04- How I Met The Man Who Killed The King Of Rock And Roll

How I Met The Man Who Killed The King Of Rock And Roll

  

It was November 1965. I was a sophomore at Memphis State living in the North Hall dormitory and playing in a new band called “Me and the Rest”.

One morning I woke up and noticed a pain in my lower right leg that ran up the inside of my thigh. It hurt but it wasn’t bad enough at the time to even cause a limp, so I ignored it, got dressed and went to class.

As the morning wore on and the pain and swelling in my leg increased, I began to run a fever. By the early afternoon I was really out of it but the band had to play that night on campus for a sorority dance. It was an important commitment that had to be honored. I gave it my best shot. I remember beginning the first set and that’s about it. I was sitting behind the organ so, when I collapsed, I guess I didn’t fall too far. Someone took me back to the dorm and put me to bed. When I awoke the next morning I remember feeling pretty bad and thinking a shower might help.

I didn’t really pass out, because I can remember being in the hot shower and falling, and then being on my back, and people yelling, but I hit the floor pretty hard anyway. The brunt of the fall had been taken by my right elbow, sustaining a rather large gash. I rolled onto my back, draping my arm across my body, where the bleeding wound came to rest above my neck and chest.

Even though I was covered with blood, and the first person to find me on the shower room floor thought I had attempted suicide, no one called an ambulance.  911 didn’t exist back then and it seemed like people didn’t get as excited as we do today. They just took care of things themselves and once they hosed the blood off, I didn’t look so bad anyway.

A local doctor stitched up the elbow and said I should see a blood specialist about the swelling in my leg. He was worried it might be a blood clot or blood poisoning because a nasty looking lump was beginning to form.

My grandmother insisted that I see her doctor who was treating her for a blood problem. His name was

Dr. Plitman and he saw me right away at the university hospital where he was teaching.

After a brief examination he asked if he might show my Brown Recluse Spider bite to his class. That’s really the first time I’d heard it was a spider bite. He told them this was a classic example of this spider’s venom. “The tissue near the bite will die and slough off”, he said. That “sloughing off” part didn’t sound too good especially when he added I’d be in the hospital for a few days. They made an incision in the bite area and left it open to drain. It had to heal from the inside out and that took a while. On the first visit to Dr. Plitman after I got out of the hospital, I was redirected instead to his partner, Dr. George Nichopoulos who became my doctor from that point on. Everyone who knew him called him Doctor Nic. That's how I spelled it. Later the newspapers said it was Dr. Nick.

Doctor Nic was a great guy, very upbeat and positive. I don’t have anything bad to say about him. He seemed very conscientious, caring and knowledgeable. He was concerned I had gained too much weight over the previous year (it’s called “the freshman spread”) and thought I should drop a few pounds. I said I had trouble sticking to a diet and he offered some sample diet pills for me to try. They were Obedrin-LA, Metamfetamine hydrochloride, sometimes called Speckled birds, Strawberries or LA Turn-a-rounds (because you could drive to LA and back without a rest, I guess). It was a very strong amphetamine.

Now you have to understand, I had just turned 19. I had only been playing rock and roll for a matter of months and the musicians I had been exposed to were fraternity guys who’s only recreational drug was alcohol, which I had never even tasted until the previous New Year’s Eve. I didn’t know a soul who was smoking weed, and wouldn’t for a couple of years. The terms “acid” and “hippy” hadn’t even been invented yet, and here was this nice doctor offering me free diet pills. The truth is, I didn’t know what a diet pill was but I did want to lose some weight, and thought they might help.

The label said: Take 1 pill with a glass of water before meals, so I started with breakfast. I assumed the water expanded the pill in my stomach and made me feel full. And that’s the truth. It’s hard to believe I was so naive. They helped with the diet all right, but it wasn’t because I felt full. It was because I was electric!!!!  Man, I was wired! 

I began to take notes in classes I’d slept through just the day before. I practiced keyboards for hours and hours, late into the night. Within a day or two I realized the pills were responsible for my newfound focus and I wanted more of them. Doctor Nic was a good source for a while but as my needs grew I had to find other doctors who were willing to help out.

As I got more into the Memphis music scene playing bars and nightclubs, I found, while alcohol was a necessary lubricant for the blues, musicians stoked their creative fires with the pills they were always borrowing from each other for that night’s gig. They didn’t cost much and someone in the band always had some. Except for the low cost, it was very much like the high so many musicians would be chasing with cocaine in 3 or 4 years. It was also common to swap the names of friendly doctors with each other. Office calls were ten to twenty dollars and I paid with cash. At one time I was seeing several different doctors and keeping careful notes about what I weighed on each visit. On some occasions I wore boots with weights in them and removed a little of the weight each time I went in for a refill so I could show some progress. I needn’t have bothered. This wasn’t illegal. Nobody thought of these diet pills as drugs. “Drugs” were what people thought the black musicians did, and that could include anything from reefer, to cocaine, to heroin.

These were just “pills”.

Pills that I used to fuel a high-energy lifestyle.

1) Go to class from 9am-1pm,

2) Work in a factory rebuilding carburetors until 5:30pm,

3) Sleep until 8pm,

4) Play in a band at Little Abner’s Night Club until 3am,

5) Jam with musicians at the Manhattan Club until 5am,

6) Sleep or study until 8:30am,

Then start all over again… Seriously.

I became a patient of Dr. Nic a couple of years before Elvis Presley did. But when a “buzzed” Elvis said he wanted more pills, I doubt he had to beat around the bush. Doctor Nic just gave him what he wanted. Getting what you want is, of course, often a bad thing, as it proved to be for Elvis. I guess my wants just weren’t as strong. While my love affair with “crank” went on for a while, allowing me to get a lot done during that time, I never fell totally under its control. I always saw it as more of a tool. Speed, weed and alcohol, administered in the proper balance, helped me create some very good music. However I could see what long term use had done to others and finally, one day said, I’m just not doing this anymore. And that was pretty much the end of it.

Clearly, I’m the better for it.

I still don’t think Dr. Nichopoulos was a bad guy; at least he wasn’t at first. But as he got more involved with Elvis, and the drug levels got higher and more and more out of control, he must have known this was coming to a bad end. I suppose he just wanted to be friends with Elvis. Instead Doctor Nic will always be known as the man who killed the King Of Rock And Roll.

And that’s how I met him. 

03- When You're In New York

WHEN YOU'RE IN NEW YORK

     Sometime late in the 1980s there was a big news story in New York; a young police officer, recently a new father, was shot down and paralyzed by a gang member. He was coming to Denver’s Craig Hospital to receive special treatment to help him adapt to his new condition. Mostly because it was such big news in New York, it became of interest to the Colorado media as well. A news conference was planned for the afternoon.

I got there early and found a New York TV crew of 5 in the hospital gym with their lights and microphone cords taped securely to the floor. They had set up about 20 feet back from the center of a long folding table with a microphone on it. Clearly they expected the patient to sit at that table. Attached to the mic was a huge sign with their station call letters on it. As the other local stations arrived they noticed the same problem that had caught my attention. I remember, in particular, Dave Stevens was there beside me eyeing the New York crew.
At that time Denver was a great place to work in the TV news business. There was a mutual respect here shared by all of the people who worked reporting and photographing the news. Over time the custom evolved to not use “flags” (sometimes called “bugs” - the colorful station logos attached to microphones) because, we all agreed, they cluttered up the picture and in other markets had evolved to even larger and gaudier flags. I tried to explain our local tradition to the New Yorkers. “We don’t use flags here in Denver,” I said. “Well we do. And when you’re in New York you can use yours too.” All five of them broke out in laughter. I smiled but said nothing more as I set up my gear.

About 2 minutes before the news conference was scheduled to start, I picked up my camera and tripod and moved 10 feet closer to the table. The other local stations did the same. “Hey you can’t do that. We were here first,” the big city crew stormed. “Well, here in Denver we obviously set up a little closer than you do in New York. But while you’re here, you can still set up back there if you want to,” I replied.

While they were fuming, and demanding we move back to their line, all of the local stations noticed the patient being wheeled in from the far corner of the large gym. In an instant all three photographers were off their tri-pods, hand holding their cameras and using portable lights and shot gun microphones. None of us wanted boring video of that guy telling his story sitting behind a table. The story was about his mobility or lack of it. His best remarks and certainly the best video were gathered while we were moving along together as a group. The New York crew had no portable light and was completely taped down to the floor. Even so, it was amazing how fast 5 people could scurry about when they had a common goal. By the time they were able to free themselves the wheelchair had reached the end of the table and paused there. They had missed it all, and now that the procession had stopped, they were out of position as all three local stations continued with their questions. This effectively shut out the New York crew who tried as best they could to shoot over our heads or from the side. They were trying to arrange a second interview with the injured police officer as we all packed up and left. Their wide shot must have looked very lonely in that large, empty gym... but maybe that’s how they do it in New York.

02- The Jet Car Crash

THE JET CAR CRASH

There had been showers that morning and the sky was still a dull gray when I arrived at the Dallas International Motor Speedway. I was working part time for KTTV Channel 11 in Ft. Worth and had been assigned to shoot Art Arfons’ 280-mph jet-powered dragster as it tried to better the world quarter mile land speed record. His new two seat “Super Cyclops” was scheduled to make 3 runs, the first with passenger Gene Thomas, a reporter from WFAA Channel 8, who was doing a feature story on the event.

Gene Thomas 2nd from left and
Jack Smith with camera on Right

I’m not much of a car guy and had never been to a drag strip before, much less seen a jet car, but it was clear when I got there the WFAA-TV crew was getting what I saw as special treatment. No one was scheduled to make that second ride with Arfons so I saw no reason why it shouldn’t be me. To say I made a pest of myself would be putting it mildly. I ranted about the unfairness of letting my competition to do something I wasn’t allowed to do. The track officials were unrelenting. There was no way they were going to allow me to take that ride but I believe my protests encouraged them to loosen up on the rules restricting where I could shoot from. I overheard one official say to let me go anywhere I wanted if it would shut me up.

Besides WFAA, there was one other station represented there. John Jenkins of Ch 4 was shooting from the tower near the start line. When I later saw his film of the crash the picture appeared to have been shot on a tripod with a long lens and had much better detail than I got with my 16mm hand held Bell and Howell.

Channel 11 had only a 15-minute newscast back then so I didn’t plan to shoot much film but what I did shoot I would try to edit in the camera. It’s hard to believe but I was expected to get 3 voice over stories on a 100-foot roll of film that would run out in about 3 minutes. I got a couple of shots of the car being prepared and saved the rest of the film for the 1st run. I planned to move down to the finish line for the 2nd.

Whether using a still or movie camera, the true art of news photography is not necessarily shooting the picture itself but anticipating what’s going to happen and putting yourself in a position to get that picture. I moved to a spot near the start line behind a guardrail about 40 feet from the path of the car on the passenger side. I might not get my ride but at least I’d have a nice wide-angle full screen shot of the car as it went by. The car was about 50 feet behind the start line when the jet roared to life. Using short blasts the car slowly moved up to the timing lights. I’d never heard anything like it. Each time Arfons hit the throttle the force from the jet felt like a punch in the chest. I lifted my left arm to shield my ear as much as possible and noticed the track official I’d had words with earlier laughing with his buddies at my predicament. In spite of the blasts, if I’d had thoughts of moving before, they were gone now.

When the car finally reached the line I pressed the shutter release. The ground was shaking and the sound was painful but even after hearing the incredible roar from the roll up I wasn’t prepared when the Super Cyclops blasted into that quarter mile run. It parted my hair! The first thought in my mind was there’s no way I’d get in that car… My God, it could go straight up as easily as forward. I stayed with the shot, following the jet down the asphalt for the 6.01 seconds it took to approach a bridge running over the track at the finish line. Suddenly there was the blue smoke of skidding rubber tires and wreckage flying everywhere and then farther down the strip a column of smoke. I never hesitated. Jumping the guardrail, I ran toward the crash.

As I got nearer I saw a man crying and asked if he was OK. He couldn’t speak but gestured to a pile of debris down the track. As I ran closer I began to see it was a human torso scattered among several other body parts. After reaching a little over 183 MPH the dragster had blown a tire, spun 180 degrees and slammed through the guardrail on the passinger side, killing Thomas, then striking a track worker with such force that it propelled him into another worker killing them both. The carnage was overwhelming but I shot the scene as best as I could leaving out the grim details I knew would never be aired anyway. I had shot all 100 feet of film but had another tin in my pocket as I and a young still photographer started to run the several hundred feet farther down the track to where the burning jet car had come to rest.

As we ran a car pulled in front of us blocking our way and several large security guys jumped out and backed us into a retaining wall. One of the men demanded that we give him our cameras and to my surprise the young photographer complied. The man immediately opened the back and pulled out the film exposing it to the light. Although I was out of film I had pretended to shoot them as soon as they got out of the car and was still doing so when he turned to me. The Bell and Howell with it’s handy little leather strap made a pretty good club as I backed up against the wall and raised it above my head. “I’m dropping the first guy that touches me”, I warned. I wasn’t the biggest guy in that group but I sure wasn’t the littlest either. I was going to be a lot more trouble than that young guy with the still camera. They didn’t come any closer and I agreed to stop taking pictures of them as more people arrived on the scene to see what was going on. A truce of sorts was worked out when one of them contacted the control tower about the situation. He talked in front of me on the radio to a supervisor who told them not to touch me or the camera and politely asked me to return to the tower with them. I agreed.

In the office I was met by Malcolm Landess who was working part time at WFAA and freelancing as PR for the track. There were several other people in the room who seemed to be speedway officials. They didn’t demand the film but wanted to talk to my boss at Channel 11 and I gave them the number. I heard the conversation as they threatened to sue the station if we showed anything inappropriate. After several minutes they handed the phone to me and I was instructed to get back to the station with the film as quick as possible. It aired that night and the station never was sued.

Harry Reasoner 1971

Not long after the crash I was filming an interview with Harry Reasoner, then of ABC, at the Dallas Press Club when I ran into Travis Lynn, the news director at WFAA-TV. I’d been making the rounds of all the TV stations that summer trying to move up the news ladder, so Travis knew who I was. He complimented my work on the jet car crash and offered me a job at channel 8; this after telling me just a few weeks earlier that I needed more experience.
I worked at WFAA for the next three years, often with Malcolm Landess who I met that day at the track office. He was soon employed full time as a reporter by Ch 8 as well. A few years later we worked together again at KBTV/KUSA in Denver where he was known as Mike Landess. He's now an anchorman at KMGH in Denver.

So that’s how it happened, my first TV news job in a major market. Although I took his picture, I never met Gene Thomas but his career ended the day that mine began. Life and death are so strange and sad. In the news business you’re confronted with that time and again. The strangeness and the sadness just become part of the story.

01- How Clint Eastwood Made My Day

How Clint Eastwood Made My Day

Sun Valley Idaho was a beautiful place. I’d never been there before and was looking forward to shooting the 1990 Duchin Cup celebrity ski weekend at the snow covered mountain resort.

Several movie stars had come to this long time mountain playground for the annual event, among them Adam West, Michael Keaton and Clint Eastwood. I was about to receive a lesson there I would never forget, about celebrity and how different people handle it.

I noticed on the first night, at a cocktail party, Keaton had some kind of problem with having his picture taken. Every time I turned on the camera, he turned his back. The producer asked me to get the shots but Keaton was having none of it. Maybe he was just having a bad week but why would he come to an event like this if he didn’t want his picture taken? It was a celebrity ski race, after all. Well, the looks he gave me could have killed but the rest of the stars were great. I was careful not to crowd anyone and the guests were gracious and outgoing. And except for Michael Keaton, the night went well.

I’ve photographed hundreds of celebrities over the years but, without a doubt, I met my favorite on my very first TV interview. In 1971 KTVT Channel 11 in Ft. Worth, Texas gave me my first genuine TV news job. An independent station, Channel 11 carried only two 15-minute newscasts 5 days a week. As you can imagine, the staff was very small requiring each of us to take on more than one responsibility. That’s how I became a reporter/photographer. Now you might say that has a nice ring to it, reporter slash photographer, and I thought so too at the time. This was a great opportunity for a young man with virtually no experience in the news business to extend himself a bit. But there was another factor I didn’t consider. As a reporter I was expected to wear a coat and tie, keep my hair combed and take notes. As a photographer I was responsible for carrying in and setting up more than 100 pounds of camera equipment before doing the interview. As reporter/photographer, I did it all.

After a few days of training I was sent out to do my first solo reporter/photographer interview with a young star in town who was promoting his new movie, “Play Misty For Me”. In 1971, Clint Eastwood had a big following from the TV series “Rawhide” and from Sergio Leone’s series of spaghetti westerns, “A Fistful Of Dollars”, For A Few Dollars More” and “The Good The Bad And The Ugly” but nothing like the fame that would come later with movies like “Dirty Harry” and “Unforgiven”.

It was a long way from the parking lot to the hotel room where the interview was scheduled. My coat and tie quickly wilted in the humid Texas heat as I struggled with the sound camera, the b-roll camera, the amplifier, microphones, tripod and lights. There was no time to make two trips. I carried it all. By the time I got to the room I was a mess. Sweating from head to toe and loaded down with all that gear, I must have looked like a high tech street person. I knocked on the door expecting to see a manager or agent, but was surprised to be greeted by Clint himself.

He glanced past me, looking up and down the hall, for the reporter I suppose, and then turning back to me asked, “Are you it?” “I’m it.” I said with a sigh, relieved at the prospect of setting all that equipment down. “Well, come on in”, he said, opening the door wider. Guessing I was new at this, he took the lights from me and began setting them up. At the time it didn’t seem unusual, but now, after 30 years in the business, I realize how rare this gesture was. Stars never, I say never, help set up the gear! No matter how late, how early, how rested or how tired...stars never set up the gear! If the words aren’t written in their contract, they’re certainly embedded in their soul...Talent Don’t Tote! Mr. Eastwood was a welcome exception. Not only was he knowledgeable and helpful with the gear, but also he made for me, what could have been a horrible first interview, a stress free experience. I was scared to death and he knew it. I asked him only one question, “Why are you in town?” He did all the talking from there on. I had a 100-foot roll of film in the camera that would last 3 minutes but I never had to ask another question. I got a great interview, and of course, help taking down the gear. I’m sure he would have carried it to the car if I’d asked.

About 12 years later, while working for KUSA in Denver, I was covering a celebrity ski race in Vail, Colorado. Clint Eastwood, now a huge box office attraction and closely identified with his on-screen-character, Dirty Harry, was a contestant at the event. I was shooting a lighthearted feature about the weekend when he came through the finish line. He skied right up to me and I asked if he would say, “Make my day.” He smiled, leaned back, and in perfect character recited his most famous line. What a guy.

Now, back to beautiful Sun Valley and the irrepressible Michael Keaton. Sunday, the final day of the celebrity event, finished with a ski race. The several celebrities in attendance had been paired up for maximum entertainment effect, the most obvious being Adam West and Michael Keaton ... The old against, at that time, new Batman. Assigned to the starting gates, I’d shot several races already when the two Batmen showed up. Adam West was nearest and the first to respond to questions on camera. West was charming and witty. The interview was very much like what you’d see on Entertainment Tonight. Very light with lots of references to the old Batman TV series. Then the camera moved over to Mr. Keaton who was staring ahead rather stoically. “And what does the new Batman think of this match up?” asked the reporter smiling. Keaton, without turning his head snarled, “Can’t you see, I’ve got my game face on”? The reporter, somewhat shaken tried to laugh it off. “So you’re taking this race pretty serious then?” Without missing a beat Keaton turned, looking directly into the camera, and said, “Fuck off!” There wasn’t much more to be said about that, so the reporter backed away and they started the race, the much younger Keaton storming into the lead. I remember staying with the shot as long as possible hoping, just hoping, he’d catch an edge, take a header, and plunge that smug face into the snow. Shooting that would certainly have made my day.

The last two pairings of a long day finally moved to the starting line but there was a hold on the course while some gates, knocked down by the previous racers, were replaced. They had saved the best for last. Client Eastwood and some other guy, whose name I don’t remember, waited at the top for the course to reopen. I spoke to Clint for the first time that weekend. “You know, I’ve shot you several times over the years,” only a slight exaggeration, “In fact, the first was 19 years ago this month.” I went on to tell him about our first meeting in Dallas and how much I appreciated his help. He laughed. “Yeah, I do remember that interview but I can’t believe it was 19 years ago. I guess we’ve all learned a lot since then.”

When Clint’s race finally started I framed up his great smile with a low angle hero shot and let him slide all of the way out of the picture in case his form was weak. But I needn’t have worried. He looked great all the way through the course. As for the other guy?…..I haven’t seen a Michael Keaton movie since.