The Road To Moonlight Feels Right

By Bruce Blackman

Every song has a story behind it, and this is the captivating tale, in Bruce Blackman's unsurpassable wit, that tickles the nerve-endings of a time gone by . . . a time that is still revered to this day.

Moonlight Feels Right by Starbuck, a group in which Bruce was the frontman with his familiar white cap, became one of the top-selling songs of the '70s, and is still played in 54 countries across the globe.

Bruce takes you on a musical cruise through the '60s and '70s in a page-turning, laugh-out-loud memoir—from his Mississippi Delta childhood to adventures in Hollywood, packed with celebrities and filled with telling detail. Touching at moments and side-splitting hilarious at others, this engrossing memoir gives you lots of juicy tidbits.

Beginning with their breakout concert with his group Starbuck opening for ELO, he takes you behind the scenes of American Bandstand, Merv Griffin, Rock Concert, Midnight Special, and Dinah Shore. It's all here---the back stories, the part you couldn't see.

From his experiences with William Faulkner and Jim Morrison to his brief appearance in the movie The Graduate, you'll enjoy a front-row seat on his one-of-a-kind trip to the top of the charts  . . . The Road to Moonlight Feels Right.

This is a commanding memoir that stands the test of time. After all, who doesn't like a bit of moonlight magic?

• Language: English
• Publisher: thewordverve inc
• Release date: Aug 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386469681

Book preview

THE ROAD TO MOONLIGHT FEELS RIGHT

BRUCE BLACKMAN

CONTENTS

What People Are Saying

Warning

Message from the author

MOONLIGHT FEELS RIGHT IN BIRMINGHAM

THE PLACE

The Power Of Place

Naked Women At The Marion Parlor

Don’t Mess With A WHAM

The Joy Of Being Poor

Holy Rolling In London

Camp KI-Y

Jesus Doesn’t Care About Stuff

My Brief Career As A Newspaper Publisher

The Boy Who Robbed Buffalo Bill

Selling Crackers In Miss-sippi

My First Performance

The Best Little Boy I’ve Ever Known

The King Of The Hood

The Garden

My Best Worst Day

The Date

THE PEOPLE - HIGH & LOW

Did You Sleep In The Rain?

She’s My Mom

Don’t You Know Anything?

Mr. Sam At Jack Wong’s Gro

Miss Amanda Worthington

Coach Wally Beach

Old Will

Bern Keating: Birds, Adverbs & Wine

Mrs. Nell Thomas

Green Onions In The Sanctuary

Gurr

Miss Daisy & Peyton Crowder

Peggy & The Cards

THE SCRAPBOOK

THE JOURNEY

Eternity’s Children

Between Risky & Crazy

The Skull & Crossbones

How To Lose A Record Deal With Hot-Fudge Cake

Rocket-Science Writing Classes

Let’s Go To Luckenbach, Texas, With . . . Jose Feliciano

A Water Balloon And A Severed Finger

Starbuck #3

The Lowery Group

The Session

The Deal

The Moonlight Promo Campaign

One More Birmingham

American Bandstand & The White Hat

My Worst TV Interview Ever

Touring

Moonlight Over Caravelle

Dinah Shore, Joan Rivers & Teen Idol Purple

The Party

The Meeting In Manhattan

Naked Cowboys In Mexico

The United Artist’s Double Deal

Sing Me To You

Moonlight Feels Right & The Supermoon

TELEVISION SHOWS

A CONVERSATION WITH BRUCE BLACKMAN

ADDENDUM

CONTACT

The Road to Moonlight Feels Right

Copyright © 2018 Bruce Blackman

All Rights Reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time, with some dialogue recreated. Any opinions expressed are solely those of the author.

First edition 2018

Published in the USA by thewordverve inc. (www.thewordverve.com)

eBook ISBN: 978-1-948225-38-0

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-948225-39-7

Hardback ISBN: 978-1-948225-40-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018908454

The Road to Moonlight Feels Right

A Book with Verve by thewordverve inc.

Cover artwork by Rick Sanders

www.strangetimesbysanders.com

Interior and Cover Design by A.L. Lovell

www.beechhousebooks.com

eBook formatting

www.thewordverve.com

WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING

Wonderful. Beautifully written. Upon occasion we have learned that talented writers of songs are also gifted writers of prose. Mr. Blackman is among them. Good stories lavishly and colorfully told. This Moonlight feels exactly right.

~ Alan White, Hall of Fame DJ

Bruce Blackman is a fresh voice in the tradition of Southern storytellers. This work is as good as Willie Morris, Julia Reed, and Jerry Clower at their best. Storytellers are born not made, and Blackman is a master. The man can write a blue streak. I can’t wait for the follow up.

~ Dr. John Keating

Bruce Blackman recalls a life, a career and his shot at stardom in the most amusing way…great book filled with wonderful stories. I love the wit and candor. The stories about what happened on his journey create a funny, reflective account of one man’s dream. Enjoy!

~ Nick Mawson, editor, West Coast Magazine

Bruce is my new hero. I enjoyed this memoir because you learn what it took for Bruce to become the man and success that he is. A lot of hard lessons and hard work and real perseverance. It shows a different side to the music biz other than sex, drugs, and rock & roll.

~ Kelley Anne Palenius, early reviewer

Bruce Blackman’s writing style is a delight. The book begins with the story of his growing up in the 1950s South. It may be hard for a reader in 2018 to realize what a different world it was then, but Bruce makes you feel like you are there. I laughed out loud at some of the tales of his youth and his journey into the world of rock n’ roll in the ’60s & ’70s, an incredible time in the history of music. Anyone interested in the classic rock era or pop music in general will really enjoy this book. Highly recommended!

~ Dennis King, Island Time Radio – WBWC, Cleveland, Ohio

Bruce Blackman is a modern day Jean Shepherd with added Southern charm and wisdom - only better. Shepherd didn't write one of the best tunes of the ’70s.

~ Heather O'Brien, author of the Ties That Bind saga

This book is a fascinating read, one that’ll have you laughing over some parts while blushing over some of the more racy dialogue. Loaded with Southern hospitality and charm, it’s a fun and entertaining read. I particularly enjoyed the variety of artists that the band toured with, and the book opens with a great story that features Jeff Lynne and his band, Electric Light Orchestra. Years after the fact, the book will have you rooting for Blackman and the boys, and the feel-good song that IS Moonlight Feels Right. Hmmmmm, it’s probably time to pop that record on again.

~ Steve Orchard, Results Broadcasting, Iron Mountain, Michigan

Blackman is a natural storyteller. The writing is compelling and the story is told with great character in the voice that’s sometimes a cross of Will Rodgers and Waylon Jennings. This kid is going to be an overnight success.

~ E.A Cook, author of three novels and a memoir entitled Faces Places and Pain, Carnies Tramps and Truths (vol. 1)

A wonderful read by any measure. It’s all here … all the emotion, all the intensity to create something mesmerizing, beautiful and lasting. Art doesn’t happen in a vacuum, it happens in real life, and it isn’t always pretty, and it isn’t always nice or fair, but it is always real in Bruce’s story. The highs and lows of the star maker machinery, unbound unmasked and heartfelt by a man of rare talent who lived it and lives it still.

~ Jim Veal, early reviewer

Good stories, great life lessons. One-liner pearls of wisdom in the Huck Finn-type tales gleaned from Bruce’s childhood. Lessons that, when applied later, kept the seemingly impossible Road from washing out completely. And speaking of Huck Finn, the same admonition applies to this book that Willie Morris’ grandfather whispers to young Willie as he is presented a birthday-present copy of Huck Finn in the movie My Dog Skip: There's cussin’ in it!

~ Walt Grayson, WLBT-TV, Mississippi Roads/MPB

A great book for people who want to break into the music business. All the trials & tribulations that come along with it. That man was determined, and he gives his wife lots of credit for lifting him up just when he needed it most. I can see why she’s the inspiration behind the hit song.

~ Julie Spiech Collier, early reviewer

From small town to the top of the charts, once again Bruce Blackman has a #1 hit on his hands. I couldn’t put it down! Candid, funny, truthful, entertaining – it’s perfect harmony for The Road to Moonlight Feels Right.

~ Anne Martin, author, Delta Hot Tamales: History, Stories & Recipes

What can I say about this book? Whatever I say would not be enough to give it the justice it deserves. 10 thumbs up!

~ Tom Collins, WTHZ-FM

If you’re into straightforward perspective, then read this book!

~ Mike Shaver, WSWO Oldies 97.3 FM

WARNING

This book covers the period from 1952 through 1980. The language of the characters reflects the mores and attitudes of that time. Reader discretion is advised.

AC   Adult Content

SL    Strong Language

BN   Brief Nudity

V      Violence

PCV PC Violations

This is the story about the people, the time, and the place that created Moonlight Feels Right, and the experiences my wife Peggy and I shared. We were young, in love, and all we had was each other and a dream.

There is nothing impossible in dreams.

~ Bruce Blackman

MOONLIGHT FEELS RIGHT IN BIRMINGHAM

Black. Everything black. The hallway. The floor. The walls. The curtains. I sat with Jeff Lynne of ELO on an anvil road case backstage in the Birmingham Auditorium, spellbound like an eight-year-old boy meeting Superman. My skin marbled into goose bumps. Jeff was the driving force behind ELO: lead singer, writer, and producer, and they were huge—borderline Beatles. He questioned me about the equipment we used: six Minimoogs, clavinet, Wurlitzer electric piano, Fender Rhodes, Mellotron, Hammond B3, Arp String Ensemble, vibes, marimba, bass, tympanis, bongos, congas, timbales, guitar, and drums.

Impressive lot, he said. Why so many moogs?

Takes that many to play our song.

Which is?

‘Moonlight Feels Right.’

"Heard that one today. Brilliant piece. Marvelous mallet work. Did you write it?

Yes. Bo Wagner did the marimba solo.

Splendid. Bang-up synths, too.

Thanks. Do you think— I stopped. I couldn’t remember what I wanted to say. This was Jeff Lynne, the man, the living declaration of cool, and I sensed a kind of in-sync-ness with him. We talked a bit more, with me bubbling on about how I admired his work like, Can’t Get It Out of My Head and "Evil Woman."

Two weeks before, we were playing five sets a night at a sleazy joint in Atlanta for pitiful money and nearly breaking up. I got a call from Tony Ruffino, a promoter in Birmingham, and he asked if we would be interested in opening a show for ELO.

Your record is number one here, but, sorry, all I can offer is $5,000, but you only have to perform for half an hour.

My eyes bugged out as I tried to respond, but I paused as Miss Peaster’s third-grade arithmetic training kicked in: $5,000 for 30 minutes, and we’re currently making $750 for 30 hours. Must be dreaming.

We’re in. What’s the date?

Friday, May 8th.

We were booked through May 15th at the dive in Atlanta. I told the owner we needed to take off on the 8th, and I knew a good band to stand in for us. He lit into me with a double dribble of spewing invective, but I ignored his trash talk and interrupted him:

Hey, man. Put a little love in your heart. We’re taking that gig.

The hell you say. I’ll fire your sorry ass this minute.

We’ll finish the job here, just give us the one night.

No way, you country-ass fuck. You’re fired, and you’re gonna regret this big-time.

Well, Mr. Your Honor. This is obviously not Make You Happy Day. Should I beseech the divine for protection?

"What does that mean? Who are you—Mike fucking Wallace?

We packed our gear and skeetered out, smiling. Hated the stinking place; continually blinking red and blue disco lights and white flashing strobes that made everything look like Keystone Cops. Gave me a headache.

Problem. We only knew two originals: Moonlight Feels Right and Lash LaRue, and we needed more, knowing that people don’t come to concerts to hear copy songs. I invited the band to our apartment to listen to demos that I recorded on my TEAC 4-track, but after several hours, no one agreed on anything, and I could feel a toxic undertow circulating through the room. Then, the reason became clear.

One member said, We’ve discussed this, and we all agree. It’s not fair that we’re only considering your tunes. We’re songwriters, too.

Bo Wagner joined the conversation. "No one mentioned this to me, Bruce. Sounds reasonable, though. Don’t you think?

All right, I said. I’m listening. Who wants to start?

Eyeballs moved, but no one spoke. And for a reason. No one had a song.

What the hell, I said, scratching my head. "You’re complaining about my songs, but you don’t have any? Have any of you been in touch with Paul McCartney? Maybe he’ll give us one. Anymore complaints? Suggestions?

None.

They exchanged sheepish grins and avoided looking at me. Bo mumbled something about a bunch of ingrates with their thumbs stuck up their butts. He called them thoopers. (The sound you make when you pull your thumb out.) I stepped outside for a minute, so they wouldn’t see me laughing.

Bo and I chose the songs and beavered the guys for the next ten days to prepare for the concert. They got all whined up, and slave-driver drifted around several times. Most musicians are inherently indolent, but Bo and I were not. This was our shot, and nobody too lazy to bother getting up half the time would stop us.

Friday morning, the week before the show, I woke up to what sounded like someone kicking in the front door. A home invasion? I armored up with a claw hammer and sneaked to the door, generaling myself for combat.

Who’s there?

Are you Bruce Blackman?

Yes. What do you want?

Got a package for you.

What is it?

Looks like some kind of paperwork.

Must be the contract for the concert. I opened the door, and a sour-looking, all-bodied-up, gym-built stud filled the doorway, his face fixed and unmoving. He looked like if he told you to stand on one leg and clap like a seal, you’d know what to do.

We’re repossessing your car, he says. His voice is crisp, no hint of a smile as he shoved the repo papers at me.

Cut me some slack, man. I’ll have the cash next Friday.

Zatso? You can give me the keys now, or I’ll hotwire the damn thing. Either way, that car is leaving.

I realized, even as I gabbled, that it was hopeless, so I gave him the keys. And in a double-down storm of bad news, before I shut the door, another man walked up and handed me an envelope. I opened it and read, Your rent is ten days past due. Remit by May 5th to avoid eviction.

A conflict of feelings assailed me. First, I had to figure out what to do, and second, I didn’t know what to do. Peggy and I lived on a tenuous financial scale. Our digs, utilities, and car payment totaled about fifteen percent more than our income, and I jiggled payments around, trying to stay current. Peggy worked a waitress job in Underground Atlanta, and we needed a car.

We counted our money: ninety-four dollars with a hundred-twenty-dollar rent due by Wednesday.

I took the last of our money and walked to a gas station that had a sign on the highway—Wrecks That Run…Cheep—and found a tan 1962 Ford Galaxie for 88 bucks. The car was ratted out something fierce, but at least it ran.

We rehearsed Saturday and Sunday, and I floundered with keeping focus. Rent money. Rent money. What the hell do I do?

Monday morning, May 5th. Miracle day. The phone rang. I answered, and my attorney, Joel Katz, spoke:

Bruce, do you need some money?

Oh, yes. Why do you ask?

I got a call from ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers). They want to keep you as a member and offered an advance against your airplay royalties. I negotiated with them, and they’ll go twenty-five grand. Do you want me to proceed?

What? Twenty-five grand? Two-five with three zeros? Is it possible this is happening? The realization jolted my thoughts. Grand was not a word I had ever spoken in reference to money.

Yes, yes, yes. Can I get the money today?

Sure. I can front you if you like. ASCAP will reimburse me.

Yes. Please.

Okay. Come on over.

I jumped in the Ford and skeeched tires to his office. His secretary had the check waiting for me, and I went straight to the bank and cashed it. I had never seen so much money before, or even a hundred-dollar bill, much less 250 of them in one stack. Zero to rich in one day. I felt like the dudest dude in the Star Spangled Rodeo.

I flew home in a dizzying swirl and picked up Peggy. We went to a Volvo dealership close to our apartment and purchased a new 1976 Volvo four-door sedan for $7,000. Then the salesman showed me a new model—a two-door Honda Civic, perfect for a second vehicle, $1,800.

We needed a few other luxury items, so we went to the mall and bought our first vacuum cleaner, dishwasher, washer and dryer, and a new bed to replace our mattress on the floor. I paid off all our bills, and we still had $12K left. I have never felt more prosperous than I did on that day.

On the way home, MFR came on the radio, and Casey Kasem announced, A new sound debuts in the Top 40 countdown at number 34. Starbuck and ‘Moonlight Feels Right.’

I smoothed the rest of the day trying to make myself believe that, yes, it had really happened, but I was sure I would wake up, and that would end it all. It was like an inexplicable dream, a dream you wake from and want to return to.

We continued rehearsals for the next few days and left for Birmingham early on Friday in our worn-out band truck. The front wheels came off the ground entering the expressway, and we spent a couple hours unloading on the side of the ramp to redistribute the weight in the back. My confidence was shaken—no, make that blown apart—that the pathetic thing would get there. I had the money to buy a new one, but not the time to do it.

Peggy and I followed the truck in our new car, and it took about a year. Or at least it seemed so. When we arrived, the ELO road crew helped unload, since we didn’t have any roadies.

After our setup, they gave us a sound check at 6:30. One hour till showtime, and a nagging tension crept over me. It was my first time as a frontman. I had sung with several bands, but never as the featured vocalist, the guy who faces the crowd as they stare at you thinking, Well, big boy. Let’s see what you’ve got.

Electrified jolts surged through my body with no place to discharge as I sat wrapped in an isolating mantle of thought. Sissy. You’re just all balled up and nervous about being a proper frontman. Marshal up, boy. Peggy read my emotions and took my hands, You can do this, Bruce. I believe in you.

Starbuck up, came a voice from the hall. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself, and walked out of the dressing room.

As I moved through the concrete entrance to the stage, the buzz of a charged atmosphere filled the air, and I wiped my sweaty palms on my jacket. Am I going to do this? Apparently, yes.

Take a step.

Another one.

Keep going.

Keep going.

A drumbeat of excitement boomed in my ears. Can I pull this off? Sure you can. Peggy said so. I didn’t know exactly how right then, but I believed I could as I struggled to find composure.

The band walked out on the blacked-out stage and settled at their instruments. A hidden announcer rumbled, Please welcome from Atlanta, Georgia, Starbuck and the number-one song right here in Birmingham, Mooooon-Light Feels Right!

The Minimoogs, bass, and drums vamped the intro to MFR, and I came out under a follow spotlight to a tremendous roar. The people wiggled in my vision like an image in a funhouse mirror, a certifiable mass of humanity. I stood stunned, and the sound doubled in intensity. I looked up, startled at suddenly being the headlight beam of everyone’s attention, bore-sighted dead on me.

I bowed, sat down at my rig, and everything in front of me faded. My earlier nerves evaporated, and I was alone in my studio singing like the notes tasted good. We ran through an extended version of MFR and on through Lucky Man, I Got to Know, Drop a Little Rock, Lash LaRue, So the Night Goes, and The Slower You Go.

We finished, and the audience roared approval in a standing ovation, demanding an encore. ELO’s manager signaled thumbs-up for us to go again. An explosion of Moonlight. Moonlight. Moonlight, surged up, so we played it again to a sea of young people gyrating in rhythm to the music. Right decision. Thunderous applause filled the room like people were hurting their hands, and thousands of cigarette lighters waved in the air.

I was struck rigid with shock and stood rooted to the spot. The group came to the front, and we locked arms and reveled in the moment. As I stood there, I saw Peggy out at the mixing board with joyful tears streaming down her face as she held our son, Michael, in her arms. Way to go, Bruce, she mouthed. Way to go.

ELO performed a fantastic set, one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Afterward, I spoke with Jeff again and thanked him for the opportunity. My pleasure, mate, he said. Hope we meet again.

Most days come and go as if they never existed. But not that day. Not Friday, May 8, 1976. We drove home under a platinum moon in blissful silence. It was a Moonlight Feels Right night in Birmingham, the apogee of a journey that began two decades earlier in a small town in the Mississippi Delta . . .

THE PLACE

THE POWER OF PLACE

It was a small town, but not small small, not quaint and postcardy. It was the Queen City of the Delta—five blocks of a bustling four-lane, traffic-jammed, shopper-lined downtown with three walk-in theaters, a Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaper, and a cobbler shop . . . and when was the last time you ever heard that word?

Greenville, Mississippi. A prosperous place, a great place to grow up, about 40,000 people whose principal preoccupation seemed to be growing cotton, talking football and towboats, writing books and music, and being friendly, all of which they did better than anyone else.

This was a world before big box stores and global hamburgers, a world as unreachable today as the far side of the galaxy, the last of something extraordinary, the last time anyone would be thrilled just to have a toaster, a TV, and a one-car garage.

At the end of the downtown street stood the World War II memorial at the foot of the levee that protected us from Mississippi River floods. Over the levee, the wharf and the yacht club provided a paradise of water activities on Lake Ferguson. Sometimes, when the last of the sun was bleeding off the horizon and the boats and water lay becalmed, a second sky reflected like a perfect mirror of the universe, and nothing I’ve seen since was ever so beautiful.

I spent a lot of time on the levee, especially at night. I enjoyed how it made me feel, like when you come out of a dream, and the real world filters in, leaving you in a foggy but pleasant haze. And the smells—the earth, fertilizer, and often I would hear the soft whisper of a breeze floating in the aroma of cottonseed oil from the plant over on Percy Street, and nothing ever smelled better than that. I could see all the way to forever from the levee, and the night would be alive with stars and meteor showers streaking the sky with cold white fire. I’d lie on my back and look my fill into the sky. It always struck me with mute wonder and added a new dimension to my little world.

And John Deere and Massey Ferguson tractors moved continuously through the fields, stirring huge, booger-generating swirls of hot dust that left a dirt taste in your mouth, but