Ken Ludwig walked into the station one day and blew everyone's mind by announcing he was moving to New York City. It was stunning news. And he was gone in a blink. Ken and I weren't close but I felt his sudden absence keenly. He was my anchor at ZBM, after all, the man responsible for my being there. And Ken had a distinct, powerful energy; you always knew when he was around. But now that energy was gone, utterly, and the station seemed empty without him. I never did get used to a ZBM without Ludwig. But surprise was a movable feast in a Ken Ludwig experience.
A few weeks later, in popped Ken for a visit, to set our ears a-quivering with tales of the big-time. Now, Ludwig had the annoying habit of revealing the details of his latest sexual conquest to anyone within earshot, so his New York story sprang from that inclination. The story answered some open questions about his sudden change of venue. It seems Ken had seduced the mother of a television producer while she was vacationing in Bermuda, the result of which was an invitation to NYC..the astonishing result of which was a job as casting director of a network game show hosted by Merv Griffin!
That unique career twist would have been impressive success if it weren't tainted success..but Ken seemed happy. I eventually saw the show in Detroit and his name was indeed rolling in the credits. How strange was that? "Play Your Hunch" ranks high with fans of TV game show history, but with the show's eventual demise, Ken's name disappeared from my life, and I may have heard the last of him until this day..but for this:
While working at WBRB in the late 70's, I stumbled on an old soundtrack album of the movie, "Malamondo." Flipping it over for a look at the liner notes I was suddenly looking straight at Ken Ludwig's smiling face. I couldn't believe it. Ludwig! Staring me in the face, the guy who'd pulled me into radio twenty years earlier. He'd landed himself a movie soundtrack! Unbelievable. I'm sure my mouth was hanging open. Of course I played it immediately and there, direct from another lifetime, echoed a voice I never dreamed I'd hear again. My thoughts flew straight to Bermuda.
I was back in Studio A at ZBM, with a couple of Music-Minus-One records, some audio tape, and a bit of temperament from Ken. Some of that time was spent trying to help him with an intonation problem. Like many tenors, he was inclined to go sharp. It was my task, from the engineer's booth, to steer him back onto pitch. To that end we used simple hand signals, i.e., a finger pointing down, a leveled hand, etc. The signals worked, but Ken didn't seem to be developing his own ear for the problem.
Twenty years hence, however, with Ludwig's voice ringing from the overhead speakers, I noticed that he did not once lose pitch, not the slightest bit; his intonation was perfect. I've always thought he didn't hear the problem, but he obviously did..and he fixed it. Either that or those NYC engineers' index fingers were better medicine than mine.
While the orchestra played and Ken warbled, I cynically wondered how he'd managed to bullshit his way into a movie soundtrack. He was a good singer, but I knew him too well, you see. Of course..maybe that was just a personal thing..like getting slugged in the arm by somebody just because of a few albums lying around!
The occasional show of temper aside, though, Ken was indeed a charming, charismatic guy, and a whopping good ballad singer. I give him four stars on the theme from "Malamondo." I certainly wish I'd liberated that album from the record library. The chances of finding a copy of it now are near zero. If one still exists somewhere I'm sure it has gone unplayed for decades; but if I had my hands on it I'd listen to it...right...this...minute!
Hey, Ken. If you should ever find this manuscript floating in a bottle---it only exists because of you, and I'm grateful to the bone. Thanks for the memories, and for the career.
P.S. Ludwig reminded me of Mel Torme because they both have what's called a "padded" voice; unusual in singers, and pleasant to the ear.
P.P.S. Kenneth Colman Ludwig's stage name is Kenny Colman.
P.P.P.S. Driven by curiosity, I found a New York Times review of Malamondo in the reference section of the library, then looked up
on microfiche the Times movie ads for that day. The film was a documentary after the fashion of the excellent film, Mondo Cane. But the Times review described Malamondo as something of a dud, and the display ad's content pointed in that direction:
SEE IT WITH OUR SECOND FEATURE, "THE CREATION OF THE HUMANOIDS!"
On the plus side, the film's musical director was none other than Ennio Morricone, the brilliant composer and conductor of many great soundtracks over the years, including, A Fistful of Dollars; The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly; The Mission; Cinema Paradiso and, amazingly, almost five hundred others. Morricone approved Ludwig for that movie, so with that in mind I'm even more curious to hear him sing again. Anyone have an old copy of Malamondo?
P.P.P.P.S. This is not the same Ken Ludwig enjoying success on Broadway as a playwrite. This is the friendly Canadian guy who yanked me out of Navy nowhere and into radio. And a final P.S.: With the development of the Internet, I've re-established contact with Kenny Colman. Don't miss the latest chapter of his interesting career, in which names like Sinatra and Vaughn played important roles. See www.cyberspace.edu. (Now under construction)
Quinton Edness. Is that a classy name, or what? Until beginning this memoir I'd never given much thought to the fact that Quinton was the only black DJ at ZBM. He was just Quinton; no color required.
It's my guess that few saw color as an issue with Quinton. He was tall, dark, handsome, intelligent and likable, with a good sense of humor. He carried himself with a comfortable dignity, projecting an aura of competence. Quint was in his mid- or late twenties at that time and as you might expect, successful with the ladies. He didn't make a habit of bragging about it the way certain others did, though, probably because he was married. (No risque details now...unless they're mine!)
Quinton was a solid, effective broadcaster; he worked at it, and he succeeded. He wasn't the greatest air personality in the world but he was pleasant, consistent, and he ran a tidy ship. It was a rather successful life, all things considered. (At the time of these events - I should already have mentioned - working in radio meant worlds more than it means today.)
Quinton didn't hang with anyone in particular at the station, but he twice invited me to tag along on some interesting 'soirees.' We visited with a Swedish jazz musician on one occasion; a bass player touring with the Canadian jazz star, Peter Appleyard. Sipping banana liqueur in the guy's hotel room - I mostly listened. The fellow was a well-known player in Sweden's jazz world but I can't recall his formidable Swedish name.
The second outing was to an after-hours jazz club that I didn't know existed. It was in an old house a few blocks from ZBM; I remember it as a frame house but I'm not sure there are any frame houses in Bermuda. Anyway, it occurs to me at this late date that that night might be viewed as an official introduction to Bermuda's jazz world by someone who was known and welcomed there. I wish I'd thought of it that way at the time - I'd have gone back for more. Thanks anyway, Quint.
It was only my second after-hours *anything,* if you don't count the back seat of a car. Nothing memorable happened at that club, other than some pretty good jazz; I just wanted to make the point that Quinton had kindly introduced me to the real deal in Bermuda's nighttime jazz scene. By the way, we rode there on Quint's old black motorcycle. At 6'2" or so, he was a distinct sight on that bike, with his tall, rigid back, and shiny knees flying wide.
And so it came to pass that...in 1972, while preparing my journey of nostalgia back to Bermuda, it suddenly occurred to me to telephone ZBM and ask who might still be on staff after all those years. Only one possibility seemed likely: Quinton.
Calling from Michigan, I explained to the receptionist that I'd been there in the late Fifties. Did she know of a Quinton Edness?
"Mr. Edness is the station manager, sir. I'm sorry, he's not in right now, he's at a meeting of Parliament."
"A meeting of Parliament?"
"Yes sir. Mr. Edness is a Member of Parliament."
"Quinton Edness is a Member of Parliament? And manager of ZBM? Uhh...I'm talking about a tall black guy with a mustache...looks funny on a motorcycle!?"
What a stunner. The Quinton Edness I knew just wanted to be a good disc-jockey, and in the racially unequalized Fifties, that spelled success. I retrieved his phone number from the receptionist and called MP Quinton Edness at home the next day, expecting a friendly reunion.
"Edness residence," the maid answered.
Quinton took the phone and I couldn't believe my ears. He spoke with an affected accent, a really bad one, I thought. Of course he was unaware of it, but it made me so uncomfortable that I felt the need to try to bring him back to reality, the one we were both familiar with--like Earth. I tried the direct, unaffected approach, speaking to the real Quinton Edness, the man I had known--hoping it would bring him back from space for at least a few minutes. I spoke as an old friend, to an old friend.
It got me nowhere. His response didn't get past idle amusement. Maybe he was caught up in the demands of the decorum required for his political life. One thing for certain, he was without interest in my life. I tried telling him of my music school, my life since we'd last met, but bought out of the attempt in a hurry; he couldn't have cared less; the best I could get out of him was a restrained chuckle.
I'm not putting Quinton down...and that's the truth. Lot's of things get lost in the translation, and after all, he may have remembered me as an idiot. Many people do.
Zundapping around Bermuda on holiday a couple of weeks later, I thought it might be fun to have a look at the new studios of ZBM, my Alma Mater; but I didn't, nor did it bother me not to. I'd listened in and noted that the station's sound had changed totally, as had the announcing staff. The past was history, after all, and best left alone. It was an excellent history, too...including Quinton. He truly was a wonderful guy, always kind, helpful, and generous; I'll think of him with affection forever. Did success spoil Quinton Edness? I doubt it--allowing for that awful accent.
The Internet's Bermuda Online pages list the Honorable Quinton Lancelot Edness as Bermuda's Minister of Labour, Home and Legislative Affairs, and Public Safety. His office's budget for '97-'98: Forty-seven million dollars. A long way down the road from that old black motorcycle. Way to go, hammer. (1950s Bermuda slang.)
The other guys at the station were mostly Canadians. Dave Bodington was an excellent young disc jockey from Ontario. We shared an apartment for a while.
Program Director, Jack Dodge, was a slim, quiet, congenial person who managed himself with precision, both on the air and off. Asked once why he wasn't working a larger market, Jack replied that he'd rather be a big fish in a small pond. A measured, logical, friendly man from Nova Scotia, Jack shared an apartment with his polar opposite, Ken Ludwig.
"Barracuda Joe." His real name was Gordy Naught..but his 'nom de plume' fit him so well that everyone at the station called him Joe. "Barracuda" made quite a splash in Bermuda. He'd been hired on the basis of a resume and audition tape that presented him as a straight-ahead announcer in a vested suit with a mature, large-market voice. What they got was the voice..plus rather more than they bargained for.
Joe opened the microphone as a character he'd invented just for Bermuda: "Hey, fishes and fishlets, this is Barracuda Joe on your radio!" Jack Dodge was a tad unnerved because "Barracuda" was totally unexpected..as were the other personalities soon revealed from Joe's bag of alter egos: an experienced theater actor/director, an artist-thinker, a big-time drinker, an intellectual, and an angst-ridden anti-establishment navel-gazer from head to toe. That last personality I could identify with!
Joe was a popular DJ, and unique for a conventional radio station on a staid British isle in 1957. But, disturbingly, he also made his mark by making a fool of himself in every no-frills bar on the island - with an occasional physical brawl just for fun. I did not accompany him on such forays, but word got around.
This complex man set out to produce a show for the fledgling TV station. I researched shooting locations with him. But the show never came about. I'd liked to have seen him in action with a camera. Barracuda Joe. He had a lot of problems, and loads of talent. He once told me that his dream woman would have to sport a perfect heel, without the slightest callus. He either relaxed his quirky requirement or he's a lonely old man. Barracuda lived alone.
Greg Poole. Greg was the best announcer on staff, in my opinion. In his mid-thirties, Greg came to Bermuda from a station in Toronto, sporting an easy Canadian likability and a wonderful voice. Unfortunately for Greg, he also looked good, so he found himself hijacked up to TV to anchor the new station's first newscast.
A few of us watched on a monitor installed in the radio offices. To me he looked totally professional, but after the telecast Greg's springs were wound tighter than they'd ever been. He said he'd never felt such pressure in his life. He vowed never to do TV again, and he didn't, at least not while I was there. Too bad. He looked great on camera and he would have been a feather in Bermuda television's cap.
Greg and I once fixed ourselves up with a couple of Bermuda beauties, then removed to his apartment to await their steamy arrival. They didn't show.
Then there was Jay Lloyd, the American who had done the Navy show before me. His story went like this: Following his discharge from the service Jay returned to Bermuda, parked himself on the station manager's desk and refused to move until they hired him. So, they hired him. Jay lived alone too--but he certainly didn't sleep alone.
There was a young English copywriter who always wore the official Englishman's work uniform - white shirt and tie with shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. I've lost his name but I can't forget his sense of humor; he was hilarious, and he and I both loved the Goon Show, featuring that wacky newcomer, Peter Sellers.
There was a kid who was even younger than me, a high-voiced sixteen year old evening Rock-jock on ZBM-2. His presence made my possibilities seem like...definite possibilities.
Pat Dunch was a pleasant young Bermudian who did the classical music show on ZBM-2. His theme music was Mozart's, 'A Little Night Music.' For decades I couldn't hear the piece without being transported back to ZBM-2's tiny studio. Pat Dunch at the console wearing a brown plaid shirt is my second-earliest memory of the station. I learned in 1972 that Pat had emigrated to Australia. In 1997, I found him there, through the Internet, and sent him a copy of this memoir. He said it brought a nostalgic tear to his eye.
Trevor Critchley. Trevor somehow managed to squeeze into his distinguished name. He was the tall, veteran announcer at ZBM, the one who'd been there longer than anyone else. His was a fat, Bermuda-accented barrel-voice, so Trevor was the natural choice for the glorious position of booth announcer when television finally got airborne.
A few weeks after its innauguration in January 1958, ZBM television enjoyed a stroke of good fortune; the hotel across the street burned down. It was a simple matter to poke a camera out the window and televise the entire thing to a rapt audience.
I happen to have played a small part in the demise of the Bermudiana Hotel. I'd gotten my hands on an 8mm movie camera and was out filming Virginia McClanahan's house for posterity. While walking back to the radio station I noticed a small funnel of smoke spiraling from a maintenance structure on the roof of the hotel. I shot some film of it and wondered why no one was trying to put it out. Then, I ran into ZBM to try to scare up some concern. They had a look, wondered why no one was trying to put the fire out, and called the fire department. When the engines finally arrived from the US Air Force Base, almost an hour later, the entire top floor was engulfed in flames.
Poised dramatically in the street with camera humming, I captured the arrival of the clanging fire engines. The Three Stooges would have been proud, what with the next twenty minutes of head-scratching and running around in circles. The problem? No fire hydrant.
A ladder was finally raised and a fireman struggled to the top rung with hose in hand, while the end of another hose was dropped into an out of service, half-filled swimming pool next to the radio station. The idea was to pump that water up the ladder to the waiting hoseman.
The island's populace, riveted to their TV sets, rooted for their firefighters, but what finally came out of that hose was what you might expect of a large guy having a whiz. The feeble drizzle fell straight down onto the hotel's soon-to-be doomed flower beds. By the time pressure was raised the second floor was a flat-out loss. One floor to go. And it went, quickly, in a spectacular blaze. It made great television.
The next day I filmed the remaining pile of twisted steel and smoking rubble, happy to have been witness to the huge event. But I'm sorry to say, I lost that precious film somewhere along life's fiery path.
Today, you'll find a rebuilt Bermudiana hotel occupying the same space as the old one. And that's my ghost standing in the street, in front of where the Little Venice now resides, which, in 1958, was the entrance to the studios and offices of ZBM. The two most important places of my young life have now become one.
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