I reckon being jazz fans and all you won’t have heard of me unless you have twisted the dial down to 650 on a clear Saturday night and even then maybe not. Or maybe you were the sort of listener who would have had that Minneapolis FM show on with the guy who talked too much. If so, I forgive you. AM is real radio, with real music on it, especially coming from the Ryman Auditorium. Flip that bandswitch once in a while and see if I ain’t right.
Even if you tuned in WSM you might have heard my brother Kale instead. Daddy was a farmer and Mama had a sense of humor and when she had twins she named us Chard and Kale. If we’d been triplets I would have had a brother named Spinach. I’m the older twin but Kale is more famous. I love him, because I am bound to love my brother, but I can’t bear to talk to him because he’s gone soft. Soft in the heart and soft in the head. He keeps praising Dolly to the high heavens and giving her money so she can send books to kids. That won’t end well.
The Board of Syncopated Media, Inc., contacted me when they voted on an editorial policy that allowed for a range of viewpoints rather than just the same old guy ticking everybody off with his tiresome whining about gloom and doom and his lack of respect for our Great Country. Nobody wants to read that guff. It was getting pretty bad, and they thought a more constructive attitude might keep pe
