Thursday, September 3, 2009

(part 201) DENNIS AND GEORGE



The lawyer's name was Dennis Poulsen, and he was an insurance attorney from Whittier, California. Carol Paulus had befriended him in Beverly Hills where he'd opened a perfume shop.

It seems that Dennis had read an article in Time Magazine about people getting into the music business and making a fortune without any prior experience. This was where he'd gotten the idea, and had decided to take a shot at it himself.

As you can imagine, Dennis looked like what you might think an attorney from Whittier would look like. He was well dressed in a suit and tie with short hair, was a conservative Republican, had little or no style, was young, late 30's, maybe 40, and had a business partner named George who liked to drink.

They were both married, and I guess they thought they were pretty hip, which they weren't. Maybe in Whittier, but not in Beverly Hills and West Hollywood.

The first time I met him was when he came to Carol's apartment. She was not there, so it was just me and Dennis. He was positive, intelligent, and friendly, and he reminded me of guys I'd met in bars on the west side on weekends.

They always seemed a bit too positive, and overly expectant that something was about to happen. They didn't know what exactly, but they were always ready for it, or so they thought.

When you've been on the street as long as I had, you kind of learn to read people fast, and that's how I read Dennis.

I took a good look at him when he came in, and decided almost immediately who I was dealing with. Because of this, I didn't want to spend a lot of time talking.

I didn't feel like this meeting was going to amount to much, so I took him into another room where my guitar was and said, "I'm gonna play you some songs, if you don't mind." Too much chit-chat and letting someone like this get comfortable was what I didn't want to do.

"Are these original songs, Bobby, that you wrote?" he asked.

"Yeah!" I answered, "Everything I'm gonna play for you is something I wrote, and they're all unpublished."

"OK," he said smiling, "lay it on me."

Lay it on him is exactly what I did. After my initial discomfort at playing live for an audience of one, who was a total stranger, I threw caution to the winds and settled into playing the songs.

As I hammered out one after another, I could see his interest growing. With each new tune he became more convinced that he'd stumbled across a good thing.

He had to be thinking that here is a guy who can play, sing, and write his own songs, and is good at it. And, he's got a lot of songs.

They just came pouring out of me like a human jukebox. I knew what was going on. I'd planned it that way. "Just beat the crap out of him with original songs,"I thought, "so many that his mind turns to mush. Make him know that he really saw and heard something special. Don't let him leave wondering. Make sure he is convinced of one thing: that Bobby Jameson can write, play, and sing."

After about 25 songs, I stopped, wiped off the sweat, and put my guitar down. I lit a cigarette and said, "Well there ya go, man. That's what I do and I did it for you," as I blew out a large cloud of smoke into the air.

I looked over at Dennis, who appeared a little unsure of what to say or do next, and said, "Well whatta ya think, man?"

Dennis finally gathered himself and confessed that I'd blown his mind, which seemed odd coming from him, because he looked so straight. I chuckled, and took another drag on my cigarette and waited for him to say something.

"How is it that you have so many good, better than good, songs, and can play them all as easily as you just did for me, and you are not signed to a record deal?" he asked.

"Don't know, Dennis," I said, "I guess I'm not that good or there are a lot of dumb shits in the music business, you tell me?"

"Well it's obvious you're good enough," he said, "so it must be the people in the business."

I looked at him and laughed, blowing smoke in the air again. "Yeah," I said smiling, "It must be the people in the business."

We sat there for a long time, and I listened to him tell me about who he was and what he wanted to do. At that point I was giving him my full attention, just as he'd done for me while I played him my songs.

We were worlds apart, but I could see that he was making a real effort to communicate his dream to me. I respected him for that, and his willingness to try and bridge the obvious gap between us. I began to believe he was actually serious about getting something going.

After quite a bit of talking, he asked me what I wanted in the way of money to get under way with some sort of an arrangement.

I had nothing to lose at that point so I threw out a number off the top of my head. "$500 a week," I said, "for a minimum of one year, and then we'll see how it goes from there."

I watched him closely for a response and saw no signs of balking. "Well that sounds reasonable," he said, "let me get together with with my partner, George, and go over some numbers.

1 comment:

  1. I have mentioned several interesting coincidences that I have found as I peruse your story; here's another one:

    I was born in LA in the City of Angels Hospital, but when I was two years old (1950) my family moved to Whittier. I never met Dennis (and I haven't heard George's name, yet, so I don't know whether I knew him), but I went to elementary, junior and high school in Whittier; the Science of Mind church that I mentioned in a previous comment was in Whittier; I attended Whittier College; I taught school in the Whittier Unified School District (from which I retired to play music in '74); I worked for several years at Lovell's, an excellent record store in uptown Whittier, while playing in the LA/San Bernardino area. Except for a brief stint at Chico State, I lived in Whittier for forty years before moving about ten miles east of there. The high school in which I have taught for the last thirty-four years is in Pico Rivera, only about eight blocks from where I lived in Whittier for over thirty years. Put simply, I am a Whittier boy.

    I know your posting had nothing to do with Whittier except as a home base for your new acquaintance, and I suppose most people have forgotten Whittier's ignominious historical significance; it was, of course, the hometown of Richard Nixon. I therefore append this little ditty as a complete irrelevance, but a humorous addenda to your story.

    It is called "Welcome to Whittier," and it was written in late '73-early '74, before Nixon resigned. I point that out because the song was somewhat prescient in its chorus. Furthermore, it is perhaps the most historically accurate piece (along with "Talking Herstory") that I have written; what I mean is everything in there is true!

    Welcome to Whittier

    I come from the President’s hometown.
    The city fathers were pleased and proud
    When the hometown boy got crowned.
    They used to have these signs
    Hanging from the telephone lines
    Saying, “Welcome to
    The President’s Hometown.”
    Late last night they tore the banners down!

    The high school where
    He spent his days still stands.
    The high school board,
    For his swearing in,
    They sent the high school band.
    They used to have this plaque
    Made of plywood and shellac;
    It wore the words:
    “The President is our Man!”
    This morning found it broken in the can.

    Hometown boy gone bad,
    We gave you all we had.
    You squeezed us dry, and then
    You asked for more.
    Hometown boy gone bad,
    We surely will be glad
    When we throw your lies
    And you right out the door.

    We all knew his every boyhood haunt.
    His relatives who lived in town
    Had a drive-in restaurant
    With two-way intercoms—
    Push a button off or on—
    They’d take your order,
    Ask you what you’d want.
    It seemed like a good idea...
    For a restaurant.

    But in politics
    He tried the same technique:
    All he wanted to do
    Was take a peek.
    Seek out his enemies;
    Make them feel the squeeze.
    They caught him when his
    Watergate sprang a leak.
    No plumbers and no paddles
    Up this creek (up the river);
    Jowl deep and sinking in the creek.

    Hometown boy gone bad,
    We gave you all we had.
    You squeezed us dry, and then
    You asked for more.
    Hometown boy gone bad,
    We surely will be glad
    When we throw your lies and you
    Right out the door.

    I come from the President’s hometown.
    The city fathers were pleased and proud
    When the hometown boy got crowned.
    They used to have these signs
    Hanging from the telephone lines
    Saying, “Welcome to
    The President’s Hometown.”
    Late last night they tore the banners down!

    ©1974 Tim McMullen All Rights Reserved

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