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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

The New Sharecroppers of the Digital Age

 

The New Sharecroppers of the Digital Age

By Kenneth Howard Smith, ThD., for SDCNewsOne

Once, sharecropping meant tilling someone else’s land—doing the labor, producing the value, and watching most of the profit flow upward to the landowner. Today, the same dynamic plays out in feeds and timelines instead of cotton fields.

“Digital sharecropping,” a term that’s begun to circulate among critics of the modern internet, describes how millions of users—content creators, influencers, even small businesses—pour their creativity and labor into platforms they don’t control. Their posts, videos, and stories generate enormous engagement and revenue, but the land they work on—Facebook, YouTube, Instagram, TikTok—belongs entirely to the corporate landlord.

The platforms harvest the data, sell the ads, and dictate the terms. Creators are left tending virtual fields that could be wiped clean at any moment by an algorithm tweak or a policy change. Entire livelihoods can vanish overnight, not from lack of talent or effort, but because a digital landlord closed the gate.

The parallel to the 19th-century system is more than metaphor. Like sharecroppers dependent on the landowner for credit and supplies, today’s creators depend on platforms for distribution and visibility. Their followers aren’t truly theirs—they belong to the platform’s infrastructure.

This wasn’t the internet’s original dream. In the early days of the web, owning your own domain or publishing through an independent blog meant you controlled your audience, your message, and your data. Now, convenience has replaced autonomy. Building an audience through a personal website or newsletter takes time; a TikTok clip can go viral overnight.

The tradeoff is subtle but steep: convenience for control, reach for permanence.

Some creators are waking up to that cost. A quiet migration is underway toward independent newsletters, personal websites, and decentralized platforms. Others stay put, knowing that the crowd—the attention economy itself—still lives on rented land.

For now, the field remains fertile. But the lesson, as old as the soil itself, still stands: if you don’t own the land, the harvest isn’t truly yours.

The Learning Story of 1873: Seeds of Renewal

The year 1873 cracked open like a fault line in America’s rise. The nation’s stock market had collapsed, and with it, the dreams of thousands of railroad men. Miles of track lay rusting in the sun—iron veins gone cold. Among those who saw possibility where others saw ruin was Hattie Robinson Green, the so-called Witch of Wall Street, a woman both feared and admired for her brilliance. While others panicked, she bought.

From the wreckage, she gathered land, rail, and dust—assets abandoned by greed. One gift she gave to her son, Colonel Edwin P. Greene, then just twenty-three and already a disciplined officer in the U.S. Army. It wasn’t gold or factories. It was a forgotten stretch of railway: two miles of track and the promise of towns scattered along the Texas horizon.

Greene traveled west by private coach to see what, exactly, he’d inherited. On the road, he met another traveler—Dr. George Washington Carver, a quiet man with a pack of seeds and ideas that would someday feed nations. Carver was bound for Alabama, to teach freedmen how to farm new life from exhausted soil. The two men shared a campfire and the kind of conversation that shifts destinies.

Carver warned of the Boll Weevil, a small, determined insect moving through the South, devouring cotton at a hundred miles a year. The land, he said, was tired. The cotton monoculture was bleeding it dry. “Plant the peanut,” Carver told him. “It heals the earth while it feeds the people.”

When they parted at the fork in the road, each man carried the other’s thought like a seed pocketed in the mind.

Colonel Greene reached El Paso and looked over the ghostly rails and towns that now belonged to him. He saw the same thing Carver had seen: tired land. The farmers along his lines clung to cotton, even as the weevil came. But Greene had seen the map of the future—and he began to turn his railroad into a lifeline.

Each stop became a station of learning. Farmers traded cotton for peanuts, corn, and alfalfa. The towns became small laboratories of resilience. He brought in teachers and scientists, many trained under Carver’s methods. Baseball fields were carved beside the tracks—small, bright ovals of joy amid the work, where the rhythm of the bat and ball met the rhythm of planting and harvest.

By the turn of the century, Greene’s network of experiment stations and teaching farms formed the living root of what would become the United States Department of Agriculture. He would serve as its first director—a soldier who learned from a scientist that the true defense of a nation begins with its soil.

The lesson for mankind: progress rarely begins in wealth or invention alone. It begins when one person listens—truly listens—to another whose truth grows from the ground up. The meeting of Greene and Carver was a passing moment between a man of means and a man of purpose, but from it sprouted an idea: that healing the land and feeding the people are one and the same act of civilization.

When we think of the future, we’d do well to remember that every age of crisis hides its own seeds. Some are made of iron, others of earth—but both need vision to grow.

- 30 -

Digital Sharecropping Isn't Freedom

What is Digital Sharecropping?

Digital sharecropping is a term that was coined around 20 years ago as a warning to people who were using the new social networks that if they didn't pay for the product, they WERE the product. 

Sharecropping was a system that arose in post-Civil War America to make it appear that former slaves were now free. It involved allowing them to live on and farm land in return for a share of their crops. But most were forced to take out loans, often at exorbitantly high interest, from the landowners to cover supplies and living costs. This left them trapped in a cycle of debt that amounted to a new kind of bondage.

Similar systems have operated in different countries in a way that looked generous but in operation kept people poor and dependent on landowners for their safety. 

How many people now are reliant on digital sharecropping for a living? They have monetised their interactions on social networks, betting their living on their ability to stay on the right side of the algorithm, for a share of the crop they planted in the fields of Meta or X or TikTok. 

But those 'farms' can go away. Your ability to plant crops in them can be removed in a heartbeat if you use a banned word or fall on the wrong side of an ever-changing algorithm. Your account could be closed. But they would still own your crops. Meta, for instance, is now feeding all your pics and words into AI unless you specifically opt out. They're still getting fat off your crops whether you're there or not. 

 

It's Time To Get Your Own Farm

You need your own place, that you own, where you can plant whatever crops you want and keep ALL of them. 

I use Kajabi. I built this blog, all my courses, my community, my newsletter, my email list, and even my podcast in it. 

When people click a 'link in bio' most don't have a website now. That means that most Influencers, Creators, and Solopreneurs are digital sharecroppers who've swapped the life of being imprisoned in a cubicle for a life imprisoned in an algorithm. 

You have a voice! Use it while you still know who you are! 

Part of having your own website is that you have a way to make money that isn't tied to social media. But another big part of it is that it gives you back to yourself. You begin to remember, or learn for the first time, what the golden days of the online space were like. You build something within your control, where the only limits are your imagination. 

Would you like to do that for 30 days for free? This is a limited offer, so if you click the link and it's gone then you left it too late but if it's there, grab it!! You deserve a month of knowing how it feels to be a true online home owner. When you decide to build your digital home via my affiliate link, I'll thank you for supporting my vision by granting you 3 wishes. 

Simply hit 'reply' on the email you get when you go through my link and ask me your top 3 questions about Kajabi or any topic on this site, and I'll give you tips to get you started. 

I believe in you!

Rebecca Bardess

VINYL KNIGHTS - THE COLLEGE CONNECTION - BY KENNETH HOWARD SMITH

 THE COLLEGE CONNECTION 

By Kenneth Howard Smith

Ritchie and Don Podolor’s recording studios once sat proudly on the Studio City side of the Hollywood Hills — a creative hub where music dreams met California sunshine. Years later, their mother sold the land to actress Jennie Lee Harris of Three’s Company and Dallas fame, who turned it into a shopping center. But back when the tape reels still spun, that place was electric.

In those days, our desert radio station, KUTY, could be picked up loud and clear in North Hollywood. My voice carried over those airwaves so often that, to some folks, I’d become a familiar sound — and to a few others, a surprising one.

My first encounter with Don Podolor happened at Antelope Valley College. He came through with a handful of rising acts under his wing, and we hit it off instantly. Before long, we were teaming up on shows like we’d been doing it for years. Our early bookings included Eric Burdon and the Animals, followed by Iron Butterfly. Then came Don’s next idea — a comeback show for Rick Nelson, whose new single Garden Party had yet to find radio airplay.

After convincing my council members and getting Sue O’Connor’s signature on the deal, I found myself holding a box of 100 promo singles from Decca Records and a challenge: make the world care again about Rick Nelson.

So I did what any hungry promoter would do. I got in my green ’68 Volkswagen Bug, loaded with singles, flyers, and a stubborn sense of purpose, and I hit the road. Bakersfield. Ventura. Santa Barbara. Barstow. San Bernardino. I stopped at every country station I could find, handing out Garden Party records like they were gold. I even made copies of homemade flyers — courtesy of my side job in the college English department — and slipped them into grocery bags at night, urging folks to call their favorite stations and request the song.

In Bakersfield, at the crack of dawn, I met Jeff Johnson — the bleary-eyed DJ, engineer, and music director of the top country station in Central California. He wasn’t exactly eager to listen, but after some friendly prodding (and a small wager), he agreed to spin Garden Party once.

When the song hit the airwaves, something magical happened: the phone lines lit up. One call, then five, then ten. Every listener but one loved it. Jeff grinned, cued it up again, and gave Rick Nelson his first big push back onto the charts. Within weeks, Garden Party broke into Billboard’s Hot 100 — thanks not to sales, but to sheer turntable power. And just like that, one small-town college concert became part of music history.

We booked Rick Nelson for $2,000 — a steal — with Poco featuring Richie Furay as his backup band. The show was a triumph, and our confidence soared.

The next local poll asked for Stan Kenton, so we brought him too. The crowd was small but the music was glorious — a swing through the 1940s that still felt alive. Even in the loss, I learned something about risk, taste, and timing.

Don came back soon after with two more deals: Ike and Tina Turner, and a new act called the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band — plus a young comedian named Steve Martin. I hesitated on the unknowns, but we took the gamble. It paid off big.

Years later, I met Tina again in the Hollywood Hills, newly free and rebuilding her life. The spark was there — the strength, the focus — even when the world hadn’t yet caught back on. By the time she hit Seattle in 1983, opening with Let’s Stay Together, the comeback had begun.

There were other victories too. While at KUTY, I was the first DJ to play Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World,” a record that would sell six million copies and earn a Grammy nomination. That moment launched my own reputation — the guy who broke the record.

From there, doors opened fast. I worked with Steppenwolf, B.W. Stevenson, Jimmy Buffett, and others. I learned from legends like Leroy Lovett, who went on to found Birthright Records, and Denny Rosencrantz at Mercury Records — a man whose ponytail and instincts both belonged in rock folklore.

Denny once took Etta James’s I’d Rather Go Blind — a record I’d brought in for Billy Foster — and handed it to Rod Stewart. Rod recorded it for Every Picture Tells a Story, an album that sold over ten million copies.

By 1969, my world had shifted again. A car accident sidelined my football career, but it didn’t stop the music. Hollywood’s lights began to move closer, and I found myself exactly where I’d always wanted to be — right in the mix, where persistence meets opportunity.

That’s what The College Connection was really about: one student, one radio signal, and a belief that a single record — if pushed hard enough and loved deeply enough — could change everything.