Road Tales - Rode Hard - Hats Off To Larry

I've had many thrilling adventures in this long career, none as fulfilling as my time with Charley Westover - better known as Del Shannon of Runaway fame.

Happy Birthday, old friend.

Hats Off

Some tales have to be told from beginning to end in a single chapter in order for them to make sense. Like the story of my connection to Charles Westover.

Sergeant Major Blackwater met Private Westover in Germany in 1955. Charles had been drafted into the Army the previous year and wound up in Sgt. Blackwater’s platoon. It wasn’t long before the Private learned that Sunshine Blackwater knew several rising Country & Western stars and had actually saved the life of Grandpa Jones of Grand Ole Opry fame. An aspiring guitarist and singer, Charley was eager to talk to the veteran sergeant but felt intimidated by the difference in age and rank, plus the rumours of Dad’s exploits in World War II. The six-foot Indian struck an impressive profile to the young troops in his charge. Dad didn’t take shit from privates.

Sgt. Blackwater was a battle-hardened veteran of Omaha Beach, the Battle of the Bulge, and the liberation of Death Camp survivors. Those experiences toughened Dad and caused him to be tough on the troops in his command. He could be a very disquieting force in those days. He did everything he could to ensure that his men were equipped mentally and physically to deal with the types of horrors that he experienced at the tender age of 19. He watched too many of his comrades be blown apart beside him. Allowing his troops to be lax or undertrained would doom them. He wasn’t about to have that on his conscience. They would be trained. They would be ready. Being soft on them was tantamount to signing their death warrant.

A tense distance existed between Private and Sergeant until one night when Sunshine discovered that Charles Westover was playing and singing in a band named The Cool Flames at a German Biergarten. The problem was that Charley had not informed his platoon sergeant (my Dad) or sought his permission, a serious transgression. He could face significant disciplinary action all the way up to courts martial. Charley’s fate was in my Dad’s hands.

Charles Westover was blessed with a great voice. He grew up listening to the greats of country and western music. His set list included all the greats that Dad loved. Years later, Dad confirmed that it was Charley’s performance of So Lonesome I Could Cry that saved the Private’s ass. Dad loved Hank Williams. The kid’s fate changed with that song from stockade resident (jail) to “house mouse” (most favoured status in military terms – I don’t get the term either). Private Westover’s remaining term in the Army became an extended German holiday after that night. Dad could always recognize a future star when he saw one.

I knew none of this as I was two years old at the time. I was shipped off to live on the Red Cliff reservation with Granny Blackwater during Dad’s two-year-long remote assignment. All I remember is snow and big silvery dogs that Granny called wolves.

Eleven years later found me playing with Kenny Black at an outdoor show at the Pabst Theater in Milwaukee for St. Patrick’s Day. We were the warm up band to a series of featured acts. The Pabst was one of those grand old time theaters built for live plays and musical events before the advent of moving picture shows. Vaudeville, opera, plays, concerts, and polka festivals had all been hosted in the Pabst.

Bedecked with red velvet featuring silver and gold accents, with a giant maroon curtain made of the heaviest cloth on earth, the Pabst was referred to as the “Grand Olde Lady.”

“Fucking Rachmaninoff played on this stage, Armond,” said Kenny Black – as if I wasn’t intimidated enough by the grandeur of the entertainment palace. “Sir Lawrence Olivier performed Shakespeare on this stage.”

Ok, now I was really freaking out. What business did I have being there? Stage fright began to settle in, paranoia, neurosis, and panic. It was sink or swim time again, but this was more like being dropped in the middle of the Pacific than Cranberry Lake. In Dad’s military terms I wasn’t sure if I should shit or go blind.

The bands that preceded us weren’t very good, which helped my nerves a little. Kenny Black detected my state and offered sage advice, “Just act like you’ve been here before.”

“You’re not nervous?” I inquired.

“I’m more nervous,” Ken paused as he recalled the military cliché, “Than a dog shitting razorblades. Think about it.”

What the hell did that even mean? Even the dumbest dog that lived wouldn’t eat razorblades. Why would he be shitting them? Freakishly, his words comforted me.

Our set came and I was still nervous. I was late on a couple of chord changes and muffed a transitional riff or two, but settled down after a couple of songs. The Hammond covered most of my mistakes. I loved my Hammond. It always makes me sound way better than I actually am.

In the crowd I saw Dad talking to this young, very handsome guy in front of the stage. I didn’t recognize him as any of Dad’s recent troops but the military relationship between the two was unmistakable. They clinked Pabst Blue Ribbon cans several times while occasionally pointing at me.

Loading Zone covered popular tunes in our own way. During the set we played Runaway, a song that I really liked because it featured me on organ playing a solo that was hot for the day. I worked non-stop to perfect the ride and nailed it that day – note for note.

After our set, Dad brought the cat backstage to meet the band and his son. “This is Charley Westover, an old friend,” said Dad.

“Great sound, guys. Call me Del,” he said as he shook our hands. “Super job on Runaway, guys. It gave me chills. Armond, you played Max’s part perfectly.”

What the fuck is this guy talking about? I thought Max? There are times when I am really slow catching on. This was one of them.

Kenny Black broke the mystery, “You’re Del Shannon.” Kenny snapped his head back and forth rapidly and stuck out his meaty hand for a shake. I finally put it together. This was the cat that wrote and recorded Runaway.  Wow.

Del invited us to join him in the VIP area behind the big stage. I was excited to meet Max Crook, the composer of the keyboard parts on Runaway and the rest of Del’s songs. Max wasn’t there. He didn’t like to tour. His thing was recording and inventing. The instrument playing the solo on Runaway was Max’s invention that he called the Musitron – an early music synthesizer.

“What you driving these days, Sunshine,” Del asked.             “1957 Pontiac Chiefton Wagon,” replied Dad, “How about you?”

“A Bonneville Convertible that I love and a Thunderbird and a Corvette and a few old classic trucks and a Woody.”

I marveled at the man talking about multiple vehicles whereas my Dad had trouble keeping one rusty car running. I was still years away from a driver’s license. This was all cool stuff to me at that age.        Del motioned to a cat that was approaching with a beer in one hand and a bowl of gumbo in the other. “Hey, Bob, I want to meet some friends of mine. This big guy was my First Shirt in Germany and this is his son, Armond.”

Bob shook our hands. The cat had a great feel, a genuine glad-to-meet-you aura. And I felt the connection to another keyboard player immediately. There is a way that we engage our fingers in a handshake that is unmistakable. Bob smiled as he realized it too.

“You play?” he asked. It wasn’t really a question.

I smiled and nodded in affirmation.

“Bob is filling in for Max. Max refuses to tour, loves Lansing,” Del said. “I talked him into a few gigs in Ohio, but he loathes travelling as far as Chicago.

“The problem is that Bob is leaving soon. Max is a great producer and is working with Bob on an album of his own.”

Bob was a pretty quiet dude, very humble, very sweet, genuine, yet quite engaging at the same time. I talked with him a bit while Del and Dad exchanged stories about their exploits in Germany.

“Wha-da-ya play,” asked Bob.

“Hammond A-105 with a 147 Leslie,” I responded.

“Sweet, man,” said Bob. “Stock Leslie?”

“She has a few modifications,” I confided. “The cat that owned it prior to me beefed her up. She really screams.”

“There’s nothing like the sound of a B through a Leslie,” Bob declared.

Then, Charley asked Dad if he could borrow me for a few upcoming gigs. Dad agreed without hesitation. Del gave me a stack of wax to take home and memorize. I subsequently spent hours learning the songs inside-out. Eventually, I wound up backing Del frequently for the next decade.

Del would pick me up if it was gig local to Superior or send someone to fetch me to the concert site. All the songs were very simple once I caught onto Max Crook’s style. The gigs were great fun and Del paid me $250 cash for each show. $250 for a show was huge money at the time. It was half of my father’s military pension. It provided funds for me to acquire more equipment and obtain guitar lessons.

Then, there were the perks of performing with a cat that was a major babe magnet. I didn’t mind handling the overflow, though I was at the bottom in pecking order (or peckering order, as it was). Even fifth in line wound up with a beautiful babe. They wanted to be close to Del. I’m not sure if they thought they could work their way up to the star by bedding his band or if they simply got off on being close enough. Either way, it worked well for me.

The cat I replaced, Bob Segar, had a big hit with his original Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man, produced by Max Crook in 1968, but then his career stalled. He quit the music business and went back to college. I’m not sure whatever became of him. I heard he went on to do commercials and such.

For the next several years I played keys for Del Shannon whenever schedules allowed. Del continued to write new material, looking for that next big hit.

Meanwhile, we toured playing Del’s old hits to crowds at county fairs, university mixers, and packed clubs throughout Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, and Michigan.

A few years ago while playing with Spade McQuade I met a cat who remembered me from the olden days. “Didn’t I see you playing with Del Shannon back in the mid-sixties?” inquired Michael Murphy. I remembered the wry smile and the twinkle in the eyes of this distinguished Irish gentleman.

“Yes, I did play with Del back then,” I replied wondering how the hell this guy remembered me from 40 years ago. He went on to describe the club, the show we did, and even what I was drinking at the time. I am still a sideman playing for a big star yet Murph’s remembrance caused me to realize that I do make a lasting impression on people as an entertainer. Murph was a bartender at the time and remembered me as a warm soul with great talent. I am always humbled when folks refer to me like that. I remember Murph as a great talker with wonderful stories that he shared freely. Oh, and that he didn’t mind serving minors in the least. Then again, this was the sixties.  

Del tried to promote his new songs even though the fickle American taste had moved on and Charles Westover was about as suited to the hippie generation as was my Dad. The slicked-back days of the greaser were over. Romantic nights necking in the front seat of gleaming Detroit convertible with rolled leather seats were lost to the napalm nightmare that was Viet Nam. Del didn’t have a protest song in him. He had nothing to protest. He had all that America could offer… for a time. He rode the wave while it was there, hanging ten all the way. But all waves reach shore eventually and either you step off the board or you crash. Del hung fast until the board hit unforgiving sand and he was thrown ass-over-tea-kettle onto the beach.

I saw a minor parallel between Del and my Dad. Del skyrocketed to fame with his songs. Sunshine Blackwater helped blow up the wall on Omaha Beach, Normandy, France, providing a breach that led to victory over the Nazi’s in France. Ok, so that is a bit of a stretch in comparison. My point is that each achieved a pinnacle of success that was impossible to top.

I lost track of Del in the mid 70’s, having last played with him in late 1972 in Platteville, WI., thought of him often over the next decade, but wasn’t able to contact him.

I was stunned and shocked in 1990 when Dad called with the disturbing news that Del had committed suicide.