: Frankie Avalon and “Sweet lips”

(Music up)

(Jackie Whalen sits in silence, lips pressed tightly closed, eyes also tightly closed, the lids trembling slightly. The girl makes a sound, a half-formed word, but he waves her to silence, then rubs his eyes with his fingertips, fiercely. He waits in darkness for the record to end. When it does, he cuts in abruptly.

(Music down and out; cut to Announcer)

Well, today has been a big day, kids. Bigger than you know, really. And I see by the big clock on the wall that it’s almost 6:00, time for your disc Jackie to close down the old shop and say so long till tomorrow. We’ve just got time for two more, so I’ll lay ’em on together and let ’em run out to close the show. We don’t usually hit a platter as hard as we’re hitting these two, kids, but today has been a real special day, so we’ll break our own rule. Here they are, because you’ve made them your favorites.

Here’s Rod Conlan again with that hit you’ve been phone-bombing us to play more often, “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much” and the extra-beautiful Kris Long with “Mocking Love,” what I predict will be the two big ones of the season.

(Music up)

(Jackie Whalen stands, scratches at himself, and walks to the chair in which Kristene Long sits, her back very straight, her face very pale. “You lead a real rough life, Mr. Whalen,” she says. He leans down, takes her face in his hands and kisses her full on the lips. “You’ll find out just how rough tonight, baby.” He grins. Jackie Whalen straightens, reaches back, and takes the pack of cigarettes from the console. He shakes one out. With the smoke full in his lungs he replies to her unasked questions: “It was a calculated risk, honey. I knew they’d come around to dicker first. The days of the St. Valentine’s Massacre may not be gone completely, but these guys are businessmen, even though they’re hoods and punks. They won’t pass up a chance to get hold of a good property like Conlan. They’ll come across; I made a sale today. That was the angle I was playing.” The girl shakes her head. “They’ll sell him down the river. Lousy songs with big pushes, too many personal appearances, too many bookings for benefits, they’ll screw him good, Jackie. They always do.” Whalen shrugs and sits on the edge of the console. “That’s the way it goes,” he says. “It was either him or me. And he’ll like working for the Syn — for the group.”)

(Segue first record into second)

(The girl stands up and half turns away, tucking a lock of blonde hair that has tumbled over her forehead back into place. As she turns, she faces the big control booth window and sees a short, dark woman in a beret and black coat, standing in the center of the glass, staring at them. A peculiar expression trembles on the woman’s face. She is holding a gun out before her, stiffly. “Jackie!” the girl shrieks. Whalen turns and sees the woman. “Sybil!” he gasps, as she brings the gun up an inch. Thoughts pile through Jackie Whalen’s head as the gun travels that inch. They are jumbled, disorganized thoughts. One is:

She did understand who Florey was talking about in his column.

Another is:

How did she find the revolver in the nightstand?

A third is:

How stupid: to make it past one bunch of killers who make their living knocking guys off, just to get it from a stupid, jerky farm girl. Oh, Jeezus!

And the last thought of all is:

There are no more surprises in this life for Jackie Whalen.

And as the crash of the revolver echoes through the anteroom, into the control booth, as the glass of the picture window magically sprouts three small bull’s eyes with millions of radiating lines, as fire and pain and chagrin and cursing fill Jackie Whalen like an empty vessel … )

(Music fade up and GONE. EXTREMELY GONE.)