Oral History Interview with Pee Wee King

I forgot when we formed the TeleKing Film Corp. and we tried to get Stewart Payne to be the stockbroker for it and everything, and he didn't have time. I was looking at that letter and I know what was wrong because he and our lawyer Chris Duvall didn't get along together because they belonged to the same country club and Chris used to knock his socks off in golf. Then it finally dawned on me why Stewart Payne didn't want to represent the TeleKing Corp. Bill King and I and Chris Duvall the lawyer. And, of course, they always teamed together — Chris and Bill. And I would team up with Pee Wee Reese, and he used to say to me — “just make the three holes, that's all — don't worry about it.” That's a long holes [long hole] for me. And he could do it, too.

Our plane went down in Provo, Utah. We had just come from the pilot Art Greenamyer's birthday party 'cause we were going there Saturday. That was about the most important part of our life in '51. That was Dec. 7, 1951. 1952 was a big year for all of us. The band was going well; the records were selling like crazy; and we made the two Western pictures with Durango Kid. And I had my star in Hollywood — I had to fly out there.

In 1953, Col. Parker booked us in the Shamrock Hotel in Houston. It was one of the highlights; that's the time I got sick, and Eddy Arnold said, he’d take my place. And I said, “no way, Jose.” He was right next door at the fat stock and cattle show. I drank orange juice all during the show. I had the flu so bad I was sweatin' — even in a cold room I could go in and start sweatin’. And we were playing there with another orchestra — he was a gay guy, I know that — King. Eddie King or somethin' like that. Eddy Arnold was playing at the convention center in Houston, and he offered to substitute for me. He said he'd come in and do fifteen minutes for me. I says, “fifteen minutes — I'll get warmed up by that time!”

I've performed when I didn't really feel like it — the show must go on. The guy who wrote that — he didn't belong in show business — he's crazy. But it does something to you; it adds another spark plug to your motor — let's put it that way — when you know you've got to go out there. I've never collapsed on the stage. I got dizzy one time — I remember that.

I never had any performers collapse on stage. But Roy Acuff had two of 'em to die on his -he had a harmonica player and also the piano player die on him -right there at the Grand Ole Opry. While they were performing. They died of heart attacks. And Minnie Pearl was carried off the stage in Joliet, Illinois, at the Rialto Theater, in November, '91. She's in a wheelchair for good now. This Harlan White, a friend of mine down there, he was tryin' to get to see her 'cause he was on the show with her often. He said, “I can't even get to drive to the house and see her.” And he said, “don’t come out -there's no reason, the gate's locked; the doors are locked.” I send her a card about every month. Now I put down in the little memory book (??) and when we played Joliet, I sent a card from the motel where we stayed at.

Of all the people I've performed with through the years, some of my favorites have been--years ago there was [were] two girls on the show in the Grand Ole Opry called Sary and Sally. They were two Lum and Abner types. And they were such great troopers, and both of 'em had grown children and everything, and they went on the road through sleet and ice - played Virginia and West Virginia. And they sat down even to drink a beer with us at the close of the evening, and eat a sandwich with us and go to their hotel. ‘Cause there were no motels in those days. That's back in '36, '37, '38. They were two comedians - one was a lead line to a joke, and the other one was a punch line to a joke. And they worked beautiful - well, they were stars of the show.

When we got there, Uncle Dave Macon and Sary and Sally were the two biggest names on it. And next to them was [were] the Delmore Brothers, from down in Alabama. But, Mr. Frank says, “we got enough Golden West Cowboys - I'm going to put Sary and Sally with you, and I'm going to book the whole Southern part of the Sudicum (???) chains -

Mr. Sudicum in Nashville owned about 200 theaters, I guess - little shotgun houses -and he booked us all the way through. Sometimes we'd have the bicycle - put two towns together. Played an opening show on this one, and they'd run a movie, and then we'd go up there and do that one up there and go on stage, then when we'd get off there, we .come back to this town again while he's running the movie. That was called bicycling. Just like a bicycle - it means you go back and forth in a hurry - a big hurry!

One guy wouldn't let us do that on a Saturday because he says, “if you get back to the Grand Ole Opry, you're never going to leave — you'll stay there and do another show — I want you here on this stage, too.” And it was 18 miles between Franklin, Tennessee and Nashville, and Lord forbid if we had any traffic jams in those days. But we didn't — we just rode on right into backstage.

There were times when we were late for a show. It might have been because of a flat tire, or one time when Larry and Gene stuck the little sandstorms in the gas tank because they were going to help Daddy gas up his car — my twins! [he chuckles] They were just about five years old. You know the little white gravel that you put on driveways. Well, they just took it in their hand[s] and was [were] putting it down the gas tank. They put it in the truck; we were loadin' the truck — that's what it was. And Don David says, “hey, I loaded this thing twice already — what's going on?!” He looked and there was little Larry and Gene passing the instruments around and just puttin’ them back again. We were due in Shreveport that time, and then when we stopped — when the truck stopped finally, why I had the big Cadillac limousine at that time, and we pushed them into the first service station. I told this guy what we were doin’ and how we were doin' it and when we were supposed to be there in Shreveport. He says, “buddy, you ain't goin' to Shreveport but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll loan you my truck to get down there with your instruments, and by the time you come back, I'll have it all fixed for you 'cause I've got to take the gas tank off. You can't work on a gas tank if there's something wrong and you got to take it off to start with — you can't work on it while it's still wet and if it doesn't dry right away, we'll all go up in splits.”

I missed one of the shows that we were supposed to be on, but Tillman Franks was one of the bookin' agents down there — put us on there — Johnny and Jack, and Kitty Wells were on — and he said, “I know there's somethin' wrong with Pee Wee. He said he'd be here — he's always on time. In fact, if somethin' happens, he usually calls.” And I said, “I couldn't stop to even call 'cause it was just that much time that I waste.” If it had been a stage show, it would have been different. When you're doin' p. 4 a radio show -the Shreveport Barn Dance -why, that's it.

Johnny and Jack and Kitty Wells were on at that time, so they went on in my place. And then I took their spot. So, it worked out all right. It was the Louisiana Hayride show. The Louisiana Hayride was a big show a big barn dance. Elvis got his start there. That was on one station -KWKH (??) That was every Saturday night like the Grand Ole Opry. That was one of the majors. Dallas, Shreveport, Nashville, Wheeling, West Virginia, Philadelphia, Boston, Richmond, Virginia, Columbia, South Carolina. These were 50,000-watt stations. WHAS had a 50,000-watt station -they had ours when we were here -they had the Crazy Water Barn Dance when I was there. All of these stations had country and Western shows -even Boston -they had a big group of New England stars -a lot of stars came from New England. Bradley Kincaid -he was up there at that time.

Country music was popular outside the Midwest and South in the '30s and '40s. That's what caused me to get interested when I got down here and saw what kind of operation 'cause we had a Badger State Barn Dance in Wisconsin. Ted and I worked for that.

Some of my favorite performers that I worked with, Sarie and Sally. I got a picture of 'em -they look like two grandmas telling jokes. They died -they passed away. They were the first act I worked with at the Grand Ole Opry. Mr. Frank said, “we're newcomers down there and you've got to have somebody who's an established act on the barn dance on the Grand Ole Opry so that you will give yourself a little (??) and associate with them.” So when I didn't get to Sarie and Sally on the barn dance to take off, then the Delmore Brothers would go with me and they were hot records at that time. But they were leavin' the Grand Ole Opry anyhow -they wanted to go to Raleigh, North Carolina, and they started a barn dance there themselves. At that time, Nashville was just one of many barn dances in the country. Chicago was the biggest barn dance in the United States at that time -with Lulu Belle and Scotty, Gene Autry, Arkansas Woodchopper and people like that.

That [a telephone call] was my brother -somebody come [came] to the record shop, all he knows [is] he wanted to get Vince Gill. I says, “first of all, let him look at his checkbook!” Oh my gosh, those boys today -they're out of sight! But you can't blame 'em -see, where we did a lot of these things for ourselves -now they've got a manager, business manager, bookin' agent, a PR dept., a 7-piece band with a $500,000 bus that they can make time in and eat and sleep. And the union scale is up now where they can make a little (??) workin' a couple of weeks on the road like that. It's a big enterprise now bigger than pop music! Pop music is on the second shelf. Rock. 'n' roll is just about to take over the second place.

The cities that had 50,000-watt stations with Saturday night shows---and Nashville was just one of many. I believe the reason that Nashville became the top was because it's below the Mason-and-Dixon Line. That was very important, because there are a lot of fans in the region. The way people talk was also a determining factor in Nashville’s ascendancy. When I first came down here and I listened to those guys, I wasn't sure. And I knew my father-in-law understood that because he was from Alabama and that was his goal in life -to get it on the Grand Ole Opry -bring a band down there.

We were the first of Mr. Frank's groups to go on the Grand Ole Opry. We worked so hard to get a good group together, and then when we auditioned for it, they wanted us to stay there that Saturday night and go on again next Sat. night, but we had a commitment at Horse Cave, and we were at the radio station. That was in 1937.

So, Mr. Frank new instinctively that once there was a shakeout, Nashville was going to become the hub. ‘Cause you go all around it -within 1,000 miles -there were at least 2 or 3 little barn dances. They called them jamborees in some towns; Saturday Night Shindigs when we got further north; and barn dance became popular in the other cities-at WLS and in Milwaukee. And then Louisville could have been -at one time I would say-in the days of Clayton McMitchen -even when Mr. Frank was here because he was the only one promotin' shows all the time. And I believe if they would of [would’ve] opened up at the radio stations and let us use their facilities to make records for different labels and invite the guys from New York and California where they had the big studios and the big record companies, they would of [would’ve] invited them here, they could have developed one or two of the radio stations into recording stations. But they didn't do that so Nashville with about three recording studios. RCA Victor built their own, Decca Records had their own and about 3 or 4 little ones. Even Lonzo and Oscar had a recording studio — and a good one.

The Louisville stations didn't get as involved because they were affiliated with the network. And the little ones were too small — they were workin' out of a shoebox to make salaries. The station in Nashville was affiliated with the network, but they were a clear-channel station, so was WHAS. But WHAS wasn't as interested. We did one record session in there with a girl that Bill King was very interested in — a friend of his in Chicago sent her down, paid all her expenses and when we recorded, we were the back-up band for her. And she did one session in the studios of WHAS — I would say 20 years ago, and it didn't come off. It was nothin. And she wasn’t strong enough to become a star — she was a nightclub singer. I still have her record down there somewhere in the file.

There might have been some feeling in Louisville that country music was kind of low-class music, and that the town didn't want to be associated with it. The Binghams owned the station WHAS and the newspapers. I don't think they minded country music on their station; the family was there; we came in there. The Log Cabin Boys and (??) Monk and Sam — they were comedians — and then Asher Sizemore — he got very big right here. See, a 50,000-watt station to work with, and he had a mail-order, and they had a long table that they rented downstairs, and they'd open up envelopes and just pitch quarters out of there — they'd fill a bucketful. Orders for pictures — Asher and Little Jimmy.

[Here he goes into an Asher and Little Jimmy routine] "Now I lay me down to sleep,” and now Jimmy would say a prayer before everybody eats dinner, “so why don't you just go ahead and get on your little soapbox and say a little prayer,” and then Jimmy got on that soapbox and said something about, "God is great, God is good. Thank you God for the food and all that." He had new sayings every week. That was on the radio.

Even though the Binghams had some country music programs on their radio station,

they weren't personally interested in country music. They were supporters of the fine arts — opera, ballet, etc. To each his own— I wouldn't go see an opera. So, they personally didn't take an interest in country music the way somebody needed to in order to make Louisville a country music capital. But there was a lot of talent centered here. Maybe it was a little too far north.

Knoxville — as small as that town is — they had a merry-go-round that knocked the socks off a lot of attendance of people — I think it had about 400 seats and everyday it was full.

In Nashville, you had WSM, which was owned by the insurance company — Shield Millions (??) And that was their door opener. When they'd ring the bell, they'd say, “I'm from National Life Insurance — we shield millions. And by the way, do you listen to the Grand Ole Opry Saturday?” And with that, they might say, “oh, yeah, I hear Uncle Dave Macon every Saturday night,” or Sarie and Sally — and he got his foot in the door. And probably sold some insurance — that's what it was for.

When we first got to Nashville — the very first Saturday night — Mr. Frank said, “all these people come here,” — they sat out in the yard to begin with and ate their lunches on the grass in front of the tabernacle. And then at 6:15 or 6:30, they'd be lettin’ people in and sawdust on the floor and homemade benches in the tabernacle. And he said, “they're missin' the boat — they should at least charge or a dime or a quarter. “And Mr. Stone says, “why would they charge? They're advertising for us.” He says, “they're advertising for you, but you're also advertising to them that you can put your acts on the road — you're goin' to get somethin' for it.” He said, “when you give somethin' away, people are skeptical — you charge, they know it's (??)” Mr. Frank said that.

In the early days, then, people could get into the Opry for free. The tabernacle was a typical small-time church — you've seen them out in the boondocks in the little towns — population 400 or 200 church members. And that's about the size of it. It was no longer a church when the Opry was playing there. Well, as Mr. Frank told the preacher, when the preacher jumped on me, and I said, “it's not me — it's him — he's the manager — you go talk to him.” And I could hear--Mr. Frank says, “you don't worry about a thing. This is Saturday night, and the Grand Ole Opry goes on here Saturday night — we rent this place from you. And now Sunday, you got your church goin.” And he says, “if you don't like it, you know what to do.” They were still having services there at the tabernacle at that time — only on Saturday night was the Opry. The rest was in the studios. So, the Opry rented the facilities of the church on Saturday nights.; it was a real church then, too.

I don't know what denomination it was, but I always enjoyed sayin', “well, we were at the church down there on Fatherland (????) Street — you can find it right there.” So people'd say, “how can we get tickets? You got to write to them — WSM, Grand Ole Opry.” They started having the Opry at the tabernacle because it was there and available and probably cheap. Because at that time, even the studios were small you know, one hundred people would be a lot of people in the big studio.

They used that more or less for opera and local feeding the network shows — "Sunday Down South" with Francis Craig and his Orchestra and with Dinah Shore singin' — that would feed the network from the WSM studios. The studios were smaller than the tabernacle. The facilities were better at the studios, but you could seat one hundred people at the most on chairs in them. Whereas in the tabernacle, you could seat about 400. The acoustics in the tabernacle were very good. I don't know why but I guess it's ... I always got [had] this theory in my mind, no matter where you put on a show, if the it's built right, you fill the place with the sound of music for a couple-e of Saturday nights and then it stays that way — if you don't want to have nobody else doin' nothin', you know.

And when you built a big opry house like they've got at Opryland now, that's all concrete. And you can always tell when you're going into a new convention center or community civic auditorium with 4,000 or 3,000 seats, it's all concrete. And the sound doesn't stay in there — there's somethln' about It. Would--will soak up the sound but not concrete, unless you've got Styrofoam and everything, you got to build sound chambers. So acoustically, the tabernacle was very good. Look at Renfro Valley — Sunday Morning church — it's the most popular show — I don't know of one that big.

I knew John Lair. He was one of the best. He should have started that earlier, but he was committed to Chicago. He was on the barn dance there. He was from Renfro Valley — that was his home. I performed on Renfro Valley a couple of times — just a guest on Saturday night. And later years, after we came here and were established, and when John Lair started his Renfro Valley Barn Dance, Red Foley, the Duke of Paducah, Homer and Jethro and the Pickard (??) Family or the Western group — Ma and Pa McCormick and their cowboy band — when they came down there, they started buildin' it up. And the original partners that had it like Red Foley — he sold out, Duke of Paducah sold out — so John had to hunt for local people, and he couldn't find any so I guess he made loans to keep it goin'. But, he was on the right track. They were very popular on radio and still are. They still broadcast every Sunday morning and now they've got the Jerry's Restaurant guy — Jericho — backin' 'em and they've got a couple million dollars stuck in that new barn. They've got the young people at the new barn and the old people at the old barn.

John Lair died a year or so ago. I kept in touch with him. In fact, we used to stop by one [once] in a while on our way going through and eat, in the Renfro Valley Restaurant. And they got the best home cookin' in the world dere [there].

He didn't have a lot of capital to back him. There's no town to draw from. You sure the devil can't go to Lexington or Frankfort and ask for money for a barn dance. They wouldn't believe in it. They just don't do it. I don't think there's a prejudice in Kentucky against country music, but the people who have the money wouldn't invest it in a barn dance because they'd say, “how much can you make over there? If I give you a million dollars, are you going to give me half-a-million back in a year's time?” Well, they weren't chargin' admission that big, and the seating capacity was small So, you put one against the other.

Most of the country and Western music performances were done on a shoestring. There was no capital. As Gene Autry said, “you make the movies in Hollywood, then you come across the Mississippi and play all those theaters that are big enough to play and make some money with.” 'Cause at that time, the center part of the United States, there were little theaters — small towns and everything. But, you got the major cities — Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New York. Madison Square Garden — it took a lot of sell in' on George Goodeal's ???) part to get into the Madison Square Garden where the rodeo--.

Country music became really profitable with records. I would say it was in the early '50s when country music recordings became big sellers. We were very, very fortunate when we got in because that was just the time when the pendulum was swingin' our way. Because you take years ago, these people would broadcast on that radio station. Take Knoxville, for instance —during the week you'd have office people come in and watch the show, and the only one that had a recording contract on there was Roy Acuff. So, he became big by accident when he recorded. When we went down there, we were just working to announce our dates — our personal appearances to make a living. And they didn't even have an artist's bureau in Knoxville at the time. And then Archie Campbell got big. And then the Carlisle Brothers — the ones who jumped so high. Bill's brother decided he was going to go into preachin' and the ministry — there was more money in it than [he] could make on personal appearances, — so he went in for that.

The first big studios that made country recordings—I would imagine these towns had them. Chicago had a big studio, Dallas had a big studio, Hollywood had a big studio. The major labels all built their own studios because otherwise they'd have to rent from the other people. That was about in the '50s. Before the '50s, small labels were poppin' up.

We started sour own record company. Gene Autry says, “Joe — sell it. “ And when Mr. Frank talked to Jim Bulleit at the bank, he says, “I got to get out of this bidness [business],— I got four big packages of material to sell.” He said, “I got about 10,000 labels printed already. And here's the slack (???) — shortage — and I don't know what I'm gonna do.” Jim says, “well, you want to sell it — I'll buy it. He said, “I don't know nothin' [anything] about the bidness [business], but I'll learn it.” And Jim Bulleit put in his record bidness [business] and there's another one. He shot a 11 or a 7 right on the first roll. The first act he put on the record of his own — he finally sold our records before Mr. Frank let him have it — he said, “they can slum (???) on the road as a package — Bradley Kincaid, Cowboy Copas, Minnie Pearl and the Golden West Cowboys,” — four people on the label.

These records were pressed in Nashville by — we called it Nash — but the record pressing company would have to be uh, Southern ... the label was Nash Records. Like the Kelvlnator — remember Nash-Kelvinator? That's the same logo Mr. Frank drew. He was thinkin', see, sort of on the Kelvinator label and just copied it. It also suggested Nashville, too.

That was the first company I recorded for. And the next one was Bulleit Records. That was the one Mr. Frank sold Jim Bulleit. But then he found out in the studio dat dey [that they] got a good sound with Francis Craig, and Francis Craig said, “why don't you cut me, then I'll go ahead — we call it Red Rose and sell "Red Rose" my theme song on all the personal appearances and dances we make just like those country boys do, and with a picture,” — give away a picture or make it on an album cover or whatever. There was [were] no albums at that time. And Gene (??) bought the idea, and of course, Francis got the hit and "Near You" just ... that was one of the smash. A blind singer — Lamb was his last name. I can still see him.

Among the performers that I remember very fondly — of course, Minnie would be right at the top. I liked her as person because she was a lady at all times. And she was a willin' worker; she was very creative. And she never griped about conditions. There were many theaters we played in—in the mining camps, and back-to-back in a coal bin, we'd change clothes and go back to [the] stage behind the curtain or a screen, and wait till they raised the screen up so we could go out there and work.

I think Minnie Pearl was motivated by the fact that she loved people — she loved show business. That was her pet saying, “now we're not in it for the money — we just love people, and anytime you want to write me and let me know how your little girl came out with her hospital operation,” — these women would take her up on it. She'd sit in the back of that stretch job and answer them with 3 cent post cards. She responded to her mail — to her audience.

Of course, that’s what I’ve [been] doin’ for the last ten years. I’ve always answered [the] letters that people write to me. I still do. I was down there today answering mail that I got for my birthday, and I Included a thank you note and the write-up in the Nashville area — just an old two-bit paper but he did a good job.

Minnie was not married when she was first traveling with me. She got married after she was workin' with me for a while — after the Camel Caravan. And then she had a couple of dates to play, and she hired this guy who was the president of Capitol Airlines. And Henry started datin' Minnie and the first thing we knew she was talkin’ marriage, and that was it. They had a great big wedding ceremony, and all the hillbilly musicians gathered around [chuckles]. I went to the wedding — it was across the street from Vanderbilt in her apartment. The guests were spilling out into the street. Everybody was comin’ around to wish her luck and everything. I believe she was in her 40s when she married. They had no children.

Henry Cannon was president of Capitol Airlines which she was flyin'. And it sure must have been the right thing 'cause they're still together. He was a bachelor; he comes from wealthy people. Although he had plenty of money, I don't think she ever had any intentions of quittin' her career until she had to quit. She didn't have to w/work, though. I believe she bought enough insurance policies and cashed 'em in — they used to sellan [sell an] insurance policy — a $500 policy for $427. And then you cashed it in — you got your $500 — like you do bonds today.

I don't know how well off she might have been — her family, that is. The average country girl didn't go to Ward-Belmont though. Dinah Shore and Minnie went to school together [Dinah was about five years younger than Minnie!]. They knew each other.

Dinah Shore was never interested in country music. She did pop music although she did do some songs that were borderline. She made a big hit record on (??) RCA Victor. She never recorded "Tennessee Waltz," but she sang it quite often. She was on RCA Victor, but they didn't want cover — they had enough covers. I met Dinah Shore several times; she's a lovely lady — she's Minnie Pearl — that type of woman. Class and dignity and no put-on either.

Being on the road was a hard life and performers sometimes got depressed. Once in a while you'd look back and say, “now if I'd taken this job when I had it, or why did I come here?” Bad weather sometimes — even an accident if somebody got hurt.

Or you'd hear somebody say, “if we hadn't been here, maybe it wouldn't have happened.” I never considered quitting because I loved it. I always loved entertaining — I love people. What I like about entertainment is when you walk out on that stage, it's a challenge — it's you goal to be--and knowledge — to entertain those people and fine [find] what level you're playing to. And [the] first four jokes — or maybe two songs — tell you right away if you're gonna be a hit or lay an egg. And that to me was always — not only in de [the] show bidness [business], but also the band business. When Wayne King said, “you gotta watch de [the] feet and set your beat, watch de [the] feet and set your beat.” He said, “always pick out somethin' that's going to be popular that everybody knows, and

if you make arrangements, make 'em so you can always tell what the lead is in the thing (??) because everybody wants to hear a lead to a song.”

I felt close to my audiences. In fact, I just got a couple of birthday cards. When people invite you to their home, or they bring dinners and sit on ground when you play the festivals, or else they'll invite you for a drink somewhere and take you back there, and that's ... and the NCO Clubs — I'll always remember — the tables you have to go by and sign autographs on the napkins. Well, we signed about a thousand autographs for people the Saturday we played Joliet, Illinois — just recently. Every one of us — we had a long table and each one had a place to sit down and autograph and talk to the people. Everybody kept a straight line until they were all gone.

When you're performing on stage and the people are liking it, it's kind of a high, I remember — God love him-'— I'm not puttin' him down — I loved Junior Samples as well as I loved anybody else on the "Hee Haw Show”, but we were booked in Washington, Pennsylvania, — a park date out there. And Junior Samples was supposedly the star ——he was the star from "Hee Haw." And he was late gettin' there. So, we had an intermission — a break between the afternoon — first show in the afternoon, second show and then we got to do a night show at 8 o'clock. So, I look on the street there, and there's a car kind of dilapidated, and it's gota [got a] trailer on the back of it. And it looks like somebody just pasted a sign: Junior Samples — Star "Hee Haw." And the van had a Georgia license plate, and I know he wasn't from — he was there from Alabama. Biggest thing he had was the fish record that he had. But anyhow, I walked over there and 2 or 3 of the boys were standin' there. And I said, “were you guys supposed to do the show today?” He says, “yeah — we[‘ve] got trouble — we can't get our car started.” And I says, “you got Junior Samples here?” He said, “naw, he went to the hotel--he walked to the hotel.” He said, “we're supposed to pick him up — we can't get the car started — we don't know if he'll show up here or not.” I says, “you're kiddin?” So, they said, “No.”

So I said, “well, you better tell him we've got another show at 4 o'clock; he better get there.” He missed the 1 o'clock show. So sure enough, he shows up, and I said, “Junior, how do you want me to introduce you?” And he says, “anyway you want to — all you got to do is say JUNIOR SAMPLES and if they don't laugh, I walk off.” But, he says, “if they laugh a little bit or laugh a little while — which they will anyhow — I know they're gonna laugh — everywhere I go they all laugh.” I says, “ok, if they don't laugh at me, I'll walk off.” And I says, “when you stay on, what do you do?” Oh, I said, “I do about three jokes and then I sing my big song; then I tell 'em I enjoyed myself being here and so long — that's the end of my act.” I said, “well, it says here you do 30 minutes.” He said, “no, no — I don't do but 10 minutes.” I said, “well, is the band going to fill him up?” I said, “No.” He said, “I don't know — they'll have to do the other 20 minutes.” I said, “I don't know what they play — I just hired 'em to back me up for that one song. So, you tell me.”

What happened was that he laid an egg — they didn't laugh when he went out. So, you can't rest on your laurels —every time you go out, you have to prove yourself. When you have a name, with some reason you've got a name-— whether you've got money, or whether you've got talent, whether you've got push or drive or that. And you've got to have somethin' that you're sellin’ like a salesman. And you're your own salesman. Television can take a person who doesn't have a lot of talent and make him famous — they proved it with Tiny Tim. But I tell you — you can't help but like the guy because that's guts — that's really guts. He just had the one song — "Tiptoe Through the Tulips."

Junior Samples had been made famous by "Hee Haw." His song had to do with going fishin' with his brother. He used to be an auto salesman. His audience [in Washington, Pennsylvania] liked him on television but they didn't want to see him in person. There weren't any performers that I've known that I didn't like. But when the Beatles cane out, there were some things I liked about their music — some songs. But to think they had to go to England to bring those boys here when we've got all these people here! It just didn't seem right that they should import these acts from foreign countries when we've got our own. There were some boys who did the same thing they did but they hadn't gotten their bib up on them yet — they weren't promoted the right way.

I'd rather not mention names of people who were difficult to work with but, for one thing, Lynn Anderson, she come [came] in — a town they played up in New England territory somewhere — White Plains, New York, I think it was — and there was a disc jockey on the radio station went to the airport and picked her up and brought her to the fairgrounds. And she come [came] up to me, and she says, “here's my music,” and she had just left "The Lawrence Welk Show.” She had a 20-piece orchestra arrangement. I said, “Lynn, that's well and good but a 20-piece orchestra — look out there — there's one, two, three, four, five, six — that's what we got — and me seven, or eight.”

She says I plugged my new record the other night on "The Lawrence Welk Show" and I've announced I'm going to be here. So crowds [are] comin' out to see me, and they expect me to send my new record.” I said, “well, don't you have any old records that the boys know the song by?” And she says, “yeah, but I want to do this.” And I said, “well, we ain't [haven’t] got time for rehearsal — you're just in time to go on the show.” I said, “in fact, you're going to have just enough time now to get the make-up on and go.” She says, “well, thank you.” I says, “which one of your old songs,“— she had given me a list of about four of 'em that we knew — hits that she had had before. And I said, “be sure and put the keys that you sing 'em in, and the piano man will give you a rundown to hit your keys.” She said, “okay.” She came out there and by God, I tell ya, we struggled through that one. But we never played her new record. And she was mad at us.

Just to show the opposite of it — Jan Howard, used to work with Bill Anderson. She never became a Lynn Anderson, but she had quality; she was a lady; and if she came backstage, she says, “Pee Wee, how many boys in the band can read music?” I says, “all of 'em — chord charts if you've got it — if not, then we'll fake it the best we can.” She said, “I've got charts for you — chord charts.” I says, “fine. Take ‘em out and let's see it.” When you've got band fronts, you're an established band. You're a back-up band as well as the feature of the show. So, she came out there, and I introduced, “from the Grand Ole Opry — Jan Howard — one of the finest girl singers you'll hear anywhere. And we're proud to have her with us tonight and I'm sure she'll please you very well. How 'bout a nice welcome for the young lady?”

She comes out there and sings up (??) tune to start with and then she goes into her ballads which have done well. Backed 'em and she come [came] and give me a big hug — she says, “as soon as those brush heaps (??) of yours come out on stage, I wish you'd let me — oh, they're next,

too, because they play the heck out of my music. In fact, if I had known you had a

band like that, they could’ve backed me up on my sessions(??).

She was easy to work with — there are some like that. Minnie don't [doesn’t] give you any trouble either. She comes outthere, [out there] she does what she does and that's it. She said, “one thing I admire about your boys — no matter how many times they hear those jokes — they all laugh.” [chuckles]. I says, “they better or else there's a baseball bat waitin' for them.”

Some people get too big for their britches or maybe they got hurt somewhere in a review they got. They arrived but not at the stopoff [stop-off] that they wanted to— or the ladder of success. So, they get a little bitter. Somewhere we worked with this girl and her agent had booked on the show and we weren't supposed to back her or nothin' [anything] — she was going to mimic her records. And they didn't even have a record player for her backstage or on the stage. What they do for a singer like that that doesn't have the band to back her up — the same sound on the record that she's made doesn't come off with a pick-up band that come [came] on stage. And that's what hurts a lot of times, and it destroys the girl or the boy either one, 'cause they don't have sound backin' like they like to.

Now today you don't have that problem. Modern technology — you got tapes. You know those two guys that made all that splash at the big — Milli Vanilli or whatever her name was. They were lip-synching. So, a lot of performers do that now, so they don't really have to have a big back-up band. They can just use a tape. One of the few guys I know who does not do that is Wayne Newton. He won't sing with a tape. He wants that live band. And to watch him work, you can understand why a fellow like that can become the leading entertainer In Las Vegas for seven years in a row. To me, that's the acme of success. And to think that he started out as a hillbilly steel guitar player, fiddle player and singer with his brother. We worked with him in a park in Ohio — a hillbilly park up in Newark, Ohio. And we worked with him in one in West Virginia. Those two boys — they just had it.

His brother got into trouble. He started a Western-style nightclub — a big, big — like Billy Bob's in Texas. That didn't go because in Alabama they're not ready for that. It was right out of Muscle Shoals. So, Wayne had to bail him out a couple of times. Finally, he says, “that's it.” I think the last time that I heard — whether Wayne got him out or not — but he was sentenced to about 7 or 10 years in prison. For tax evasion, he and Wayne performed together when they started — he was a little brother. They split up — Wayne was given a job by heavy (??) comedian; he'd come out on stage and says, (??) — had a big show of his own on television and radio — Jackie Gleason. Jackie Gleason discovered him as a solo act.

I like Wayne Newton. Now there's a guy — I guess one [once] he sees you and once he meets you, he never forgets you. Because we were at the Golden Nugget, and he was at the Fremont Hotel across the street. We — the Golden West Cowboys — had Monday night off — we were playing at the Golden Nugget. And Colonel Parker booked us in there, too. It's irony — Colonel Parker used to slip in our lives all the time. So, we took off and went across the street, and they were on the break so I went backstage and says, “my name is Pee Wee King.” He says, “don't pull that on me — I know who you are.” I says, “yeah, but it's been a long time.” He says, “just tink [think]— it would have been longer if you hadn't stopped by to see me 'cause you're not workin' tonight, and I got to work.” And from that day on, -every chance — now he's going to be in Evansville in August again. I betcha I get a flyer from him in the mail. Wayne Newton is a guy I could see perform every night of the week.

And Wayne King I could hear as bad as (??) He'll manipulate people and use 'em to feed his own material. I'll never forget one joke that they had on stage. He had a new drummer and the drummer's dad was a clown. And the drummer came over at Owensboro and said, “I got a note for you.” He said, “my dad is a clown and he worked with you.” And I thought, this guy (??) And I said, “what was your dad's name?” And he mentioned the name. I said, “yeah, I remember someplace we worked with him.” Oh, I said, “it wasn't out in Hollywood, was it?” “No,” he said, “somewhere.” I said, “where did you live before you joined Wayne Newton?” Oh, he said, “I lived out,” — way up in the

boondocks in West Virginia. I says, “was he from Parkersburg? “He says, “yeah. That was it.”

And here he's playin' drums for Wayne Newton down there. So, Wayne has got him as a drummer, and he says, “hey, Mr. Boss Man.” Wayne says, “who? What's my name?” He said,

“Wayne.” Wayne said, “why, why, why,” — he started stutterin' — “why don't you call me Wayne?” He says, “you're my boss man — that's why.” So, he says, “what's the matter? He says--the saxophone player plays — “he gets a hand; the girl sings — she gets a hand.” He says, “I want to play my drum solo.” He says, “well you've been playin' drums during most of the show.” He said, “but I want to do one by myself. And he says, “why?” He says, “I got my date with me.” He says, “you've got a date here in Owensboro?!” He says, “yeah — right backstage my date's waitin' for me. I want to show her off.” So, Wayne says, “ok — go ahead — take off — what do you want to play?” He says, “anything you can make it up tempo so I can hit the cymbals and all.” He's all through. Wayne turns around and says, “now are you satisfied?” He says, “yeah but I can't see my date there. I don't think she’s waitin' for me anymore,” [laughter], and he tore that house down. That's the kind of guy he was. It must have been planned; I assume Wayne knew about it.

So, he really knows how to take the audience in — draw them to him. That's another one of my old routines that I used to use with the Golden West Cowboys. And the boys would be sittin’ on the band fronts and everything else, and I said, “Jim, come up here.” I says, “ladies and gentlemen, if I were in his boots, I'd be home with my wife — where he belongs.” By God, I tell you, his wife called and told us he's the proud father of twins. I think he deserves a hand [applause] — no, I says, “I think that's so wonderful — here he is on the road makin' a livin’ for his newborn twins. I want the proud father to stand up and take a bow. [chuckles] And all four boys walk up. So, people like the low humor — a little shady but not blue jokes, not rank.

A lot of the humor today is rank, profane, and vulgar. You don't really need that — not if you're a good entertainer. At least, I grew up that way all these years. I marvel at some of the young comedians. Some I watched on Bob Hope's when they were auditioning — the young fellows comin' up — and they were all pretty good. I was still more impressed by the older man — Bob Hope. He had a talent show one Sunday night. Bob Hope was introducing ... he had the girl comedian — the one with the gravelly voice and ugly lookin’ — blonde — she's been here a couple of times— Lydia and I went to see her because I like the other comic with her, too. Out of all those five comedians that were on, for no reason at all (??), when he come [came] up there — and the first line he used — about something he said — and that audience roared. And I didn't know — see, they have [had] seen 'em before which I didn't — and from then on, I told Lydia, “watch — that guy's going to tie this show up in a knot.” Sure if he did. He was the only one that got an encore on there — an older man who was booked on the show; I don't know his name, but he was very popular with people who watch television. It was Bob Hope's show — it was just a couple of weeks ago. I was home watchin' television. It was a special.

Here's something about Boston. And I headlined the show. We had the hot record at that time. The Hillbilly Jamboree at the Boston Garden. Pee Wee King plus Carl Smith. That was '54, I think. Here's another guy I liked — just worshipped him — Georgie Goebel. I worked with him several times. We loved each other. Country music was his forte. He had an imaginary wife named Alice. And he passed away — not too long ago — a year. I appeared with him at specialty theaters. He was number one on television at that time. When Eddy Arnold was playin’ big dinner clubs in New York City and Washington and that, he hired Georgie Goebel for his openin' act. He had his number one television show in the country at that time.

At this particular time, when I'm in the picture with him, we were at the Cincinnati River Downs at their party. The horsemen up there put on a great big show. George was the featured act, and I was second and underneath me was Borrah Minevitch’s Harmonica Rascals. Dey [They] were the closing act because George wanted to do his first because that little guy with Borrah Minevitch’s Harmonica Rascals — he was a scream. They were all harmonica players — and the midget — he'd go up and pull the pants of the leader — Borrah Minevitch. And he'd always want to play, and he says, “go to the end of the line, go to the end of the line — that's all right.” And he'd be back again and (??) says, whispering in his ear, “go to the end of the line, go to the end of the line — just go (??).” And finally, he says, “now!” So, he stole the show. That was the closing of the show and all. George thought it was a good closer. He didn't want to follow that — nobody did.

That's just like Perry Como did with Foster Brooks. Perry Como discovered Foster and brought him into Las Vegas — client people, you know — at a golf tournament. Foster will take it away from you anytime. Joe Frisco was there too but he didn't perform [looking through a program]. Bill King became my new manager in '54, Mr. Frank died in '52. Then I floundered around till we worked a date with Rudy Vallee and banjo eyes — Jerry Colona(??) — and Bill King's wife — she was a singer. And we played the Oil (??) Festival at Greenville, Illinois. And they stayed at the same motel we did. I said, “who do you manage? Who do you book beside[s] your wife?” He was working for Columbia Productions at that time — all class shows. And Colonna was de [the] comedian.

Rudy Vallee was the orchestra leader and singer — with a megaphone. And Doris closed the show with her long-hair — she sang opera, but she was singing long-hair type of tunes. He says, “but beside[s] that, I got Rex Allen, I got Tennessee Ernie Ford; and Judy Canova.” And he said, “if you've got anything you're lookin' for out on the West Coast — let me know.” And I said, “no, we don't go to [the] West Coast.” I said, (??). I said, “where are you from?” He said, “Greenville, Kentucky.” I said, “your mother and dad's there?” He said, “no, my dad's passed away; he was in the wholesale grocery business. But my mother's still livin.” He says, “I tell you what — I'll call you — Doris and I are going to drive over there add visit with her about a week 'cause we don't have anything comin’ up, and I can go back to California that way — I'm so close to home.”

A couple of weeks went by and sure enough, he called me. He says, “I'll take you up on that offer.” He says, “name the figure and what you gotta have.” And I says, “you name the figure and what you gotta have. “And I said, “well, we'll iron it out somehow.” I says, “I'm doin' four television shows — I've got that set already on my own. I want you more or less not to be my manager for nothin' but bookins’ and the correspondence and all contacts.” He said, “okay.”

He was workin' out of Hollywood. But he was booking people all over the country. Mainly Hollywood people. He took 'em on the road; he was a road manager and bookin' agent. CSO. I used it--talent that stuff later.

It shows you how history repeats itself. When Gene Autry was doin' the Melody Ranch shows on radio — Wrigley Chewing Gum — Phil Wrigley. Mr. Atlas owned WBBM in Chicago, the CBS station. And he and Gene had a rapport which was out of this world. And he introduced me to him — he come [came] to see Gene. And we were doin' this show that I met Mr. Atlas at in Birmingham, Alabama, and he says, “why don't you come to Chicago?” I said, “well, I might just do that, Mr. Atlas.” He says, “well, you do that, son, and look me up — don't forget now.” He says, “you'll find me right there in the Wrigley Building.” I says, “ok — WBBM.”

And show yau (??)— when we were huntin' for a place to do our audition for the sponsors up there, Jack Soebel was the bookin' agent out of New York and he had the account. And he said, “we're going to go to Chicago and have dinner with Mr. Les (??) Atlas,” and he said, “he already met you.” I says, “no — oh yeah, Melody Ranch Show.” He says, “well, I didn't know that. By God, that's a feather in our cap.” So, we got to Chicago and Mr. Atlas said, “I've arranged for Jack and you and I to have lunch over at Enrici’s (??)— right next to de Garrick Theater.” He said, “I[‘ve] got an idea.” And he says, “all of you haven't passed qualifications.” He says, “I trust your judgment, and you must have somethin' goin' for you because you're hotter than a pistol on records. So, I think we'll go into this Garrick Theater and rent it for Saturday nights and put your show on from the Garrick Theater. And bring our roll in' cameras in here and do it live — live broadcast on television and the stage of the Garrick Theater in downtown Chicago.” That was 1954.

He said, “I'll leave it to you to entertain the people. Jack can get the sponsors and keep them warmed up.” And he says, “I think we can make a go of it.” I lasted there 5.5 years. Here's what happened--here's the picture: “WBBM proudly presents Pee Wee King and his band every Saturday night,” and I've got a picture 8 X 10 down here. And the sign was there all the time — all week long - millions of people every day go up and down right past the Garrick Theater — it's across the street from the Sherman Hotel, State Street.

So, as luck would have [it], the opening show — a mob — I mean from — the theater was here and Enrici's Restaurant was there, and the Greyhound Station was here and across the street was the Sherman. And we come [came] out of Enrici's — went in there for a drink — and he says, “you like it (??). I says, “sure, I don't care.” He said, “Ok.” So we come [came] out there and went back dere, [there] runnin' down some stuff for the engineer and for the producer. And we heard the fire siren — “my God,” I said, “where the heck is the fire?” He said, “I don't know but we're goin' to go out and find outthough [out though].” So, he and Jack Silver walked out there, and the HamEgger(?) between Enrici's and the Greyhound Bus Station was on fire. I mean the grill, but the minute you punched FIRE in downtown district of Chicago, it's a nine-alarm fire. And The Tribune [Chicago Tribune] came out there and all the newspapers coverin’ it took pictures. They're takin’ pictures of the Ham 'n' Egger over here, and they got to shoot around me to get--and they all had a display — I made the front page of the next day's paper — Sunday. Said, Ham 'n' Egger — next to that, Henrici's had burned down. That was quite a fire that destroyed the restaurant. But, here I had that ad in all the newspapers [and] everything. Good publicity!

Let me tell you — the funniest line — I'll always remember. He said, “well, I'll tell you one thing, kid, if some of that Autry does — he's got the best damn luck in the world.” He says, “some of it rubbed off on you — you're gonna be in good shape.” And from dat [that] day on, I could ask Mr. Atlas anything I wanted. And Jack — after a while, we got to talkin' and Jack says, “boy, you sure hit it off with Mr. Atlas.” He says, “I tink [think] you're good for a couple of years now.” I said, “oops, we got trouble.” I says, “we[‘ve] got to find out about the musicians' union.” He said, “we can find out very shortly.”

He says, “come back next week and we're going to go right down to the union hall and have a meeting with the muscians' union and find out what their beef is.” The HB Theater was on .... Jack Soebeland and I — he works out the arrangement, And it so happens that Howard Miller is doing his television show in WBBM studios in Chicago. And Howard says, “what are you boys doin' here at WBBM?” I says, “we're maybe startin' a show here — a weekly Saturday night show.” He said, “oh, that's what Mr. Atlas is all hepped up about. He was tellin' me somethin’ about it — come on in — do my show.”

I hadn't had a contract yet — as a musician or AFRA [American Federation of Television and Radio Artists] contract — and walked in on this guy's show and he does an interview with me. After the interview, he put his arm around me — he says, “kid, you want to play (??) this theater — come here and see me — I'll see you.”

So, we went down [to] the union hall, and they said, “how can a traveling band travel like you do and come in here and take a sit-down job?” He said, “don't you know the rule books?” He said, “were you on the board of directors down at the (??)” I said, “I was nominated a couple of times, but I couldn't take it because I was busy workin' on the road.” Board of directors for the musicians' union here in Louisville. He said, “don't you understand what the union rules are?” I said, “I didn't violate any rules.” We came in here and passed the audition and everything was supposed to be taken care of. Caesar Petrillo, he says, “Jimmy's brother? How do you know him?” I says, “he has the orchestra at WBBM.” He told me — he says, “kid, you've got just exactly what Mr. Atlas is lookin for. “He said, “how 'bout Mr. Bankert (??)” I says, “I don't know Mr. Bankert.”

He says, “he's with AFRA — did you clear yourself with AFRA?” I said, “no sir.” He said,” Howard, what's the matter with you?” He said, “don't worry about the guy — he’ll figure it out — he's new in town and he'll work itout [it out.] So, the next day, Soebel and I went to see Mr. Bankert and that was it. And the following Saturday, our Saturday night show started there at WBBM Chicago and lasted five years. I even used some of the WLS acts on my show.

So, I would go from Louisville up there every week; I lived in Louisville. We drove up. We drove station wagons at that time — we had the vans. And then I bought

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--"Want you to come up to the house — come up to my apartment”. And he said, “Frankie [is] going to be there, my son. He said, “yes, they explained to you everything that's goimg to happen to you.” He says, “I'm givin' you notice — giving you two months' notice.” He said, “the slot that you took — 9 to 12,” — that's three hours — “you raised the rating from .3 up to 9.1 — on a Saturday night, that's the highest rated show in Chicago right now. And we're deliberating how to smooth you off 'cause we bought a whole bunch of movies out in Hollywood. Top movies which we haven’t had a place to put 'em— 'cause the time slot was so low (??) that we couldn’t' afford to take a gamble on it. And we paid lots of money — millions of dollars.” And he said, “you understand what I'm talkin' about now?” I said, “Yes I do. I hear Gene talkin' about it the same way you do, Mr. Atlas.” He says, “call me Les. My son Frankie will be here, and he'll work out everything with you.” That's Mr. Atlas' son, Frankie.

So, Frankie come [came] in after a while. He says, “can you have a drink now? I says, “yeah.” He says, “can you have two Drinks?” I says, “no, I want to find out what's goin' to happen to me.” He says, “well, you're goin' off the air.” He said, “we have to give you two weeks’ notice, but we're gonna give you two months’ notice.” And he says, “we want you to to work through this holiday season and keep the (??). In the meantime, we're gonna cut you off one hour and try a movie in its place, and see if it's accepted,” — it wasn't accepted. He said, “no, I don't think we're going to make it.” He said, “Dad, I tell ya — my dad is just beside himself. You gotta buy the whole thing or not at all.” So WBBM put me off the air — the union didn't put me off the air — but I was led to believe that union was puttin' me off the air.

WBBM didn't suggest that it was the union who put me off the air, but some of the rumors around town — musicians that I knew very well — I grew up with some of those guys anyhow. The musicians said, “how you guys ever got here— we don't know.” They said that because we were from out of town; the musicians' union didn't allow a traveling band — and I lasted dere [there] five years. We violated the rules.

So anyhow, I maintained my Cleveland show, also my Cincinnati show and then this show in Louisville on Thursday. This was in 1954. I had a national radio show, the show in Chicago over WBBM; the show in Cleveland, Ohio — WEWS. We drove there on Monday — we did that on Monday, add that's where we got to be known on ABC network because that's an ABC affiliate. So, when the time come [came] for us to replace Cid Caesar, we were the band and we did it from Cleveland. So, we did two shows from Cleveland — Monday our regular show and then worked on their show on Friday, I think it was. At the same time, I was doing a television show here in Louisville on Thursday, and Wednesday in Cincinnati. We didn't play any dates because we didn’t' have time. After that, we went on the road.

WBBM replace[d] us because when they stick to millions of dollars in high-class movies — Clark Gable and all [of those] them number one movies, they're going to get that back by sellin' to the sponsors. We couldn't have lasted much longer, I don't think. We were lucky — other barn dances were already cut down to one show on Sat. night — no two shows. We were still high in the ratings — 9.1. We weren't going down — we stayed at that level. I think it was inevitable that we would have declined — probably. Every show has its run and I thought that was a pretty good one — five years. And 6.5 years in Cleveland.

It wasn't our choice to be taken off the air, but we were pretty well beat. See, that was a three-hour show in Chicago. The othern [other one] was an hour. And Cincinnati was a half-hour and this one in Louisville was a half-hour. It was a gruesome, tiresome schedule. When the heck do we go on the road and play for the people?

Some of the most popular current songs we'd play as a feature, but we could also introduce our new songs on these televisionshows [television shows.] Of course, I must say this for the WBBN TV show — it made me a good livin' for at least another 10 years. By playin' all those different dates in allthem [those] different towns. Fairs and it was Bill King’s job to book me. And he never had no trouble — callin' fair managers and tell 'em, “ok, I'll take the date.” So, after I went off WBBN, the[y] still remembered me from there, and then you buy radio spots — in local towns you buy radio spots, for example, in Kankakee, you got a radio station.

See, at that time, I didn't have Ella (??) with me any longer, and people would say, “what happened to the tall girl that you had in Chicago? What happened to your

shufflin' cowboy?” I says, “they're no longer with me.” So, I had to regroup all the people. So, our group was constantly being reshaped or reformed to fit what we were going to do.

When we played those four or five dates in one week, we'd use the same Golden West Cowboys — it was the same band. The guests were different— had everybody from Mahalia Jackson to the Mills Brothers, to the Ink Spots. That was when I was in Cincinnati, and also Chicago. You'd have these name[d] guests because you had to have an audience in those places. In Chicago, we also had Julius LaRosa and---they were all big names, even though that was not a network program. They were booked by William Estey (??) Agency in New York/ because Jack Soebel (??) was their bookin' agent. So, he fed me all these special guests.

And then I'd get out of Nashville — I'd get a lot of guests, too. When the guys didn't appear on the Grand Ole Opry, they could come and do my show on Saturday night. I had a telegram that I framed and blew up that I gave Bob Neal (???) — he was Elvis' first manager. And he offered to give me Elvis as a guest up in Chicago, but I had already set all the guests, and it was a hurry-up bookin' thing for Elvis. So, I had to decline and couldn't get him — couldn’t' use him. I would have gladly taken him, because he was already a big name then.

Now we're about '56. We closed (??) right away for California touring — up and down the coast bybus [by bus]. Bill King booked us there. From then on, he was my manager for about 20 years. There were many bookin' agents that I worked for that became fast friends of mine and we corresponded all the time —guys like Cook and Rose (??) in Pennsylvania; they booked dates for me up dere [there]. And then Ward Beam up in Goshen, New York. These guys I want to give credit to because, without a bookin’ agent, you're dead. Because I couldn't handle all that work — I found that out when Mr. Frank died. I tried to do it on my own — good-natured me callin' my friends over there. They said, “aww, you can't do it — you got to get a bookin' agent.” Until I got Bill King, I was bookin' myself and that was hard to do.

Fortunately, I knew a lot of the fair managers I'd made friends with, my secretary for about eight years. My fan club president became my secretary — Dolores Klaft (??) from Alpena, Michigan. She came down here and became my secretary. She moved here. She had a job and she got her girlfriend a job. So, she stayed here for eight years as my secretary.

We did a couple of wildcat sessions. By that I meant, we took little labels like Kuka (??) Records up in Sauk City, Wisconsin— when we made our movie, we went up dere [there] to record an album. And we opened the album up with "Petticoat Junction,” because our movie, "Country Western Hoedown," was that type of a movie. And they called 'em blacktop promotion — that means drive-in theater was a blacktop. When Bill King said, “why don't we set up a record session for you in time to promote the picture and sell records — sell albums — on your trips there. And sell albums where the

movie houses are that play your picture show.” I said, “go ahead — I don't care.” So, we worked that deal out.

The name of themovie [the movie] was "Country Western Hoedown." We made that partly here in the Cant Lane (??) Studios — the inside stuff — the club. The theme of the whole thing was this was our Western hotel. And people from all the United States comin' to visit us. And when they stay with us, they got to sing a song while they're here and entertain the folks who come to eat at our restaurant. It was a restaurant-type of thing. Dolores wrote the script. She wrote a script for the movie — we didn't need one — we made it up as went — when we shot. In our outdoor stuff, we shot it at Renfro Valley.

Art Standish (??) and Sullivan were supposed to distribute the movie, but we couldn't find anybody to distribute it, so we had tohandle [to handle] it ourself [ourselves]. So, we had to contact the guy that leases the pictures from — like Mr. Goldberg up in Cincinnati, he had 12 prints. The guy down in New Orleans — he had 10 prints. About 5 or 6 different areas. The best business we did was drive-in theaters in the summertime. The guy from Atlanta — he took 20 prints, and he booked 'em out. That's where we got some of our money back. We didn't make any money on the movie — we took a beating!

We forgot one thing — gettin' the licenses to record the songs. The songs that we used in the picture. We paid for the usage, abd one after the other. I knew it was supposed to be done, but I didn't take care of it. I left it up to them — Art Stanish and James Sullivan — I gave them a list of the tunes--they knew shit from Shinola. All they knew was they made the Renfro Valley picture and [it] made a lot of money for him.

And once we started distributing the movie, we found out we had to pay royalties. And we paid the highest royalty for "Petticoat Junction." 'Cause that was the theme of the show. So, we lost money on the deal.

I had copies of the movie but no [t] [any]more. I gave one to the museum down in Nashville and it's so worn out that they couldn't even see how--we tried to find a good copy somewhere and couldn’t' find one from about six distributors. The final blow came when I went to Washington, D.C., and tried to get the distributor there to give me the six that he had, 'cause he didn't hardly sell anything up there. And he said, “I don't even know where they're at, Pee Wee.” So, I don't think they're [there are] copies in good condition around anywhere — Bill Johnson — he has hunted high and low for them. It would be a collector's item now.

The cast that we had [pauses to look through paperwork] Patti Page's introduction to the... that's Cashbox, that's my partner Redd Stewart, myself and Mr. Haviland (??) — here was my show on television in Cleveland —"Channel 2, every Wed. night, a full hour of music and fun featuring Pee Wee King and his RCA Victor recording band, brought to you by Erin Brew, formula 1002. WEWS, Channel 5, in Cleveland.”

For the cast of “Country Western Hoedown," I used stars from the National Barn Dance, from Renfro Valley, from Shreveport, from Atlanta, from Hollywood. I used different acts--— they were our guests for that particular week, we were making believe I mean. I had to bring them into Louisville and had to pay their expenses and fees. I don't know how much the movie cost — that's all so far in the past — a lot of money — more than I was makin’! I couldn’t keep track and Dolores would beg me and say, “don't get such an expensive act.”

The idea for the movie, the two guys who made the Renfro Valley picture approached me — they hunted me down. They were Art Stanish and Jim Sullivan. Art Stanish was in the movie business — he was a distributor, for United Artists. And he knew the ropes. And Sullivan was a photographer. He had a camera shop down on Broadway. So, between the two of 'em, they got me talked into it, and I got Bill into it. Bill wasn't for it. Bill King. He says, “Pee Wee, you got to look at dis [this] way, dis [this] hand is the one that's got the money; you already work for that money; you got [get] your payroll all the time — we don't have to worry about it. Your TV show, you got dates to play, personal appearances — what the hell do you need with a movie?! You're takin' money out of this hand and puttin' it in this hand.” I says, “it's an investment.” I said, “I don't see it.”

So, Chris Duvall was my friend[‘s] lawyer. We called him Uncle Chris. And Uncle Chris said one day, he said, figuring it in our own minds — how we should approach it and all that — the more I got to think[ing] about it, the more I wanted to do the picture. My office was in the Vaughn Building downtown at Third and Main. At one time we had a chance to buy it — with the money I lost on the picture, I could have bought the building. But be it as it may, there's an old saying I always remember, two of 'em — one Mr. Frank taught me a long time ago, “no one makes it alone — you got to have help.” And the other one was, “every man has got a mountain to climb.” And Marty Robbins always used to kid about that. He said, “I made my picture — why don't you?” I said, “when did you make a picture?” He said, “I wrote a song about it — "Every Man's Got a Mountain to Climb." “

Marty Robbins made a movie, and Faron Young made a movie — that's how he got to be deputy sheriff — he made him sheriff. But they weren't successful; it was the tail end of Western movies at that time. None of those movies hit. The only music that ever hit in country music was "Country Music on Broadway." And Dick Lewis(??) had the rights to that one. That movie had every artist that you could possibly fly into New York and find his way into the studio.

My movie was made in '63. Yeah, because we didn't finish the copyrights and all the stuff — the lawsuits on it — till '67, but at that time the picture was dead. Payin' off money on it. We would have lawsuits if I hadn't — see, I depended on my friends to let me use their publishing rights to the songs. They can't do it — the publishers got [have] to give you rights — you got to get a license for it. So, even though my friends wrote the songs, they couldn't give me the rights to them. And if I used them on the show, I had to pay them, too. I had already done the film. Gosh, finally puttin' on figures and figures and figures — you talk about going out of your skull--I was out of my skull. Oh man, I had some sleepless nights over that.

There was a time when I said, “why me?” Still, it was an exciting time in my career — exciting when you’re doing it. The low point came when we found out how much we needed to settle up with everybody. So, after we made the movie, which was exciting, we found out how much we had to pay, which was a low point.

I even went to Hollywood and took the movie out there and showed it to Gene Autry's director. And he says, “kid, I want to tell you what you did.” He said, “you did a good job with what you got [had] to do.” But he says, “we make movies for a livin’ in Hollywood. If you're going to spend that kind of money, you might as well make 'em out here.” And I says, “I'm never gonna make another movie.” And I never made another movie.

Gene laughed about it. He said, “boy, with all the knowledge you've got and every

thing else — things that Joe Frank taught you,” — he said, “you should[‘ve] of learned when you were makin’ a movie you should have done it out here — back there they don't know how.” That was the worst professional mistake I ever made.

We formed our television company. The movie served a purpose. You had to gain that knowledge — it's like a boxer — he tinks [thinks] he's ready for the championship, and then he gets knocked out in the first round. He says,” I don't think I was quite ready, [laughs].” I was really knocked out in the first round. At least, I got the idea of making a movie out of my system. It was a funny deal the way it worked out because all at once, Dolores said, “somethin's not gellin', Pee Wee.” She said, “the PL statements — you don't even look at them — why don't you?” PL statements — profit and loss. I didn't care — I had a manager; I had a good secretary and things were flourishing at the time. But, be it as it may, we're here yet— that's the bottom line.

Oh, Bob Ryan. That's how deep I got in the mire — I was doin' a show on the parkin' lot at Bob Ryan's field (??) — but I loved the guy, and I loved his wife — we were good buddies. And we used to do it out on the parkin' lot and when it was bad, we'd go to WKLO and start at the radio station. That was in '57 after we toured. And then the WAVE-TV show — Oertel's (??) Brewing Co. — on Thursday night.