Chapter 7: That’s All Right (Mama)

Stay Tuned to see how I fared as a DJ after this inconspicuous start.  Minor Spoiler Alert: I would do pretty well.

The first song I played on-air in Amory was by Elvis, That’s All Right.

Well that’s all right mama

That’s all right for you

That’s all right mama, just any way you do,

Well that’s all right, that’s all right

That’s all right now mama, any way you do

Well Mama, she done told me, Papa done told me too

Son, that girl you’re foolin’ with

She ain’t no good for you

But that’s all right now mama, any way you do

I’m leavin’ town, baby

I’m leavin’ town for sure

Well, then you won’t be bothered with

Me hanging ‘round your door

Well, that’s all right, that’s all right

That’s all right mama, anyway you do

Ah dala dee dee deelee

Dee dee deelee Dee dee deelee, I need your lovin

That’s all right,

That’s all right mama, anyway you do

(A regional hit for Elvis and a former blues record by its author, Andrew Crudup.)

Some, in the music world, would later make a case That’s Alright (Mama) was the first Rock ‘n’ Roll record.

From our old farmhouse, Momma got up early to fix my breakfast and pack my lunch. Dale was providing his ’37 Chevy without power brakes or steering for my twenty-five-minute drive — half on gravel roads — southwest to Amory for my 6 a.m. sign-on.

Momma was constantly reminding me not to hang out with the wrong crowd. And that included the son of Bro. McLeod, Johnny, who was known to hang out at the pool hall in Amory. It was off-limits, considered a sin by our church and others, as gambling might be going on.

Playing cards and dancing was also prohibited by our church and Momma had a rule about playing with toy guns, she didn’t allow it. Because kids pretended to shoot each other with them.

I asked Bro. McLeod for his blessing as working on Sunday would rule out my attendance at church. If this was something I really wanted as a career, he said he was fine with it, and besides, I was airing religious programs on Sunday.

One of the Sunday morning features on WAMY was an African-American singing group, “The Spiritual Mourning Doves,” a gospel quartet. They had a 15-minute show at 9 a.m.

Typically, they paid the $5.00 fee with crumbled-up one-dollar bills and coins. They were amazing singers and harmonizers. They did not stop when their time was up, so I usually kept them on-air for a couple of extra minutes, then slowly faded out their music.

The Blackwood Brothers came to Amory for a show, and I was assigned to do a remote for WAMY. The brothers were a quartet who sang gospel songs and were very popular throughout the South. As a young Christian boy, meeting and interviewing the brothers was an unexpected honor.

Elvis had seen them perform at the First Assembly of God church in Memphis. The Blackwood Bros. would sing backup on two gospel albums recorded by Elvis.

I was never late for work or failed to get the transmitter on the air, and the manager actually complimented my performance as a DJ. He even said I had a radio voice. That was before, one day, trying hard to sound like a big-time DJ, I called Amory the windy city just like Larry LuJack on WLS referred to Chicago.

The equipment at WAMY wasn’t exactly state of the art. So, if I had to be away from the control board for a while, I’d turn the modulation especially low. A preacher might got carried away with a hallelujah — loud enough to overpower the transmitter — and knock the station off the air.

After a Sunday morning of religious programming, I was always anxious to play some Rock ‘n’ Roll. The only thing that stood in my way this morning was one last live church service from The First Baptist of Amory.  

For them to go on-air at the appointed time, I inserted a cable that allowed them to hear the WAMY broadcast on a speaker at the church. This Sunday morning was no different, and their service began as usual.

Anxious for the service to end, I forgot to remove the cable, meaning the speaker would transmit my broadcast in the church. As was my luck, a funeral was to commence immediately after their service.

The first thing the mourners heard was my over-the-top introduction of Jimmy Gilmer’s Sugar Shack kicking off the afternoon of Rock. Did I mention that my boss was in attendance at Amory’s First Baptist on this very morning?

So, when the bereaved were serenaded with: “There’s a crazy little shack beyond the tracks . . .” my boss was none too happy. His tone might have been harsher had he not been calling me from the pastor’s study.  I think he knew I got the message, and Mr. Boren never brought it up again.

I sold advertising that allowed the replay (of games I’d announced) of Hatley High School Football games on WAMY. None of the larger schools had done that; WAMY would have been their only source.

I was popular at school, my grades were improving. And the girls were taking notice — calling me — and asking me to play records for them.

I knew my fortunes had changed when I got a date with pretty Eunice Melcher. She was going semi-steady with the biggest jock in our high school, Woddie Gregory.

We went to WAMY’s Christmas party at our sister station in West Point. It was the most fun we’d had on a date thus far.

I mostly shunned the girls at Hatley. I was dating girls from other and larger schools. Take that, Brenda Nell.

I was elected President of the Student Body (about 300 members) at Hatley High School, beating Jimmy Lynn, a popular and studious student with the last name of Carter.

I was even appreciated more at Hatley Missionary Baptist Church. Bro. McLeod remembered me in his prayers, asking that my work be blessed. Could it get any better?

I thought back to when a considerate relative, knowing I rarely got a soft drink, brought me a six-pack of those small six-ounce bottles of Coca-Cola® on a Friday afternoon when I was about 11. My brother was fond of telling people, in a lighthearted manner, that I finished the last bottle just before leaving for church Sunday morning.

I had guzzled 36 ounces of that cold carbonated sweet delight — secret recipe — tasting of vanilla and cinnamon in less than 48 hours. Now, I could afford an entire case of Coke and drink as much as I wanted.

~~

A girl had been calling me on Sunday mornings at WAMY, telling me I was a great DJ and eventually proclaiming her love for me. Joy said she looked a lot like Brenda Lee (Popular singer of hits such as I Want to be Wanted).  I told her I looked a lot like Elvis.

Lynn, the older woman receptionist (maybe twenty-two) at WAMY, took an interest in looking out for me. She no doubt saw me as an immature 15-year-old who would need some direction. 

Joy and I had talked for hours at a time (while the religious programming aired) every Sunday morning over several weeks; then, suddenly, the calls stopped.

Lynn knew about Joy, my telephone girlfriend. But when a Southern Bell investigator called, she denied knowing about the phone calls. He said they had been made to the station’s telephone emanating from Memphis. They amounted to several hundred dollars in long-distance charges. I assumed that Joy’s mother had finally learned of the phone bill and was none too happy.

Joy was lonely and needed someone to talk with, and I was more than willing. I later heard that she was racked with polio and pretty much housebound.  I’m sure Joy was heartbroken about our telephone break up. I know I was. I loved her a little as well. I never heard from her again. Well, so much for the egotistical DJ.

But my absolute joy was the music; I could hardly wait for one record to end so I could put on the next one. And I never imagined that soon I would introduce to my audience a musical phenomenon: The Fab Four from Liverpool and the British invasion.

While filling in for others on a weekday shift at WAMY, I was excited that a doctor had called my show to request a song. I told Lynn immediately that Dr. Murphy wanted to hear Where Did Our Love Go (by The Supremes.)  She said, “I’ll bet he does,” as she filled me in on a bit of gossip.

Then, a few days later, Lynn burst into the control room just as the “On-Air” light flickered out. “Don, you won’t believe this, you have fan mail from New York City!” (The largest radio market in the US.), she cried out. They had tuned in long enough to describe the songs I played, remembered my name and our call letters. 

Everyone at the station was excited. It was good for WAMY. Advertisers at the local furniture store, Brassfield-Horn, would now indeed have wealthy New Yorkers as customers.

Take that, Jr. High bullies enjoying a good laugh at my expense just a few years earlier. “Hey Swan’s Down Shit-mix (Vulgar spin of the then-popular Swan’s Down Cake Mix), you’re wearing my old T-shirt; you know how I know?” With everyone anticipating his response, the bully said, “I used to rub my sweat off on the sleeve, and the stain’s still there.” Everyone except me on the crowded school bus thought it was pretty funny and had a good laugh.

The last I heard about the bully, he was picking cotton as an inmate at the infamous Parchman State Penitentiary in Mississippi.

Getting to WAMY now, I had the use of my brother’s almost new black VW Beetle with bucket seats and four on the floor.  

Dale had a company truck, so between him and Momma, it was decided that I should use the VW as a safer mode of travel.  Although not great for taking a date to the Drive-In or streetlight showdowns, I was very appreciative. 

With $1.25 an hour for my WAMY job and without rent or car payments, I had sufficient money for gas and enough for as many dates as possible, at least two or three a week.

When I was about ten years old, our school bus driver, Jimmy Dale Parham, stopped by Miller’s (country store) before finishing his route. A portable radio suspended from the rearview mirror played All Shook Up by Elvis.

He returned to the bus, sat in the driver’s seat and removed about half of the white and blue wrapper with red lettering of his 3.6oz. Baby Ruth®. Holding it awkwardly on the steering wheel with his right hand, he slowly bit into his 5-cent bounty. Jimmy Dale chewed on that beautiful bar — my mouth watering with envy — for maybe 20 minutes.

I sat there staring and dreaming of the day I could walk into a store and get one of my own six-inch wonders. I couldn’t wait to bite into one of those bars of candy with roasted peanuts, coconut oil, and caramel nougat covered with luscious chocolate. Now, I could afford to buy the whole display.

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