Vinyl Knights - CROSBY, STILLS & NASH: THE LOST CONCERT VIDEO - By Kenneth Howard Smith

 

CROSBY, STILLS & NASH: THE LOST CONCERT VIDEO

“SAVE THE WHALES – JULY 28, 1978”

There are certain years that etch themselves into memory—not for triumph or tragedy alone, but for how life seemed to tilt in a single season. For me, 1978 was one of those years.

I owed a favor. Conte Candoli, the great trumpeter from The Tonight Show band, had fallen ill. NBC was winding down The Johnny Carson Show, and the musicians who had held up that late-night sound were suddenly being let go. For years, it had felt like that gig would never end—and then, just like that, it did.

That same summer, the cause of saving the whales brought together a most unlikely mix of celebrities, activists, and dreamers. The event was hosted at the elegant Eloquent Manor on Adams Boulevard in Los Angeles. Loretta Swit, Cleveland Amory, and others were at the forefront, rallying for the whales. I was in charge of the entertainment—a role that gave me the rare chance to call in a few favors of my own.

At that time, Linda Lou Kestin and I were spending most of our free moments roller skating down Venice Beach. We’d write songs between skate sessions, surrounded by sunshine, music, and a steady parade of beautiful, eccentric souls gliding past in wild costumes. The beach was our studio, our sanctuary. Between the writing sessions, the laughter, and the waves, we dreamed up new melodies that carried the freedom of those afternoons.

Professionally, though, I was still tied to Gwendolyn Gordy and Motown Records. The contract held me tighter than I’d hoped. By all accounts, I should’ve had a new deal on the horizon, but being bound by paper and ink meant my hands were tied. So I went back to what I knew best—promotion.

I’d learned the craft years before under Glen MacArthur at Glenn Records in Palmdale. Those lessons carried me far. With help from Kay Saunders Palmer and the Associated Booking Corporation, I began moonlighting as an in-house producer in Beverly Hills. Tony Papa gave me a corner of his empire—SDC Communications and Platinum Sound Productions—right in the heart of town. The arrangement was simple: I handled client lists, promotions, and concert coordination. I also kept an eye on the kind of high-maintenance stars who loved the road more than home.

That inherited client list read like a soundtrack to the era: the Candoli Brothers, Caroline Cline (Miss West Virginia 1978), Les Elsgard, Louie Bellson, Bobby Caldwell, The Sylvers, Little Richard, the SOS Band, Undisputed Truth, Frankie Beverly and Maze, B.B. King, Bobby “Blue” Bland, and Johnnie Taylor.

When the first-ever “Save the Whales” fundraiser took shape in Los Angeles, the guest list exploded. Hugh Hefner lent his fleet of Playboy limousines to ferry guests: Johnny Paycheck, Sigourney Weaver, Pearl Bailey, Willie Nelson, Lacy J. Dalton, Pete Candoli, Pat Morita, Robert Guillaume, Sherman Hemsley, Neil Young, Dusty Rhodes—the names went on and on. Bobby “O” Ormsby and his band set the tone as guests roller-skated on a portable floor under the stars.

Amid the music and motion, a young man caught my eye. He was lugging around a new Sony Betamax portable video unit, capturing everything he could for a documentary about Cleveland Amory and the movement to save the whales. His name was Paulino Estrada, a film student from Colombia studying at the California School of Film in Santa Monica. His passion was pure, his energy relentless. He was also close friends with my girlfriend, Barbara Gannon—known to most as Stella Starlight.

Barbara adored him. She said he was the kind of dreamer who reminded her why people fight for things bigger than themselves. When Paulino asked to film everything, I gave him my blessing on one condition: that he’d send a copy to the club archives. He agreed—and later asked if he could take the event banner with him to Washington, D.C., for the Crosby, Stills & Nash concert at the Capital Centre.

A few days later, we found ourselves in D.C. It was scorching hot. One of Paulino’s cameramen never showed, so I ended up behind Camera Three—holding the wide shot for what became an unforgettable performance.

We stayed in the city for three days. On the last night, just before our flight home, Paulino appeared at our hotel room door, bruised and shaken. He carried a small canvas bag containing four UVS backup tapes of the CSN concert. He said he’d been roughed up and needed to get back to Colombia.

Barbara and I scraped together $10,000 and handed it to him. He promised he’d return the money and reclaim the tapes after a couple of months. Barbara hugged him goodbye, told him she loved him, and wished him safety on his way home.

Those tapes sat on our dinner table for months, untouched. Later, they were moved to a closet—where they stayed for years. Then came the year that broke me—the year I lost Barbara, my Stella Starlight. She had been the pulse in every beat of my life. When she was gone, even the light in Paulino’s eyes—her “starlight”—faded from memory. He never returned.

By 1980, Lee Rogers and I decided to breathe life back into D-Town Records. Billboard ran a small notice that November. I packed up and moved my things to Kay’s place, storing the tapes in the D-Town/Platinum Sound vaults for safekeeping. Five years later, I moved everything again—to Las Vegas—where my sister Erma Jean kept the masters stored for more than a decade.

Then, in 1993, Goldmine Magazine published an article about missing concert footage from the Crosby, Stills & Nash “Save the Whales” concert. The trail led straight to me. I wasn’t hiding it; truth was, nobody really cared back then about “just another” concert video. Except—it wasn’t just another. This was history, captured on film.

Pete Candoli called me after reading the piece. He had a contact in Coral Gables, Florida, who was looking for concert footage to distribute. Pete reminded me of that old favor I owed from the very first “Save the Whales” benefit. So, I took the call.

The company was Canyon Creek Productions—a small outfit, but eager. They offered $50,000 for a two-year licensing deal, to be paid in two installments of $25,000, with a $5,000 advance. We signed the agreement. SDC Communications retained all publishing and video rights, and I made sure the tape was copied and properly filed with the Library of Congress. Their first check cleared the bank. Then, like Paulino, they vanished.

Years later, in January 2007, a copy of that same concert found its way to The Jimmy Kimmel Show and ABC News.

Some tapes hold more than music. They hold people—voices and faces that time keeps replaying long after they’re gone. That night in 1978 wasn’t just about saving whales. It was about saving moments before they disappeared into the tide of history.

And somehow, through a handful of videotapes, a few lost friends, and a love that never dimmed, the music of that night still plays on.

---

Would you like me to add a brief prologue or afterword—something that frames the story as part of your broader music chronicle? It could help connect this piece to your larger narrative series.

Vinyl Knights - Coleman Kestin And Smith - From Vinyl to Data - By Kenneth Howard Smith

 

Coleman, Kestin & Smith – The Vinyl Knights

By Kenneth Howard Smith

It began, as most remarkable stories do, with an envelope.
Sometime in 1979, Linda Lou Kestin handed Kenny Smith a simple packet holding more than twenty-five handwritten lyrics — songs that had lived in her notebooks, her imagination, and her heart for years. She’d been planning to send them off to several songwriting contests, but that day, she entrusted them to a friend and fellow dreamer.

Linda’s history in music was already seasoned with rare opportunities. Her first record came through the legendary Lee Rogers, when he recorded “Love and Life,” a single she co-produced under CKS Productions. The label found distribution with Claridge Records, releasing its lone single “Train of Desire” by Total Force featuring Demene E. Hall. Not long after, Paul McCartney’s MPL Communications acquired Claridge and dropped the small label — an all-too-familiar turn in the music industry’s wheel of fortune.

Rogers came back strong in 1980 with “It Must Be Love,” written by Kestin, affirming her growing voice as a lyricist. Then, in 1986, Smith recorded one of Linda’s early works, “You Make My Life So Beautiful,” performed by a group called Better Half. Though the vocals turned out lighter than intended, the track still made its way onto their album of the same name — a sign that Linda’s songs had a way of finding their place in the world.

Through the late seventies and eighties, Linda balanced art and responsibility with equal grace. She was raising two teenage daughters in Santa Ana, working as vice-principal at a leading magnet school, and teaching — all while nurturing her creative soul. Writing lyrics and singing were her private sanctuaries, the stress relief that kept her heart open in the long hours of an educator’s life.

Meanwhile, in 1987, Smith released his first of four albums, “Raw and Nasty,” deeply inspired by his move to Las Vegas. Three of its standout tracks — “Love Thang,” “Sweet Gypsy Woman,” and “Heartbreaker” — drew lyrical spirit from Kestin’s writing.

By 1988, Smith had settled in Colorado, carving out a new chapter. There, in the quiet rhythm of the mountains, he began composing relentlessly. He also became fascinated with the emerging frontier of Artificial Intelligence, experimenting with PG Music’s PowerTracks MIDI software and an old Commodore 64. He cataloged and coded five volumes of Kestin’s works but never reached out to her directly.

In 1994, Smith tried once more to reconnect, writing to Broadcast Music, Inc. (BMI) and asking that a letter be forwarded to her. The letter came back unopened — BMI couldn’t forward mail to another member. “I just lost out on keeping in touch with her,” Smith later recalled. “But she was never out of my mind.”

He carried her words with him for twenty-five years — her lyrics like old friends in the back of his mind. The pages vanished and resurfaced through the years, turning up again in 1993, sparking a new creative wave. Around that time, he began collaborating with Jamie Zikowitz, his co-writer and demo vocalist. Together, they recorded “I Just Want to Thank You” and “Never Deny Love.”

Four years later, in July 1997, Smith released “Kenny Baby.” The album featured several of Kestin’s lyrics brought to life — “I Got Your Love,” “Just to Be With You,” “Run to the River,” “Run to Kiss You,” and “Love Thang.”

Then, in 2004, Smith began pairing old tracks with new melodies from his database — musical fragments aligning like planets. Out of this creative storm emerged “One Time Love,” a song stitched from decades of unspoken collaboration. He laughed about how unreal it felt — “like the music had been living in my head, waiting for the words to find it.”

But the story didn’t end there.
In 2005, while sorting through boxes of personal effects, the long-lost Kestin Songbook tumbled out — lyric sheets and CD masters scattering across the floor. “They’d been gone almost a year,” Smith said. “Seeing them again felt like finding treasure.”

He wasted no time. The first two revived tracks — “Roadrunners” and “What About Love” — had debuted earlier on the Rosamond High School 30th Reunion CD (2001). Now, they were remixed for LLK Songbook Volume Four (“Roadrunners”) and LLK Songbook Redux Volume Two (“What About Love”). That second song carried a question that still resonates: When you have it all… what about love?

Smith immersed himself once more, matching lyrics to music as if guided by instinct. “The songs just fit,” he said. “Like butter melting on hot popcorn.”

In late October 2005, Smith finally mailed the first finished CD — “The Linda Lou Kestin Songbook, Volume One” — to an address he hoped was hers. Fourteen songs, wrapped in silence except for a simple card. No message, no explanation. Just the music.

He never waited for confirmation. Instead, he hit the road again — this time to Memphis, where Al Green and Willie Mitchell were recording their first album in over twenty-five years. Smith watched as they worked on the same equipment that had once defined the sound of soul, a moment that would inspire his own track “Come On Honey” on the LLK Songbook Volume One CD.

Soon after, Platinum Sound launched “The Linda Lou Kestin Songbook, Volume One” as an iPod station on iTunes and GarageBand.com, letting a new generation discover the warmth, hope, and humanity in Kestin’s words.

For Smith, producing five full albums of Linda’s lyrics became the defining challenge of his creative life — “very close,” he said, “to Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.”

He smiled as he reflected, “I just looked up, and twenty-five years had gone by.”

Kestin went on to win both national and international songwriting contests twice in her career — proof that true art finds its way home, even if it takes a lifetime to do it.

— InterNetics Magazine, 2005

Vinyl Knights - The Following Is - By Kenneth Howard Smith

 THE FOLLOWING IS…

By Kenneth Howard Smith

By the end of 1977, I had asked Motown for my release. A year passed without a word—no call, no letter, nothing. Then one morning, the envelope arrived. Inside were the release documents, official and final. It was freedom wrapped in paper.

Lee Rogers wasn’t as lucky. Motown extended his contract another two years, but they refused to record him. It was like they wanted to own his silence. Meanwhile, R.G. Ingersoll was still in the Motown family, pushing a young singer named Jill Michaels—an ambitious voice who often helped us with demos. Jill could sing the paint off the walls, and she knew it.

R.G. owed Motown a few more records, so he called Lee into the studio now and then. One session produced a firecracker of a song called “Second Thoughts,” written by Rogers and Ingersoll. Every station that spun it got flooded with calls—it was that good. But when Motown brass discovered Lee Rogers was the artist, interest evaporated overnight. Politics trumped talent again.

By then, I was running Platinum Sound Productions, freshly relocated to downtown Los Angeles. The rent was cheap, and we were free from Motown’s shadow. When Gwen Gordy refused to pick up “Second Thoughts,” R.G. came to me. It was early 1979. Lee’s contract was set to expire in May, and I wanted him to step into the light the moment the clock struck midnight. We pressed 5,000 copies and shipped them to Europe. Radio jumped all over it. We’d proven again that our music had substance—soul with truth behind it.

Motown, still holding the publishing rights, refused to back us. Without their support, the sales fell short. But even then, hope flickered. Visiting Lee in the hospital, as his health worsened, we made a pact—to bring D-Town Records back from the ashes. Those old 45s were still alive in the collectors’ market, fetching $35 a copy. It was time to reclaim our history.

By November 1980, Billboard announced that D-Town Records had officially been reactivated under Platinum Sound. Piracy stopped. We were legitimate again.

Our first new release in fifteen years was “Rocking Skates” backed with “It Must Be Love.” It felt good to hold that vinyl in my hands. Yet radio politics hadn’t changed much—stations refused to play it unless we “paid to get played.” Some European writers even criticized me for drifting from Mike Hanks’ original blues formula. But D-Town was evolving. We were chasing a broader sound—bigger dreams.

For five years, I fought to keep the label alive. We bounced from MCA to Columbia distribution, facing walls at every turn. By 1984, I packed up and moved north to Seattle for a fresh start.

That’s where fate played another song. At a New Year’s Eve concert downtown, I met Bill Miller, the sound engineer for the night’s headliner—Bernadette Bascom. I knew her from her Wonderlove days with Stevie Wonder, where she’d stepped into Deniece Williams’ spot. Bill turned out to be the man behind the Commodores’ hit “I Feel Sanctified.” Funny how life circles back.

Bill told me about Wild Cherry, that white funk band from Cleveland who put “I Feel Sanctified” on the flip side of “Play That Funky Music.” Six million records sold—yet the industry still found ways to overlook the real architects of sound.

Bernadette, meanwhile, had fallen in love with Seattle while touring with People’s Choice—the “Do It Anyway You Wanna” group. She stayed, started recording with Thom Bell, and even did a duet with Elton John on The Thom Bell Sessions. When Stevie Wonder dropped by Seattle and jammed with her live, the city embraced her as their own.

Bill, running his Pac-West label, had already scored with a rock band called Lady. When he met Bernadette, he told her he had a song written just for her—“Seattle Sunshine.” It became the city’s unofficial anthem and even earned adoption by the City Council. The two married soon after, welcoming their daughter, Chokise, the “real rock and roll baby.”

Starting from scratch again, Bill and I built PA systems on his back porch. We printed T-shirts, shot promo photos, and wrote songs. We hired a local group, The Reputations, seasoned bar players who just needed a reason to believe again. Bernadette’s comeback shows packed out Parker Center—lines wrapped around the block in the rain. Her single “I Don’t Want to Lose Your Love” was already gaining traction from Portland to Canada.

We hustled nonstop—booking Good Morning Seattle, releasing a new single every two months, and watching Bernadette’s career soar. Within days of her TV appearance, she was booked solid for the summer, touring with Loverboy, ZZ Top, Ray Charles, Oingo Boingo, and Johnny Winter.

Then came Oliver Cheatham—Bill’s cousin—whose MCA hit “Get Down, It’s Saturday Night” we helped push into the Pacific Northwest top three. But tragedy struck when Al Perkins, Oliver’s manager, was killed. The deal died with him.

By late 1984, I returned to Hollywood and bought a recording studio. D-Town was calling again. Fate introduced me once more to Merrell Fankhauser, who’d been living in Maui. Two German producers had tracked him down to reissue his old music, but he was short a few songs to complete a new album. I offered studio time if he’d let D-Town release it.

That record became “Doctor Fankhauser,” featuring John Cipollina and Jim Murray of Quicksilver Messenger Service. It exploded—#1 on fifty radio stations, over half a million sales, with deals across PolyGram, Virgin, EMI, and Line Records. D-Town had reinvented itself, no longer just a “Black label,” but an artist’s label.

By the late 1980s, after years of pushing every boundary, I put D-Town in mothballs and moved to Denver. Merrell had written a song for me called “Don’t Give Up the Rock,” and maybe that was the point—to rest, not quit.

In 1993, gray creeping in, I started recording again in my condo basement. My wife wasn’t thrilled—music had a way of consuming everything. When my ex-wife Irene found old Purple Olive photos in her Tucson garage, it sparked something. I called Rick, an old bandmate, and we decided to cut a tribute album. The basement gear was old but had history—Toto’s “Africa” and “Rosanna” had both passed through its circuits.

We named the album “Garage Noise.” It fit. Raw, alive, real.

D-Town closed its decade with five singles on Billboard’s Record Picks, outperforming the majors. We had done it—again.

But the music world was shifting. The internet arrived, and MP3s changed everything. Suddenly, artists didn’t need labels. The middlemen were gone. I started building websites, adapting, staying curious.

The Fankhauser-Cassidy Band’s “On The Blue Road” hit 450 radio stations across three continents. Even as numbers dipped, the music found its home.

In truth, D-Town was never just a record label. It was an idea—that artistry, heart, and resilience still mattered in an industry that often forgot both.

And as the years rolled on, even as trends changed and the airwaves filled with digital noise, one thing held true: D-Town Records would never die. It was born from struggle, revived through faith, and carried forward by love—for the music, for the people who made it, and for the dream that never stopped playing.

Vinyl Knights - Maestros Music Please - The D-Town Sound Story - By Kenneth Howard Smith

 MAESTROS, MUSIC PLEASE! — THE DETROIT SOUND STORY

By Kenneth Howard Smith

The “D” in D-Town stood for Detroit—a city pulsing with energy, ambition, and rhythm, yet paradoxically, one where the record industry was scarce while raw talent overflowed on every corner. Detroit in the late 1950s and early 1960s was a city of contrasts: bustling automotive factories and quiet church pews, neon-lit bars and basement jam sessions, all intertwined with an undercurrent of musical genius waiting to be heard.

Back then, the music business was dominated by the Bhari Brothers out of California, whose Modern/Kent Records roster boasted heavyweights like Lowell Fulson, B.B. King, Etta James, and the Rhythm Kings led by Ike Turner. They were the marquee acts, setting a standard for blues and R&B nationwide—but in Detroit, the talent pool was homegrown, brimming with young musicians eager to make a mark. The city was ripe for a recording revolution.

The challenge, however, was steep. In order to get records pressed, local artists needed sponsorship from a reputable business or agent in the recording world. Distribution was controlled by The Music Distribution Company, which owned a slice of a pressing plant in Memphis, Tennessee, responsible for pressing records for independent labels across the East Coast. Detroit’s fledgling record producers had to navigate this complex network, relying on savvy business partners to get their music into the hands of listeners.

Enter Carmen C. Murphy, an extraordinary woman whose entrepreneurial spirit reshaped the local music landscape. Already a millionaire from her wildly successful cosmetics business, Ms. Murphy was determined to branch into music, and she saw gospel as the perfect starting point. With guidance from Jack Ellis—a talented radio engineer at WBLD-AM who produced a gospel morning show and wrote the House of Beauty commercials—Murphy launched House of Beauty Records, soon shortened to HOB Records.

HOB Records quickly became a force in gospel music. Their recordings were amplified by the sponsorship of a Sunday morning church broadcast over WBLD-AM, connecting with a devoted audience of listeners who craved uplifting sounds. Jack Ellis, in his tireless efforts, worked with a local teen group called the Peppermints, nurturing their talent in the basement of Murphy’s House of Beauty salon. Murphy’s dream was revolutionary: to create the first black-owned beauty supply company that could also produce and distribute music that mattered.

Meanwhile, D-Town Records emerged in 1957 under the direction of Mike Hanks. Originally called MAH’s Records, the label’s debut release, “Sad Affair” by Lee Rogers, marked the beginning of what would become a monumental chapter in Detroit’s musical history. Mike Hanks was passionate, driven, and fearless, but also volatile—a trait that would ultimately lead to his tragic death. By the time he left D-Town for Motown, the label was a shadow of its early promise, briefly distributed through Berry Gordy’s Hitsville network before Berry’s sights were set on acquiring it to limit competition in Detroit.

Berry’s strategy was clear: purchase smaller labels, absorb their talent, and expand Motown’s dominance. Golden World Records, for example, housed the Romeos, whose hit “Just Like Romeo and Juliet” reached #1, while other acts like the Hollidays, featuring Don Davis, migrated south to continue producing groundbreaking music for CBS Records, including Johnny Taylor’s Disco Lady, the first RIAA-certified platinum hit of its kind.

Similarly, Ric-Tic Records became Motown’s formidable competitor, spinning hits for the Detroit Emeralds, Edwin Starr, Denise LaSalle, and the Ohio Players. Yet Berry’s genius lay in his signature touch: the sweeping symphony strings on Motown records, a sound he applied even when unnecessary, a sonic hallmark that distinguished his label from all others.

And at the heart of this rhythm revolution was one man: James Jamerson. The mighty bassist whose ear and intuition carried both D-Town and Motown tracks to life. Jamerson could listen once and deliver—no sheet music, no instructions, just raw talent and relentless drive. His basslines were the heartbeat of hits like Jr. Walker’s “Shot Gun”, where Jamerson’s syncopated rhythms drove the song to the top of the charts. I remember sharing a bottle of wine with him at his home before he passed in 1979, laughing at his insistence that a drink was always in order. Dressed impeccably, Jamerson lived music, and his stories, laced with humor and pride, painted the life of a true maestro.

The tragic side of this world was never far away. Mike Hanks’ fiery temperament led to his violent death at the hands of his girlfriend’s brothers. Mike, a man quick with his fists and always ready to confront, had gone too far, and vengeance found him at the doorstep of his own club. Yet even in tragedy, D-Town persevered. Partners like Pete Hall spun off subsidiary labels—Premium Stuff, Wheelsville, Rotary Records—giving artists like Lee Rogers a chance to work with new producers and expand their musical horizons.

Lee’s journey took him to Memphis, Tennessee, to work with the London/Hi Records producer. There, in a session that would become legendary, Lee recorded “Love For A Love” in a mere fifteen minutes. Accompanied by the legendary drummer Al Jackson, Jr. and bassist Donald “Duck” Dunn, Lee delivered the vocal track in one take—no sheet music, no notes—pure instinct, pure talent. The song became one of his biggest sellers, second only to “I Want You To Have Everything”.

Hollywood beckoned next, a city Lee had flirted with earlier in his career when he appeared on ABC Television’s Shindig with the Moody Blues. By the time Berry moved Motown to Los Angeles, Lee was ready for a new chapter. Along the way, he briefly partnered with Walter Stone of Loadstone Records, recording “Love Bandit”—though contractual disputes limited the collaboration.

Eventually, Lee’s path led him to meet Jimmy Holliday and me in Hollywood. And thus began the beginning of a beginning, a chapter in music that would fuse Detroit soul with California dreams, nurturing talent, passion, and the heartbeat of an era.

Through the chaos, genius, and heartbreak, the story of D-Town, HOB, and Detroit’s musical explosion is a testament to perseverance, creativity, and the profound impact of love—for music, for the craft, and for the people who bring it to life. It is a history of rhythm and melody, of struggle and triumph, and of maestros whose notes echo far beyond their time.

Kenneth Howard Smith - ABC RECORDS FOLLIES - From Vinyl Knights

 ABC RECORDS FOLLIES

By Kenneth Howard Smith

When I first moved back to Los Angeles, things were rough. I was broke, hungry, and uncertain—one of those stretches where the city feels both beautiful and merciless. I had landed in Brentwood, close enough to the ocean that I could feel it calling. Venice Beach became my church. Every morning I’d walk the boardwalk, watching the street performers and bodybuilders, listening to the musicians who played for the gulls and the crowd. You could learn more about human rhythm there than in any classroom—every dreamer, drifter, and dropout trying to make something of themselves.

One afternoon, I ran into an old acquaintance from my Three Dog Night days. That single encounter changed everything. He told me to look up Herb Eiselman, the vice president of A&R at ABC Records. Herb was a sharp dresser with a sharper ear. I showed up at his office with little more than a smile and a story, and somehow walked out with a job. Just like that, I was back in the music business.

Herb sent me straight over to ABC Music Publishing to meet two of their writers, Jimmy Holliday and Lee Rogers. Jimmy was the real deal—he’d penned “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” for Jackie DeShannon, a song that had traveled the world. Lee Rogers, though—that was personal history. I remembered him from my boyhood days in Marlin, Texas. In 1965, his single “I Want You to Have Everything” had cracked the Billboard Hot 100 and turned Detroit’s D-Town Records into a serious player. To me, meeting him again in L.A. felt like running into a chapter of my own past that had somehow come to life.

It was 1973, and the music world was shifting fast. Lee’s last hit, “Love Bandit,” had been on Loadstone Records out of San Francisco—home to only two acts: Lee and Sly & the Family Stone. When Loadstone sold Sly’s masters to CBS/Epic, Lee walked away, waiting for a new opportunity. That kind of patience in a restless industry taught me something—timing can be everything, and sometimes doing nothing is the hardest move of all.

Disco was beginning to stir, thumping its way up from the underground. Everyone wanted a dance record, something with flash and fever. So naturally, ABC handed me… “Margaritaville” by Jimmy Buffett—a sleepy country-pop tune about sun, salt, and tequila. Nobody knew who Buffett was. I suspected ABC didn’t know what to do with him either. Still, I hit the road with the record and a trunk full of hope.

With no marketing budget, no press push, and no real support, I hustled. California, Oregon, Washington, Utah—I drove it all. Slept in my car more than once. Learned the fine art of charm at local radio stations and bars. Every DJ I met became a lesson in human nature. Some only wanted perks; others just loved music enough to take a chance on something new. Slowly, the song caught on. Two months later, I got the call from the promotions department: “Come home—the record broke.”

Back in L.A., the ABC roster was heating up with acts like Steely Dan and Lenny Williams—real musicians’ musicians. I had always admired Lenny from his Tower of Power days; that man could sing the truth into any room.

Then came a new discovery—The Floaters, a Detroit group with a smooth single called “Float On” released independently on Fee Records. Leroy Lovett helped bring them to ABC, and I handled some of the promotion out West. That record caught fire—climbing all the way to #2 on the Billboard Hot 100. For a brief moment, it felt like everything I’d worked for had come together.

But the record business has a way of turning the page without warning. Herb Eiselman, the man who’d hired me, left ABC for Motown as their new vice president. His departure closed the door behind me. Once again, I found myself standing outside the machine—no job, no safety net.

Still, there’s a rhythm in those uncertain times, too. Before long, I ran into Lee Rogers again, right there on Sunset Boulevard. He smiled, said he had something brewing at Motown, and that’s how the next chapter began.

Those ABC days taught me that the record business isn’t just about hits—it’s about the people who keep showing up, even when the music stops. Every encounter, every city, every radio booth had a lesson tucked inside it. Perseverance, timing, faith—and the strange magic of being in the right place when the beat finally drops.

Kenneth Howard Smith - IN THE LAND OF MU - From VINYL KNIGHTS BOOK

 

IN THE LAND OF MU

By Kenneth Howard Smith

It’s funny how time just slips away.

Out of the blue, I got a call from Merrell Fankhauser. He wanted me to promote his MU album. Without hesitation, I packed up, hit the highway, and drove the length, width, and girth of California — chasing music, chasing purpose.

The group’s publicist was Audrey P. Franklyn, a powerhouse who handled promotions for Norman Granz’s Pablo Jazz Records, then distributed by RCA. Pablo had the crème de la crème of jazz: Ella Fitzgerald, Joe Williams, Oscar Peterson, Paulinho da Costa — the real royalty of that era. Audrey wasn’t new to success; she also represented several ABC Records artists, including Gloria Lynne, Bobby “Blue” Bland, and B.B. King.

With Audrey’s help, the MU campaign started catching fire. A full-page ad in Billboard didn’t hurt either. Then came the meeting she’d arranged for me with Norman Granz himself — the legendary producer behind those jazz greats.

After the interview, Norman called Audrey and said, “The boy is good. He knows the business. That’s why he won’t be working for me. He needs his own label.”

That moment stuck with me. It was both compliment and challenge.

Meanwhile, FM radio stations across California jumped on the MU album like wildfire. Without hesitation, they pushed it into the mainstream of rock’s new dominion. It was the same year the Patty Hearst tapes were circulating — a time when the country seemed to be unraveling and reinventing itself at once.

---

Around then, Billy Foster had married Etta James. Their little boy, Donta, was two and a half. Etta would sometimes escape to the desert, to rest her voice and her soul. She’d stay in bed for days, then wander outside for sunshine when she could.

Etta was unstoppable — everything she touched turned to gold. I still remember the first time I heard a standing ovation for a song that was written in my own mother’s bedroom: “I’d Rather Go Blind.” That song carried pain, truth, and redemption, all wrapped in her voice.

Billy and I would often visit Charles Wright of the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band, who was working on a new album for ABC Records. Out of all his music, my favorite still is “Apartment Living.” It caught the ache and humor of trying to survive the city — the same story, different rhythm.

---

When MU released their debut album on RTV Records, a subsidiary of Era Records, the reaction was electric. Era, known for hits like “The Birds and the Bees” by Jewel Akens and “Love Letters from Your Heart” by Ketty Lester, had suddenly stumbled into a rock explosion. FM underground stations were spinning every cut. You couldn’t escape MU; they were a storm in motion.

But that year would mark a turning point.

Merrell, Jeff, and Randy decided to make a pilgrimage to Maui. Their farewell concert was held at the Los Angeles Room in Century City — the same room where Richard Nixon once made history. Next door, Dusty Springfield was performing in the Grand Room.

The place was a madhouse. Over 7,000 people packed into the L.A. Room to see MU. Dusty drew about 3,500. I stood at the door, greeting the crowd, handing out MU buttons and maps. The promoter for Dusty’s show kept coming over, shaking his head.

“Who the hell is this group?” he said. “Man, they’re killing me.”

A few of Merrell’s old friends dropped by that night — Harry Nilsson, Perry Botkin Jr., and Peter Noone. CBS News had cameras rolling. It felt like a movement, not just a concert.

When Merrell, Jeff, and Randy said their final goodbyes, the crowd roared. The next morning, they were gone — off to Maui, chasing new sounds and maybe a little peace.

---

But my own peace was harder to find.

War had changed me. Coming home was harder than leaving had ever been. I saw how mean people could be to veterans — the same people we thought we’d fought for.

It reminded me of playing football in the old days. When we won, it was we won. When we lost, it was why did you lose? That’s how it felt returning from the war. No welcome, no “we.” Just quiet blame.

I tried explaining what the problem was, but folks laughed it off. I started drinking — not socially, not casually, but with purpose. And the purpose was forgetting.

What hurt most was that I couldn’t name what hurt. I was running from something invisible, something with a body and a breath that burned like hellfire.

Two lives I ruined, and both were trying to love me through it. They were there for me — I wasn’t there for me. I wanted to find that kind, gentle man I’d once been, but I’d left him somewhere in a muddy field in Southeast Asia.

Sometimes I laughed when I saw how my letters were addressed to an APO in Thailand, while I was deep in the hills of Cambodia or Laos. The absurdity of it all — fighting ghosts in places no one believed we were.

---

When Lynn and I finally crawled back into the so-called real world, tragedy hit again. His wife Sue died suddenly from a brain hemorrhage, leaving him to raise their two children alone. He walked away from music and disappeared into the mountains.

As for me, Irene divorced me. I sank into a valley of nothingness — in and out of hospitals, drifting through weeks and years that didn’t feel like mine.

But then, like before, the music found me again.

It wasn’t a grand return — more like a faint hum at first. A reminder that somewhere inside, life was still possible. The road was still calling.

And time, funny as ever, just kept slipping away.

Vinyl Knights - High School Stomp - By Kenneth Howard Smith

 HIGH SCHOOL STOMP

September 1965 — my first year at Rosamond High School. I knew most of the faces; we’d all grown up together. But the air felt different that year. Maybe it was because I’d stayed at Antelope Valley High while the others returned early to the temporary trailers at Rosamond. Some folks saw me as a “traitor.” Still, no one could question my football game — I could hit hard and play harder.

Rosamond was a tiny town without McDonald’s or movie theaters like Lancaster had. But we had Foster’s Freeze, and that was enough for me, Reggie, Ricky, Lynn, and Rusty to make our stand. I played ball at AV as a guard and linebacker, but music was tugging at me, too.

I went looking for a band. The first recruit was Terry Lambright, a wizard on his twelve-string Rickenbacker. Then came Buddy Wampler on bass — good guy, but eventually he confessed he was deaf in one ear. No wonder we kept drifting off-key.

So I taught myself bass. Borrowed one from my friend Paul Martinkovic, who kindly stuck little note stickers on the frets for me. I practiced late into the night, running my Webcor tape recorder as an amp and playing along with the radio. The first song I learned was “Young Girl” by Gary Puckett & The Union Gap — singing and playing it at the same time felt like flying.

When football season ended, I dove headfirst into music. Ricky Perrine joined on drums, and soon we had a singer, Rollyn Zink. Meanwhile, Merrell was working part-time at Cliff Rohr’s Music Box — the local hangout where musicians lived and breathed sound. Cliff had a tiny studio in the back, and magic happened there daily.

One day, we listened to Captain Beefheart’s first acetate — “Who Do You Think You’re Fooling” backed with “Diddy Wah Diddy.” Not long after, I tagged along as a roadie when the Magic Band played the Hollywood Teen Fair at the Palladium. I even sang one song. That was the day Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss signed the band to their new A&M Records label.

Through those connections, I met producer Rick Jarrard, who was working with Jefferson Airplane. He didn’t find any of my home recordings fit for them — but he thought I had something of my own. Before long, I was sitting in a South Hollywood garage with Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss, talking about songs, futures, and dreams. Alpert told me to go home and write — all kinds of songs, for myself and others. So I did.

A&M was breaking out with “The Lonely Bull,” and soon Captain Beefheart hit the charts with “Diddy Wah Diddy.” Back in Rosamond, our little world buzzed. Merrell’s record “Can We Get Along” was climbing, and Beefheart’s single hit No. 1 locally. Everyone was hanging at the Music Box when we heard it announced.

Meanwhile, my own single took two years to release — a James Brown-style tune that never quite landed. It felt like a formality between A&M and RCA. KUTY played it once, and that was enough for me. I tossed most of the copies into the desert like flying saucers — not realizing I’d be buying one back decades later for my daughter.

Rosamond soon had two bands — Lynn Henson’s Sunny Motion and our group, Purple Olive. We played community parks, scout events, anywhere that would have us. Our demo, “Journey to the Center of Your Heart,” even got local airplay. When Lynn later joined us, the sound took off — he gave us the punch we needed.

Graduation came fast. I went on to Antelope Valley College, juggling football, music, and now journalism. I found myself co-editing the school paper and running publicity for the student council. The school was broke — $25,000 in debt — and morale was flat. My big test was reviving the Christmas Ball, a project every previous class had failed.

But I had an idea: music. I rallied the Inter-Club Council, called in favors from local bands (including Bobby “O” Ormsby’s Boobla), and got Captain Don Imus at KUTY to plug our dance on-air. We opened the doors to all high school and college students with valid ID cards — free entry.

That night, we won our homecoming game and packed the place. The crowd was wild. We raised over $5,000 in a single evening — enough to erase debt and then some. By semester’s end, the student body was in the black, and our events were drawing crowds from across the Antelope Valley.

The buzz spread. Other schools asked how we did it. Networking became the new game. And as for me — I was hooked on making things happen. Music, journalism, promotion — it all flowed together.

My friends Don and Richie Podolor were now producing acts like Three Dog Night. The world was changing fast, and the valley kids were right there in it — chasing sound, chasing rhythm, chasing dreams.

And for a moment in time, it felt like Rosamond was the center of the universe.

Kenneth Howard Smith - The Clouds Went That Way - From VINYL KNIGHTS BOOK

 THE CLOUDS (WHEN THAT WAY)

The 1965 Hollywood Teen Fair was electric — the year Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss of A&M Records discovered Captain Beefheart and signed him on the spot. I was there, tagging along as a roadie with the Magic Band. Their first single, Diddy Wah Diddy, was the same version I’d first heard blaring from Rohr’s Music Box.

Among the new wave of local talent was a family that seemed straight out of a wholesome TV show — the Martinkovics. Paul, the eldest, played lead guitar with fierce precision; his younger brother John held down the bass. Together, they practiced two to four hours a day, every day, forming their new group, The Telstars.

Paul was a perfectionist. I’d watch him play Foxy Lady by Jimi Hendrix over and over — fifty times if it took that long — until every bend and squeal matched the record. The grooves on the vinyl turned white from the repetition. He wouldn’t move on until it was flawless.

Their father, Air Force Warrant Officer Martinkovic, was stationed at Edwards Air Force Base, working as assistant director on the secretive YF-12 project. Their home life reflected both discipline and warmth — Mrs. Martinkovic, the heart of the family, loved to host backyard BBQs for engineers and officers, always urging the boys to play a few songs for the guests.

At one of those gatherings, an engineer from nearby Rosamond invited the boys to play a dance for the eighth-grade class. They were only fourteen, but ready for their first real gig. They just needed a drummer and rhythm guitarist.

At Antelope Valley High, Paul and I met as freshmen. John was still in junior high. We bonded instantly — two kids obsessed with music. We’d been fans of Merrell and the Exiles, who were playing a lunchtime concert that day. As the cafeteria filled and girls screamed like it was Beatlemania, I could feel the spark.

Later, sitting at lunch, Paul and I dove deep into shop talk while everyone else drifted away. He told me about his Fender — one of two his father had bought for him and John — and how he’d tried out Merrell’s custom Les Paul but found it didn’t fit his style. He joked that to pay his father back, he needed to start booking gigs. I mentioned that I sang and wanted to record someday. Paul looked at me and said, “You’ve got to be really good to cut a record. Even a little one.”

That night, he invited me to band practice. I showed up at 3:30, met his mom, his brother, their drummer Joe Guzman, and a second guitarist whose name has faded from memory. The Telstars logo was painted proudly on Joe’s bass drum, and their Standell sound system gleamed. The motto said it all: “Sound so clear, you can hear through it.”

Their setlist was a mix of hits and heart — The Loco-Motion, Summertime Blues, Harlem Shuffle, Farmer John, Hound Dog, and more. It was fall 1963, just before the Beatles appeared on the Jack Paar Show and turned the world upside down.

I’d never seen such disciplined rehearsal. Every song was run three times, no shortcuts. Their playlist topped fifty tunes. After a few weeks, Paul asked if I wanted to sing a couple at the Rosamond dance. I nearly jumped out of my seat.

That night — my first time performing with a live band — I arrived early to help set up. Donna Balentine, a junior I quietly adored, was waiting by the door. I carried mic stands and cables, trying to act calm while my heart raced.

By 7:45, the room was full. My mother, one of the chaperones, would be hearing me sing live for the first time. The Telstars kept the crowd moving, and when Paul announced a “special guest singer,” my knees almost buckled.

Then came the count-off: 1-2-3-4. The band tore into Money (That’s What I Want). My first notes were shaky, but the energy in that room carried me. Kids danced, shouted, and sang along. I was hooked.

From then on, I sang a few songs with the Telstars — later renamed The Clouds — at nearly every performance for the next five years. My final numbers with them were Slow Down by the Beatles and She’s Looking Good by Roger Collins.

By early 1969, I wanted us to play the Hollywood Teen Fair. The Martinkovics weren’t interested; they felt the band wasn’t ready. So I asked for one last favor — to help me record a demo: Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing by Buffalo Springfield.

It would be our last session together. Paul was heading for the Air Force, John was hanging up his bass, and I was starting college at Antelope Valley.

When I brought the tape to A&M Records in Hollywood, disaster struck — the recording had bleed-through, unplayable except on the original machine. As the warped sound filled the room, I sat there wishing I could disappear.

Still, the dream didn’t die. A few weeks later, Paul called — he had tickets to see the Yardbirds with Jeff Beck and B.B. King at the Shrine Auditorium, backstage passes included.

We went, wide-eyed and smiling, standing just a few feet from legends. For a couple of kids from the desert, it felt like the clouds had opened, and the music we loved had carried us there.

VINYL KNIGHTS - PURPLE OLIVE - BY KENNETH HOWARD SMITH

VINYL KNIGHTS - PURPLE OLIVE -

BY KENNETH HOWARD SMITH

In the summer of 1969, I got a chance to play at the Hollywood Teen Fair with my band  Purple Olive. 

I was hell bend on taking Purple Olive to the big time.

Mary Beth Broderson was our photographer.  We wanted to document that we actually played at the fair.  We were scheduled to play at the Kustom Amplifier Booth just out side of the main stage, but our time had come and gone.   There were five bands still in front of us waiting to play.  The people who came to audition us had left hours ago and we were just standing around – waiting.

Several other bands were standing in line with us to play in the Kustom's Electronics booth.  Kustom was the leading manufacturer of electronic equipment for musicians.    We had to wait for about three hours before we got a chance to go on stage.

Talking to the band director, I had enough of the waiting, and I was getting tired of this.  Lynn and I confronted the director, and we told him that we had traveled along way to get here and play, and as it was stated in our contract, we were several hours overdue and what was he going to do about it.

He promised to get back to us within a couple of minutes.  It must have been over an hour. What was happening to us was also happening to the other groups.  On the same waiting list with us were groups with names like Steppenwolf,  Genesis, and Earth Wind & Fire.  Lynn and I just happen to protest more greatly then the other groups.

The only stage available to play on was the main stage in the Palladium itself.  The featured artist was Johnny Rivers, who was late getting back from San Francisco, and the music director ask if we wanted to play on this stage until Johnny got to the fair.

We were asked to just keep the audience company.  The stage was set up very differently then what we were use to.  All we did when we played was just to set up and get a general sound check and start playing.

The drums were pre-miked.  Every drum, all of the toms, the hi-hat, all of the guitars, everything.  It all feed into a studio mixing board in a room overlooking the audience and main stage.

The volume of the stage monitors was just enough to hear yourself and an overall mix of the total band and the vocals.

We plugged into the system, and with 10,000 people milling around on the floor looking at different wares the vendors had on display.  All we had to do was keep the audience at bay until the real star of the show got there.

Terry, Lynn, Ricky and myself just looked at each other, and we decided to pull the hammer down.  We started out with a Buffalo Springfield’s song,  entitled "Pretty Girl, Why".  Very slow and easy.  It was just the kind of song that the crowd would recognize, and it was away to get a sound check.  As we played, we kept signaling to the engineer to come up on the drums and bass.  Eventually, we had the mix we were use too.  Bass and drums up high and out front.

We didn't knock the house down, and we barely even got notice.  The crowd was still looking at the vendors products and we just stared at each other on  stage.

It was very obvious that we were not going to move these people in the least, and we just decided that we were going to play for ourselves, and to heck with everyone else.  Lynn took one look at me, and I in turn looked around at Ricky and we decided to go for broke.  Our second song was the rocker "Stove Gas" written by Lynn.  It was a crazy and wild tune.  Lynn had this Mosrite Wah Wah pedal that had a  build-in siren, and boy, that got the crowd's attention really fast. The old saying of never scream fire in a crowded theater would probably be true here.

We kept up the heat, and finally everyone realize that we were the one's on stage with the siren, they started to get into the music. But for a second there, I thought they were going to tear the exits downs trying to get out of there.

We didn't give the music a break, we immediately transcended in the next song, and keep the heat up.  By the time we had finished with our fifth song, we had the audience going crazy at the foot of the stage, and we were not ready to stop.

By this time, Johnny Rivers and his band had gathered at the sides of the stage entrances and were just looking at us.  It was about that time we started to end our set and give up the stage to Rivers. 

But the crowd had something else in mind.  They begin to chant "more, more, more" and we just stood there basking in the glory that the audience had chanted upon us.

I looked to the side of the stage and I saw Rivers, giving us the one more sign.  It was very genius of him and we decided to take full advantage of it.  We ended the night with Jimi Hendrix’s Stone Free.

When we got off the stage that evening, we new that we had accomplished something, but we didn't know what.  The girls were screaming and that was different.  We came home that night, and decided it was time for us to record a record.

Back in Rosamond at the first practice, we just could not believe what was going on.  It was just too much.  We were very high on life.  It was like we had won the first Super Bowl game.  After a couple of days, we had come down from our first taste of Hollywood.

The band had $500 in its treasurer chest which was under the protection of Mister Rocky Perrine.  We asked him if we could record and press the group a record.  Thus was born the label Heavy Rock Records named for Mister Perrine. 

Down at Cherokee Recording Studios in Hollywood, we recorded our first commercial record, Love, What A Bring Down and Terry’s Song.  I believe that everyone hated that record.  We should have recorded one of Lynn’s songs instead.  To this day, a copy of that record  still surfaces from time to time.

 

The beginning of football was here, and I was not eligible to play anymore.  Lynn went off to play football and Terry left the band to go back east for college.  The band was down to just the original players, Ricky and myself. 

As Purple Olive, we never played the Hollywood Teen Fair again. 

We decided to bring in Mark Montijo to replace Terry and then we decided on something radical, we wanted a new group and a new name.

Robert Mandolph, Jr., had a great voice.  On his commercial recordings, for Vault Records and Columbia Records, he used the name “Bobby Mandolph”.  Bobby was going to Antelope Valley College with the rest of us. 

Upon our next practice, the group had a meeting and we wanted to bring Bobby into the group as the lead vocalist.  Bobby wanted to bring into the band two other new members.  I guess Lynn and Bobby really didn’t get along, and Lynn wanted to play football and forget the business.  Lynn left after the first practice and never returned.

Bobby came from a very talented family.  Everyone in the Mandolph family played the piano and sing.  The Mandolphs arrived in California sometime around 1955, with Robert “Bumps” Blackwell.  They came straight to Los Angeles, where Mister Robert Mandolph Sr., played the keyboards for Sam Cooke, Bobby Womack, Lou Rawls and many others as a studio musician.

Bobby’s two brothers, Harold and Melvin were two handsome young men on a fast track with the ladies and partying  for their own good.   Hollywood had pushed the two brothers way off the tracks, and their greatest talent went into pushing needles into their arms.

But on the other hand, were their talented sister Margaret Mandolph who was the real ticket  to Hollywood.

With his wife, two children and $200 in cash, a young songwriter and arranger by the name of David Gates hit Los Angeles in late 1961. Within weeks he was playing weekly at a club in the San Fernando Valley called The Crossroads where Robert Mandolph, Sr., often played in the local jam sessions there which included a young Glen Campbell, fresh from Arkansas, Louisiana transplant James Burton, high school classmate Leon Russell, and such future session stars as Hal Blaine, Larry Knechtel, Steve Douglas and Jim Horn.

 

By late 1963, Gates as a songwriter had these songs for a girls type group.  Mister Mandolph told the young Gates about his 14 year old daughter Margaret.  With a couple of rehearsals at the club, Gates placed her in this girls group to record a couple of these demonstration songs.  He had written this charming little song entitled Popsicles and Icicles.  The record company loved the song so much that they wanted to release as it was.  So was born The Murmaids and a national top ten record. 

Gates was one of a kind.   He knew rock ‘n’ roll, country and rhythm & blues and classical music. By the end of the 1970’s Gates would arrange songs for Bobby Darin, Elvis Presley, Ann-Margaret, Duane Eddy, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Merle Haggard, Hoyt Axton, Bobby Vee, Buck Owens and Captain Beefheart.

For Steve McQueen’s movie theme Baby the Rain Must Fall, Gates came up with the captivating sound that became a Grammy nominated top-10 hit for Glenn Yarborough in 1965.

Gates would write and produce and record three single releases for Margaret on Dot Records as a solo artist.

By the end of the  1960’s, rock groups were the rage. Gates knew that the best way to get his songs recorded was to sing them himself. He formed Bread in 1968 with Jimmy Griffin and Robb Royer, with most of the hits coming from Gates. Beginning with his Make It With You, If, Baby, I’m-a Want You  and It Don’t Matter to Me in 1970.

Margaret Mandolph continued to write and record with her brother Bobby, but soon lost interest in the recording business, and by the end of 1969, Margaret moved to Oakland to finish her college degree.  She never really attempted to record again after her father passed away.

 

 

Kenneth Howard Smith - THIS BEAT IS MILITARY - From the VINYL KNIGHTS BOOK.

 Kenneth Howard Smith - THIS BEAT IS MILITARY - From the VINYL KNIGHTS BOOK.

THIS BEAT IS MILITARY

It was the year we lost Diane Boswell — a car accident took her life too soon. She was the preacher’s oldest daughter, one of five Boswell kids who made that long Sunday drive from San Fernando Valley to our little country church. George was my age, and his sisters, Diane and Joyce, brought the sparkle. Joyce especially — she liked me, and I liked her. She was from the city; I was a country boy with hay still in my hair. She made me feel like I was walking on clouds.

As time passed, church became more than a place of worship — it was where friendships deepened. Reggie and I, both fifteen and full of energy, started visiting Los Angeles, staying with Norman and Ramona Stancil. The Stancils had been our desert neighbors before their family split and moved to the city. Seeing them again was like stepping back into childhood — Norman teasing, Ramona stealing kisses in dark corners. Life was confusing and wonderful all at once.

With about fifty dollars saved between us, my first stop in L.A. was always the record shop by KGFJ Radio, where you could watch the DJ spinning live on air. Sometimes a famous artist dropped in to promote a new record, and you could even grab a signed copy. That’s where I met Ron and Kathy Holden — a friendship that would resurface years later in Seattle.

Then came my 19th birthday, marked by a head-on collision that nearly ended everything. I woke up in Antelope Valley Hospital, staring into the kindest brown eyes I’d ever seen — Mary Beth Broderson, a nurse’s aide who held my hand through the pain. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. We became inseparable for a time, our love woven with laughter, moon landings, and music. When Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon, I held Mary Beth close and whispered, “The eagle has landed.”

But life shifted. She moved on, and I turned to music to mend my heart. I wrote “Proud Mary Sunshine” and later merged it with another tune, “You Keep Holding Back.” Years later, that song found a home in England — proof that art has a way of surviving heartbreak.

Then came Kathy Holodnick — my “running buddy.” Together, we hit every concert and film in Hollywood. She was even featured on the cover of Seventeen Magazine. When she transferred to Valley State College, our paths began to drift apart.

I enrolled at UC Santa Barbara — right as protests ignited and bombs hit the registration building and Bank of America. Governor Reagan ended student deferments, and my draft notice soon followed. My parents tried everything, but there was no escaping it.

I thought about fleeing to Canada. My mother stopped me cold. She handed me her Bible and said, “If you go, you’ll be dead to your country — and to yourself.” She told me to serve, but wisely. That’s when I found Warrant Officer Martinkovic and turned toward the Air Force.

Around that time, I met the woman who changed everything — Irene Joanne Tarbell. She convinced me to play bass for Up With People’s Sing Out Antelope Valley, where she sang two solos that could melt stone. We’d spend weekends exploring caves and searching for Native relics. One night, overlooking the valley lights from a Palmdale hilltop, I told her I was going to be drafted — and that I wanted to marry her. She said yes before I even finished asking.

We married on March 28, 1970. I’ve never regretted it. Love changes, people grow, but that love was real.

Soon, I was on a bus headed to San Antonio for Air Force basic training. I’d dreamed of a desk job — something safe. Instead, I found myself facing drill sergeants who could’ve passed for Marines. “ALL YOU DICKHEADS OFF THE BUS!” was my welcome to Texas.

Boot camp was brutal: sleepless nights, endless drills, and a climate so humid it felt like walking through soup. But I made it through — stronger, leaner, and with one stripe up thanks to ROTC. My motivation was simple: Irene, pregnant and waiting back home. Her weekly letters, photos of her growing belly, and stories from Edwards Air Force Base Medical Center kept me steady.

When training ended, I received my assignment: Travis Air Force Base, California. Close enough to home to taste. I couldn’t pack fast enough.

Irene and I settled in Suisun City near the Pinole Straits. Life on $155 a month was tough, but we made it work. I got promoted quickly, but every new stripe brought me closer to Vietnam. I was writing for the base’s Information Office when the General himself commended my work. He asked me to call him “John” — a rare kindness in the military world. When he reassigned me to 60th Supply Squadron, I didn’t complain. It turned out to be a blessing.

There, Irene and I created one of the first computer databases on base — a simple COBOL and BASIC program to track personnel and inventory. When we ran it successfully for the first time, it was like launching a rocket. That little program saved the Air Force over 250,000 man-hours per quarter and was later adopted across multiple bases.

The Colonel offered me a chance to attend Officer Candidate School in computer systems — my dream. I studied hard, missed passing by one point, but stayed determined.

Then, life delivered its most beautiful surprise. On December 5, 1970, Irene went into labor early. Hours later, a nurse placed a tiny bundle in my arms — our daughter, Kristine Joanne Tarbell-Smith. Holding her, I realized I didn’t need medals or ranks to prove anything. I was already home.

Two weeks later, we took Kristine to Southern California so my father could hold his granddaughter. It was the last time he would.

Not long after, my orders came for Vietnam. I had tried to outsmart fate — but it found me anyway. Still, I faced it with pride. I had a wife I loved, a daughter I adored, and a story worth telling.

This beat was military — but the rhythm was life itself.

VINYL KNIGHTS - THE SUMMER THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING - BY KENNETH HOWARD SMITH

 

THE SUMMER THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

BY KENNETH HOWARD SMITH

August 1965 will forever shine in my memory. That summer, my family and I traveled to my father’s hometown of Marlin, Texas — a place that seemed to hum with family, faith, and music. It felt like everyone in town was related to me. I couldn’t walk a block without bumping into a cousin — one was the Chief of Police, another the mayor, and plenty of others filled respected roles in the community.

For a sixteen-year-old from the high deserts of Rosamond, California, Marlin felt like another world — warm, alive, and brimming with Southern hospitality. The air hung thick and sweet, the kind of humid heat that makes a teenager notice both himself and the world around him in a new way.

With time on my hands, I spent hours browsing the local record shops, soaking up every new sound I could find. Music spoke to me like nothing else, and I was determined to learn its language. Marlin was steeped in gospel and R&B — rhythms I rarely heard back home, where Country & Western ruled the airwaves.

One hot afternoon, I stumbled across a record bin that seemed different. Fifty copies of a single 45 sat gleaming on bright yellow labels — D-TOWN RECORDS — shouting from the black block letters. The artist was Lee Rogers, and the song was “I Want You to Have Everything.”

As the day cooled and the shop filled, I watched people — mostly older women — rush to buy the record. In minutes, ten copies were gone. I stood there, spellbound. Something clicked in me. This was what I wanted to do — not just make music, but move people with it. I had already been writing and recording songs in my family’s garden shack back in California. But that moment — watching a small-town crowd respond to a song with such passion — sealed my fate. I made a quiet promise to myself that I would meet Lee Rogers one day.

Fourteen years later, that promise came true. I would not only meet him but become his songwriter and producer.

---

LEE ROGERS: THE MAN BEHIND THE MUSIC

Lee Rogers was born Rogers Craton on December 15, 1942, in southern Mississippi. His young mother, unmarried and full of dreams, was sent north to Detroit — like so many others seeking both refuge and opportunity.

Detroit, with its deep gospel roots and growing R&B pulse, shaped Lee. He was a gifted athlete in school, even making the Michigan State Championship team at Brewster High in 1957 — and shooting the winning basket that made him a local hero. But his real calling came through music.

Encouraged by local DJ Jack Sorrell, Lee formed a group called The Peppermints. They won a televised talent show, catching the attention of businesswoman Carmen C. Murphy, founder of the House of Beauty cosmetics line — and soon, the gospel-based HOB Records label. Murphy’s studio was a breeding ground for Detroit’s future legends. Rev. James Cleveland recorded there, and a young Berry Gordy Jr. passed through, gathering experience that would soon birth Motown itself.

Lee found early success with songs like “I Want You to Have Everything,” “I’m a Practical Guy,” and “Just You and I.” When HOB’s focus shifted and labels changed hands, he kept moving — eventually recording “Love Bandit” for Loadstone Records in 1972, which stormed the R&B charts alongside another new act: Sly & The Family Stone.

---

MOTOWN AND BEYOND

Lee later moved to Hollywood, where he teamed up with songwriter Jimmy Holliday, co-writer of Jackie DeShannon’s #1 hit “Put a Little Love in Your Heart.” Around this same time, I was working with ABC Records, and fate brought Lee, Jimmy, and me together. That meeting became one of the most important creative partnerships of my career.

Under Motown’s Gwen and Glenn Productions, Lee, R.G. Ingersoll, and I signed on as writers and producers. Our world expanded overnight — parties with Berry Gordy’s family, collaborations with some of the greatest voices in Detroit. The Motown experience was electric. The expectations were sky-high — Gwen Gordy Fuqua famously told me, “This house was built with smash records. I want smashes, not hits.”

Lee’s artistry carried us forward. Even when opportunities shifted or egos clashed, he stayed focused on the music. His energy inspired others — from up-and-coming groups like Papa’s Results to established acts across the Motown roster.

---

THE INDEPENDENT SPIRIT

By the mid-1970s, Lee faced serious health challenges, but he never stopped creating. He founded Soul ’N’ Rock Records, where we released “Disco Boogie” and “Double Love Situation.” With help from Wolfman Jack, the record hit the airwaves — a vindication for Lee after years of fighting to be heard.

Even when Motown turned cold, Lee’s determination burned hot. He went on to produce rising artists like Cardella DiMilo, whose debut single “Gimme Whatcha Promised Me” charted under Claridge Records, led by Frank Slay. Claridge went on to score one of the last great independent label hits in history with “Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You” by Sugarloaf — part of the wave that Lee helped inspire.

His influence ran deep. Musicians who worked with him remembered his golden voice, his discipline, and his quiet fire. When Lee performed live — whether in Detroit or Los Angeles — he owned the stage. He didn’t need charm school or polish; he had authenticity. The kind that can’t be taught.

---

LEGACY OF A SOUL MAN

Lee Rogers was more than an artist — he was a bridge between the raw gospel traditions of the South and the polished soul of Motown. He stood tall among those who helped shape a sound that defined an era.

For me, it all started that hot summer in Marlin, Texas — the day I found his record in that yellow bin. I couldn’t have imagined then that our paths would cross, that we’d write songs together, or that I’d witness firsthand his journey from hopeful dreamer to legendary soul man.

Lee’s music, his courage, and his humanity still echo — a reminder that great art comes from resilience, love, and the belief that music really can change everything.

---

Would you like me to format this version for print — like a magazine feature or book chapter layout (with subheads, pull quotes, and short intro paragraph)? It’d give it a clean, professional look ready for publication.