Nobody Reads This Page – “Magic and Loss”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

I have written in this space on several occasions about the chance encounter that brought me together with Cult Radio A-Go-Go, and hosts Terry & Tiffany DuFoe. After doing research regarding California guitar-hero Davie Allan, with whom I have had an extended relationship, I stumbled upon an interview he had done for their live program. This snippet of saved reality was important in personal terms, because of the insight offered into Rock history, and Biker culture. Yet after listening to a lively yield of questions and answers, I was struck by the platform itself. An online channel with which I had been completely unfamiliar.

 

When I found a jump-off point for perusing this content lane, a diverse mix of music and vintage promos came as my reward. I sat feeling stunned and satiated. But then, dialogue from an episode of ‘Hazel’ with Shirley Booth provided a meaningful interlude between vintage tracks. I pondered intently that someone who appreciated a wide range of Pop, Country, Blues, Folk, Jazz, Disco, New Wave, and such, would still have enough intellectual capacity in reserve for an oddball, slightly obscure comedy from the golden era of television.

 

In that moment, some years ago, I became hooked on CRAGG.

 

In the time that followed, I penned essays and poems about the work of this father-and-daughter duo. I was humbled when they read one of these pieces on the air. Also, upon hearing a segment I had recorded at the home office desk being used, during a live broadcast. Terry, as a veteran of radio in Illinois, before migrating to the west coast, became a heroic figure for myself. He had done what I longed to do, as a youngster. He projected knowledge and humor into the wireless continuum, with skill, confidence, and courage. I began to liken him to Paul Harvey, and also, disc jockeys of long ago. An era when the stream-of-consciousness verbiage of Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Burroughs was translated into hopped-up, high-voltage rants from innovators like Wolfman Jack.

 

Though the listening audience involved could be said to dwell everywhere, in various, distant locations, I felt a sort of familial bond at work. One that placed me at a crossroads of sorts, when we all became aware that the journey of our microphone champion was about to take a detour of great consequence. So it was that, as Terry embarked on a long, challenging sojourn until his good health could be restored, each of us experienced those difficult steps along with him, vicariously. His victories were ours, in spirit. His woes reverberated throughout the Cult Radio cosmos. And his brave and sometimes bawdy humor kept the audience at peace.

 

I had a sense that the work he cherished, the craft, the calling, kept him buoyed on stormy seas of medical treatment and disability. Much as it had done for my own father, who was an author and theologian, until the very end of his ability.

 

When fate and fatigue intersected, in recent days, it would have been easy to imagine that music of the firebrand pluckster who brought us together might be foremost in my head. And indeed, Davie’s unique strums and riffs did echo with a soothing effect. Though he has lately disappeared from view, while addressing dire needs of his own. Yet when Tiffany gathered her resolve, and spoke to the greater community about what had transpired in Los Angeles, a different anthem appeared from memory. One originally composed by the New York iconoclast, Lou Reed. Reviews at the time indicated that the dark document had been inspired by two friends who faced their mortality, and entered into eternal rest having left behind gifts of kinship and unflagging hope. Reflected in the lyrical prose of someone known for telling stories, with gusto.

 

What’s Good (1992)

 

“Life’s like a mayonnaise soda

And life’s like space without room

‘And life’s like bacon and ice cream

That’s what life’s like without you

 

Life’s like forever becoming

But life’s forever dealing in hurt

Now life’s like death without living

That’s what life’s like without you

 

Life’s like Sanskrit read to a pony

I see you in my mind’s eye strangling on your tongue

What good is knowing such devotion?

I’ve been around, I know what makes things run

 

What good is seeing eye chocolate?

What good’s a computerized nose?

And what good was cancer in April?

Why no good, no good at all

 

What good’s a war without killing?

What good is a rain that falls up?

What good’s a disease that won’t hurt you?

Why no good, I guess, no good at all

 

What good are these thoughts that I’m thinking?

It must be better, huh, not to be thinking at all?

A Styrofoam lover with emotions of concrete

No not much, not much at all

 

What good is life without living?

What good’s this lion that barks?

You loved a life others throw away nightly

It’s not fair, not fair at all...”

 

When this release first became available, I wrestled with a third-shift schedule, often groggy and grumpy after completing my assigned duties on-the-job. My first wife left the CD edition on our nightstand, as an impulsive treasure to ease my discontent. Not knowing, of course, the serious subject matter that was involved. When I listened later that morning, while in my basement studio, the impact came in a rush of conflicting emotions. Eventually, I read that a critic had called it ‘the most adult record ever made.’ But while no one could debate its worth, or authenticity, it weighed heavily on my ears.

 

I put it away for future reference. There was little joy in revisiting what Reed had so artfully composed.

 

That is, until now.

 

I am certain that many personalities of all sorts, performers, directors, producers, historians, and fans who appeared in CRAGG episodes, will have much to say about the life and legacy of Terry DuFoe. As well they should, because of how he touched so many of us with his candor, wild witticisms, and good nature. These tributes will illuminate deep shades of gray cast across the landscape, by his passing into eternity. In a valid manner that this lone, humble writer could never hope to achieve.

 

Here in Ohio, far removed from the bustle of SoCal, and entertainment wizardry of all kinds, I will cling to tales of WLUV, situated in a cornfield. To memories of someone who begat a myriad of streaming channels, brimming with an endless reserve of value. And Elvis, who must now be crooning a welcome to Rock & Roll heaven, in person. But most of all, to a collected work of audio recordings that did not quite hit the metaphorical bullseye, before today.

 

I am sadder for having gained this measure of understanding. Yet in the balance, cleansed and healed by the underlying message of immortal love.