Confidential File

Quiet Costs Merely $14 for 15 Minutes

RIPLEY,
Tenn, (AP) — A businessman who doesn’t like rock ‘n’ roll music bought
15 minutes of radio time yesterday and devoted almost all of it to
silence.

James W. Porter began his quarter-hour on station WTRB by shattering several records and then proposing a national "Can the Racket League."

Now there, I thought, is a man after my own ear.

I thought it just before picking up the phone to initiate a long-distance friendship with Mr. James W. Porter of Ripley, Tenn.

"Mr. Porter?" I asked the pleasant drawl which answered. (It wasn’t one of those deep, chitlin and black-eyed peas types of Southern drawls. Just the kind that has a hint of ham hock in it).

"This is James W. Portah," he replied. "Can ah help you?"

"Well, Mr. Porter," I said, "I’m a reporter."

"There was the briefest moment of silent confusion. Finally, he said:

"How’s that again? Say your name is Portah, too?"

We worked our way out of that small dilemma well within the three-minute time limit. When he understood that I was a "reportah" from Los Angeles, I asked him to tell me what he did for a living down there in Ripley.

"You aren’t by any chance a music critic?" I wanted to know.

"No, suh, ah’m not," he replied. "Ah’m a tobacco growah by trade. Grow the finest brand of tobacco in Tennessee."

It
took a little effort, but I was able to stop myself just short of
asking him if he thought that everyone should grow his brand of tobacco.

Instead, I got right to the point.

"Mr.
Porter, is it true that you bought 15 minutes of radio time just
because you didn’t like rock ‘n’ roll?" And that you devoted the time
to silence?"

"You not jus’ whistlin’ Dixie, son," he said. "That’s what ah did. Daw’gonnest thing evah happened to me. Ah got nationwide publicity. They even wrote me up in the Miami papers. Imagine that! Ah didn’t think the story’d evah get outside of Memphis. nothing evah does.

"Why, ah even got a call from some Yankee up in Chicago. Mean to tell you, the old boy got real nasty with me."

"How’s come?" I asked. (I’m highly suggestible).

"Tole me to mind my own business. Asked what ah got against rock ‘n’ roll. Jus’ tole him ah don’t think rock ‘n’ roll is music. An, mistah, ah don’t!"

"Well," I asked, "don’t the radio stations down there play anything else?"

"Some," he said. "We get country music. And Grand Ole Opry. But," he added dramatically, "we jus’ don’t evah get any Lawrence Welk."

Mr. Porter let that sink in a moment then went on: "Thass an ole boy ah can REALLY listen to, that Lawrence Welk. How about you?"

"I don’t dig him," I said.

"Say what?" Mr. Porter asked.

"Tell
me," I said, switching the subject away from that dangerous area, "how
much does 15 minutes of silence cost on a Ripley radio station?"

"Ah paid 14 dollahs," he chuckled. "Course it’s a small station. Probably cost considerable more over in Memphis. Ever’thing does."

"Mr. Porter," I said. "Just one more question. Have you got a favorite song?"

"Well, suh," he replied, "Ah’m a tobacco man. So ah’m partial to …"

" ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’ " I chanced.

"Son," Mr. Porter assured me, "you ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie."