Poetry from the Inmate Who Killed Jeffrey Dahmer

Interesting….I thought that if you are a killer, you can't profit from your crime. Apparently, "I killed Jeffrey Dahmer" isn't allowed but a book of poems? That's ok. Below, a poem by Christopher Scarver, the prison inmate who killed Dahmer. It's from one of several books of poems he's selling on Amazon. You'll note the clever cover, that depicts the child behind the bars of his crib, and then the troubled child-man in prison.

Scarver was originally sent to prison when voices in his head commanded that he kill Steven Lohman. Who was Lohman? Just a guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lohman worked at the job-training program at the Wisconsin Conservation Corps. Scarver had been bounced from there, but returned demanding money from one of the workers, John Feyen. Feyen coughed up $15, which wasn't enough. Scarver blew away Steven Lohman, and when Feyen knocked the gun away, Scarver ran off. He was quickly captured and convicted.

In prison, Scarver hated Jeffrey Dahmer, and so did almost everyone else. While conveniently protected at all times by prison guards, Dahmer would say and do obnoxious things. At least, according to Scarver. This included dousing ketchup on his prison food and acting like it was blood.

One fine day, Scarver felt that he was disrespected by either Dahmer, or another inmate/murderer. One of them had "poked" him in the back. Turning around, Scarver recalled, "I looked right into their eyes, and I couldn’t tell which had done it.” Scarver went after Dahmer first, crushing the man's skull. Then he killed the other man. Conveniently, no guards were around to stop him.

Scarver has a lady named Eileen Mackin on the outside who runs a blog for him, passes messages along for him, and upped the eBooks to Amazon. You can find more at the dot.com called 414scarver-solutions. Meanwhile, a look at Scarver's fine work on Mr. Dahmer, and an example of Scarver's poetry:

The Journey To Maturity#1 and #2

Back when my balls
Were bigger than my brain,
I did a few thangs
That some consider insane.
On my journey
To maturity
My psyche was infected
By many impurities
As a youth-unguided
I collided
With temptation
And I tried it.
Now that my brain
Is equal to my balls,
In retrospect, I can see
That I was bound to fall.
As I was bumping my head
Up against the wall,
That constant ringing in my ears
Was the Prophets’ call.
On my journey
To maturity
I’ve outgrown my
Childish insecurities.
•

Guinness World Records 2015 - Shuck and Awe

Now looking more like "Ripley's Believe it Or Not," the new Guinness Worlds Record 2015 edition is loaded with eye-catching color photos and a lot of dubious achievements. In dozens of categories, you can find yourself entertained, amused, and asking yourself, "Why would I care?"

For instance, in the baseball section you'll find "Youngest player to hit 30 home runs and steal 30 bases in a season." In basketball: "Most consecutive games scoring a three-pointer." And in cycling, "Oldest Olympic road cycling gold medalist." In case you really wanted to know.

More disturbing is the competitive food section, where a variety of utter idiots engage in trivial pursuits. Gee, Michael Jenkins drink a litre of lemon juice in under 60 seconds. Ozgur Tuna (the name is more amusing than his achievement) "held 110 eggs in a basket" on a roller coaster. Another clown ate 16 cream-filled sponge cakes in one minute. In the latter case, we're not told how big these cakes were, if they were regulation Twinkies, or who decided the number should be 16, and why one minute should be the limit when, just below it, a record for hamburgers eaten (no size indicated) had to be within three minutes.

I know, this is supposed to be a browsable book of fun and amazement, and to some degree it still is. It's just that the older editions concentrated on things most of us actually cared about or were curious about, including various categories for the biggest, the smallest, or the most expensive. At one time, (the 1999 edition) a caveat for the competitive eating section declared, "The following gluttony records are historical and should not be attempted today." It almost seemed they were going to discontinue "records" that involved stupidity.

Instead, we get to see Mr. Michael Jenkins bugging his eyes and sucking a straw and holding up lemons. He's proud to be in a book that doesn't distinguish between true achievements and the pointless abuse of food resources and the encouragement of potential physical illness and death.

It's also a bit ridiculous that "world records" can be bought. For example, Davide Andreani of Italy owns "10,558 unique single brand cans" of soft drinks, and two full pages are devoted to showing all of them lining the walls of his...what, mental ward?

Seeing photos of pop-eyed lemon juice drinkers, and grubby soda can collectors just isn't my idea of a good time.

Do we need to encourage idiots to break the record for the longest black pudding (576 feet)? Or, unable to get the ingredients, try for the world's longest matzoh or breadstick? Now that we have eBooks, will Guinness have no limits on the number of individual foodstuffs they'll "recognize?"

Anyone want to break the record for "Most mentions of a brand name on Twitter in 24 hours"? That honor currently belongs to something called Pocky, which was mentioned 3,710,044 times on November 11, 2013.

Naturally the book section was an area to browse, but here, many listings weren't necessarily "world records" as much as facts. "Self-published author John Locke has sold more than 2 million Kindle-formatted eBooks...by 6 Jul 2010, james Patterson had exceeded sales of one million eBooks...the term "graphic novel" first appeared in 1976 on the dust jacket of "Bloodstar"...a total of 325 pen names were listed for humorist Konstantin Arsenievich Mikhailov in the 1960 Dictionary Of Pseudonyms."

Precision is not necessary for a World Record. "Even without exact sales numbers," we're told, "there is little doubt that the Bible is the world's best-selling and most widely distributed book..." Perhaps some irate Muslims would insist it's the Koran? At least it's not, God help us, the Guinness World Records book.

Measure of a Man: Auschwitz to the White House by Martin Greenfield

There can never be too many books about the holocaust.

Each one is a document and a testament, and another (to use anti-semite Roger Waters' term) "brick in the wall" to block out the deniers.

Documenting atrocities isn't the point of these books. It's the survival. It's the morality.

This is very well illustrated in one story Martin Greenfield tells. Martin who?

Greenfield's enough of a celebrity to get a book deal, that's who. Born in Pavlovo (once part of Czechoslovakia, now part of the Ukraine), he was 19 when he came to Brooklyn, having survived Auschwitz and Buchenwald (unlike the rest of his family). A master tailor, he would not only dress up President Eisenhower (whom he'd originally met during the liberation), but other politicians and celebrities including Bill Clinton, Gerald Ford, Patrick Ewing, Mayor Michael Bloomberg and others. His vintage designs were also used in the HBO series "Boardwalk Empire."

Naturally the most gripping part of the book involves his teen years imprisoned by the Nazis. He was not exactly wearing the heigh of couture when he was 16 and a prisoner in Buchenwald. Assigned to a work detail outside Weimar, the brutal hard work was sometimes rewarded when he could find a potato or some other edible in a field, or some discarded item he might bring back to the camp and trade for food. Repairing a building, he wandered into the cellar where he found a cage that contained some pet rabbits:

"Inside the cage were the remains of the rabbits’ dinner. I unlatched the cage and pulled out a wilted leaf and carrot nub. The lettuce was browning and slimy, the carrot still moist from the rabbits’ gnawing. Excited, I wolfed down the lettuce and tried to crack the chunk of carrot in half with my teeth. My luck was short-lived. “What are you doing?” a voice yelled."

An irate blonde, who turned out to be the mayor's wife, quickly summoned an SS soldier to punish the prisoner:

"'Down on the ground, you dog! Fast!' yelled the German. He gripped his baton and bludgeoned my back. I do not know whether the mayor’s wife watched the beating. Given her cruelty, why would she want to miss it? On the hike back to Buchenwald, I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. How could a woman carrying her own child find a walking skeleton...and have him beaten for nibbling on rotten animal food? I thought...Then and there I made a vow to myself: If I survived Buchenwald, I would return and kill the mayor’s wife."

When Buchenwald was liberated, Greenfield made his way back to the home of the mayor.

"“Remember me?!” I yelled. “Do you?!” Her blond tresses shook violently. She hid her face behind her upraised hand as if shielding herself from the sun. “You had me beaten because of the rabbits. I’m here to shoot you!” I said, sounding like an SS. “No! Please!” she quavered. “The baby, please!” I aimed the machine gun at her chest. The baby wailed. My finger hovered above the trigger."

I think the reader knows the end of this anecdote. These days, it says a lot about the Jewish concepts of mercy, compared to, say, the beheadings and beatings that are such a part of "radical" Islam.

"Never again" is a slogan that must be affirmed, and anecdotes such as Greenfield's tell us why...because we can't forget that basic goodness is foremost in our hearts. One must never forget that it takes two words, combined, to create "mankind."

The Lives of CHANG and ENG : Siam's Twins (Siamese Twins)

Looking for a freak show? This isn't it. As you might tell from the publisher (University of North Carolina) and the corrected subtitle ("Siam's Twins" not "Siamese twins"), Joseph Andrew Orser's book is a serious undertaking.

It has to be; there's usually no intimate revelations from hidden diaries or outrageously erotic love-letters when it comes to famous figures of the 18th or 19th century. A letter to the wife of Chang or Eng asking for "how is it done...does the brother close his eyes...") would not likely get a detailed reply.

Instead, author Orser fills his 280 pages with rich detail on the obvious (the origins of Chang and Eng and the sideshow career that gave them the money to settle down and raise families) and the uproar (just how do freaks from Siam fit into white rural North Carolina?)

Most books on sideshows, freaks, or "very special people" simply devote a few pages to a photo of the twins and the amusing details of births (between them, they had 21 children) and death ("Then I am going," Eng logically said, after his brother's heart stopped beating).

Orser's book studies the sociology of the times. When Adelaide and Sarah Yates married Chang and Eng in 1843, the girls' neighbors "threatened to burn down [their father's] crops if he did not promise to control his daughters." Cries of bestiality went up, and the town was labeled "a community sunk below the very Sodomites in lasciviousness." It was well enough for people to gawk at the twins up on a stage as freaks of nature...but the idea that they could marry...raise families...come and live among ordinary people? They were, after all, "monsters!"

Much of what went on inside the households remains private, although we do know some of the logistics, for example, that Chang and Eng alternated and stayed with one wife and family for half the week, and then the other wife and family. There are also some details on the nature of their physical connection (and how if Chang was tickled, Eng would also react). The fascination here is how the strangest couple of all time, from the other side of the world, came to adjust to North Carolina living. Freaks? Well, they considered themselves higher up the social ladder than that, and even owned slaves.

In handling the story of the twins, Orser strikes a necessary balance between the curiosity factor of their physical existence and the reality of their daily lives in North Carolina.

New BOB HOPE bio: Thanks for the Re-Hash of the Memories

"Hope: Entertainer of the Century" has arrived...but the question is this: does anyone still care about the memories?

Apparently on a slow news day, the N.Y. Post does. It's almost quaint that in this era of Miley Cyrus and Kim Kardashian, viral leaks of dirty movie star photos and the sordid world of reality shows...there's this headline:

"Bob Hope, sex machine, 'often cheated' during his 69-year marriage."

This is news? We're 14 years into the 21st Century, most people barely know the man who died in 2003, and his better films are from the 30's and 40's, which are in black and white and therefore unwatched by anyone under 50.

The Post breathlessly offers a quote in the book from Sherwood Schwartz (yes, the "Gilligan's Island" producer) saying of Hope, "We'd go to a hotel, I swear to you, outside his room were three, four, five young, beautiful girls waiting to be picked by him to come in...He was a star enjoying his stardom."

Let me now quote from page 170 of "The Secret Life of Bob Hope," written by Arthur Marx and published in 1993:

"'I remember,' says Sherwood Schwartz, 'there were always five or six pretty young girls hanging around in the corridors outside Hope's room - sort of like today's groupies. Since I was a virgin, I was pretty envious of all the action he seemed to be getting.'"

Yes, over 20 years ago, a book was published detailing Hope's well-known wolfish behavior. In Marx's book, Hope was not only open about all this, but comical, too. That same page, 170, has an anecdote from Gene Lester, a photographer. Gene was covering a celebrity junket and "While we were playing Dallas, Hope had two girls flown in from Houston...these two good-looking young chicks arrived." Hope dead-panned: "These are my cousins from Houston."

In 1993, Bob Hope was not welcome as a TV talk show guest. Johnny Carson had already retired. The best Hope could do was get some tribute or other for his movie work, with Woody Allen telling the world how good those films were. It was the small, maverick Barricade book publisher (run by the legendary Lyle Stuart) that offered Marx's bio of Hope. One of the vague selling points, beside the usual list of Hope conquests, and a very strong helping of Bob's ad-libs and comedy, was that Arthur dug up the marriage license for Bob and his vaudeville partner Grace Troxell. In case anyone cared. Yeah, Bob married someone, briefly, before Dolores.

The application for the marriage license is printed, in full, in the photo section that begins after page 160. The NY Post in reviewing this new tome:

"...Hope's 1933-34 marriage to former vaudeville partner Grace Troxell, which Hope's publicists denied ever took place...was revealed in a 1993 biography." Yes, by Arthur Marx. Which you can buy on Ebay or Amazon for a fraction of what the Richard Zoglin book is selling for.

Another "blockbuster" bit of news in this new book? "No marriage license for Bob and Dolores Hope has ever turned up.The lack of any record of the Hopes' marriage (not even a wedding photo) led some Hope family members to speculate over the years that a wedding may never have taken place."

Oooh. How exciting. We're supposed to be shocked or excited by something that happened about 80 years ago? And that was already mentioned in the Arthur Marx biography:

"There no record of the Hopes getting married." Marx did add that "there's no denying that Hope and Dolores are actually married. And if they're not they've been getting away with murder on their joint tax returns for years."

I recall speaking with Marc Eliot, who knew Phil Ochs and was able gather enough of Phil's "small circle of friends" to write a very vivid bio of him. He then parlayed this into some kind of career as a celebrity biographer. I asked him why, after there had been so many bios already, he had just knocked off a new one on Cary Grant. The answer was pretty much...it was something to do. The older ones were out of print.

So it is, that there have been film buffs, fan boys and publish-or-perish college professors, who scan a list of celebrities and biographies and see if they can come up with a match. As in: oh, it's been a while since a W.C. Fields book came out, or Groucho, or...Bob Hope? Unfortunately in most cases, these new bios don't have exceptional new information to offer, and there are no "juicy" anecdotes because everybody who knew the dead star is either also dead or quite senile. Who, in Bob Hope's inner circle, is still alive and was hanging around the bedroom door when he had an affair with Barbara Payton? A paragraph about this is supposed to interest people who aren't even re-playing the Tommy Lee and Pam Anderson video?

Next up from Richard Zoglin? Maybe an expose of how nasty Arthur Godfrey was? No...a little too obscure. How about how nasty Bing Crosby was? Some people might've forgotten about Gary Crosby's book, or Zog can convince a publisher that old people go to bookstores beause they don't know how to buy a used copy of a better bio on Amazon. But I wanna tell ya...

AMY YEN - A Simple Feast - The Jewels of New York

It was nice meeting the amiable Amy Yen, the author of a tempting new cookbook, "A Simple Feast." Just how simple the recipes are, depends on you, of course. To make root vegetable chips, "using a mandolin set to 1/8 inch, slice the vegetables into thin rounds. Place the vegetables in a colander and gently rinse them of excess starch, then thoroughly pat dry. Pour peanut oil into a medium saucepan to about 3 inches deep. Heat the oil over medium-high heat..."

So right there, this assumes you know what a mandolin is (at least, one you use in a kitchen), and that you regularly use a colander. In this age of "15 minute meals" and "quick and easy" recipes, this might be asking too much of some folks. Likewise, you're not a gourmet, or you're just don't have a lot of time, if "Roasted Tomato and Garlic Soup" means...you just open a can of tomato soup and toss in a clove of roasted and diced garlic. As opposed to heating the oven and using a baking sheet to roast the tomatoes with olive oil until carmelized, and getting out fresh basil leaves, freshly ground black pepper, diced onions, vegetable stock and unsalted better.

Which led me to ask Amy a question I asked Craig Claiborne years ago, when I did a cover story on him. Is it ok to substitute ingredients? Or is it an insult to the chef? Amy, like Craig, felt it was ok: "Yeah, I think you can swap out whatever you have in your pantry. A lot of the recipes are very simple. You can cross things out and work with what you have."

Sometimes Amy offers substitutes in the recipes. In making "Turkish Style Eggs with Yogurt" she champions powdered drupes (fruit of the sumac tree) but if you can't find the esoteric item "finely grated lemon can be substituted').

The book has a loose theme to it...New York and its seasons. A few pages describe apple-picking in upstate New York. A chapter is devoted to "rooftop barbecue" suggestions, another features "brown bag lunch" items, and there's a chapter for picnics in "Central Park." The set-ups aren't much. For "Central Park," Amy's one page preamble to recipes lets us know that the park is fun for "people watching, nibbling and reading." Yes, so I've heard. She dubiously finds pleasure in watching "rollerblading...moms and nannies in Spandex...the faint rhythm of a trumpet player playing a melody of Frank Sinatra..." If it's a good day, maybe you can avoid obnoxious noises, rude people, dogs off leashes, or a drug dealer who wandered away from "Strawberry Fields" to avoid a passing patrol of cops. New Yorkers are a savvy bunch, so I don't think we needed the line about "sandwiches are another wonderful addition to the menu that requires only a few components and some good packaging."

Fortunately the recipes are original and intriguing, and the preparation will keep you busy but not too harried and nothing takes too long. The ideas include: Roasted Turkey, Manchego and Fig and Onion Jam Sandwiches, Mini Pea, Mint and Feta Quiches, Seared Scallops and Chanterelle Pasta, Pomegranate Poached Figs,Arugula, Lentil and Butternut Squash Salad, and Double Grilled Cheese and Ham Sandwiches. The latter isn't as simple as it might seem. Asks Amy, "why not put the cheese in a grilled cheese on the outside of the bread?"

There are some familiar items here, but done in new ways. "Mac and Cheese" becomes a casserole that includes panko (Japanese breadcrumbs) for a crust, and the textures and tangs of of grated nutmeg, grated Gruyere, and parmesan (no cheddar here!)

Thought cherry cola was a simple enough drink? Amy's version involves zest of lemon, oranges, limes, nutmeg, a cinnamon stick, anis pod, lavender leaves, and ginger...among other things.

The book is pretty hefty on desserts: Gingered Rhubarb and Mascarpone Parfait, Mini Strawberry Cakes, Raspberry Eton Mess (yes, that's not a typo), cocktail ice pops and pecan pie with salted maple ice cream. This brought up another question...how is it that some exotic desserts have fallen completely out of favor, and aren't even in recipe books? Like...Nesselrode pie. Amy gave me a perplexed look. "What??" "It's a creme pie...with marrons, bits of dried fruit and flecks of dark chocolate...named after Count Nesselrode...and..." Never even heard of it? Oh well.

There are definitely items here you either haven't heard of, or didn't think were worth your time. Hominy? Lowly hominy? It's back for a few pages, via "Fried Hominy with chile and lime." Yes, all you need is a can of hominy to start you off. Add paprika, cumin, lime zest...you'll see. You'll taste. You'll like. 269 pages, pleasantly low on meat/chicken entrees, and with a good amount of fish and veggies, the book is themed for New York (apples figure into a lot of Fall recipes, for example). It should be on the shelf of kitchens all over the country...and around the world. The hardcover is from Roost Books, a division of Shambhala.

Turley Richards - Blindsighted - The Hard Luck of The Greatest Singer You Never Heard

Throughout the years when he was on major labels...Kapp, Columbia, Atlantic, Warner Bros...the industry buzz was that West Virginia's good-looking 6'4" Turley Richards had the most amazing voice and was destined for superstardom.

His brightest hopes came in 1969 just when his fragile eyesight dimmed into permanent blindness. That was when a perfect storm of gospel, folk and rock fused with superb post-production (organ and strings) to create: "I Heard the Voice of Jesus."

Al Kooper was one of many rockers who praised it, and asked radio stations to play it. He says it's "the greatest vocal performance I have ever heard in my life." I'd have to agree. I had a radio show at the time, and I played it. I can't think of a track that's more breathtaking, amazing and inspiring than this one. Even if you're not Christian (and I'm not), it will bring the goosebumps and raise your spirit. It will stay with you and comfort you, too.

Why wasn't it a hit? Well...it was seven minutes. The album it was on arrived long after Turley's single, a cover of Dylan's "Love Minus Zero (No Limit)" drifted out of Billboard's Top 100. Turley recorded a second Warners album with no luck, latched onto another label...but it was just more ups and downs, hopes and frustration. Which song or style would vault him to fame...gospel, R&B, folk, rock? He tried. He tried. Depressing?

What makes this slim (162 page) book more inspiring and entertaining than depressing, is that it's loaded with stories and observations beyond what you'd expect. What you'd expect, of course, is a lot of grousing and bitterness, or Christian faith homilies infusing every page, or advice on how to deal with the adversity of blindness and finding a lot of positives about it all. No, there's very little of that in here. And if you're expecting a self-published book badly written, rest easy. Aside from an occasional name not quite right (It's Shelley Berman, not Burman) you won't be distracted by typos.

What you'll find in "Blindsighted," is a definitive depiction of what so many artists have gone through on their way to the bargain bin. Turley's book offers a primer on how difficult the entertainment world is, how capricious managers and "friends" can be, and all the complexities behind the simplicity of recording and touring. Check your record collection. Does it include albums you love and others never heard of? Then read this book by someone you never heard of.

Another reason to read it, is that it's funny and often startling. Sex and violence? It manages to get in here. This fellow was always a wiseguy, always headstrong. He had a part-time job where a guy pulled a knife on him. Another time, shots were fired at him from the stage. He could use his fists when he needed to, and also his wits...not everybody could share the stage with Richard Pryor and get off a comeback that would have the comedian shaking and laughing.

Born Richard Turley, the mischief-loving kid was literally pierced with fate's arrow before he was five. He was playing a bow-and-arrow game with his friends, including a 12-year-old, when an accident cost him sight in one eye. Fate wasn't done. Without a competent specialist to take the right action (which would've been removal of the eye...as was done with Peter Falk who lost an eye to disease) the eye remained, became infected, and ultimately spread the damage to his remaining eye. While he withstood many gruesome procedures, and managed enough sight to play sports and know a hot-looking babe when he saw one, eventually his luck ran out and he was told that blindness would be inevitable.

He made a rush to stardom while he could...signing with a local label (Fraternity) and getting up to the majors with a few singles (notably on Kapp). There were times when he gave up and went home, only to fight again thanks to his mother's encouragement. There were times when he had unlikely help thanks to his good looks. Making the "Midnight Cowboy" fantasy real, Turley found himself "kept" by many a New York City socialite (or two), and was able to gig and hang with the hot new stars of the day (including Jimi Hendrix and Richard Pryor) while living rent-free. Possessing a stubborn streak (he turned down or walked out of almost as many good deals as his managers screwed up), Turley still was prone to find himself broke. At one point he was sleeping in Central Park. At another, he rather hilariously and ingeniously was fitted with a Lone Ranger mask (and costume) so that he could make some fast cash in porn. The costume came off, but not the mask. The idea was that when he made it big, he'd never have to worry about the old loops coming back to haunt him.

As you know by now, he never did make it big. He was asked to be a regular on "The Merv Griffin Show," and his manager turned it down. As previously mentioned, Turley's Top 100 single for Warners didn't get an instant follow-up or the simultaneous release of an album. (The 45 is pictured above left...the photo is taken from his sighted side...before that eye would have to be replaced by glass).

He recorded an album for Epic but they didn't like the finished product. He had another deal, but refused because he was loyal to a producer he thought could do a better job than the one the label was providing. Mick Fleetwood was going to be helpful...but was a no-show. And on it went. It's only within the last 20 pages of the book that we get around to what, exactly, he's been doing for a living over the past few decades...a time when older artists, sighted or not, can't get record deals or put together big tours.

"I've often said that I am not a "good" blind person," Richards says. "As an artist, I had always made enough money to pay other people to do things for me, such as driving, housekeeping and grocery shopping. I never learned braille, and I didn't want to use a guide dog. Even today, I only use a cane if it is absolutely neessary...in early 1986 I reluctantly signedup at the Kentucky Department for the Blind Rehabilitation Center. The center taught me...daily living skills, and basic kitchen abilities...and how to use the computer...."

Turley's a successful teacher...offering lessons in songwriting and singing. Always able to attract the ladies, he's been through some divorces, amicable however, and has someone new in his life who helped him with the book project and supervises his Facebook page. It was from that page and his website that I learned of his book and...unusual for most reviewers...bought a copy. Listen...literally...the book comes with a bonus CD featuring several of his favorite recordings over the years. The closer is "I heard the Voice of Jesus," recorded 35 years ago. It was originally recorded with just Turley and his guitar. But, as Phil Ochs, Leonard Cohen and others have found, sometimes the right production can make for a masterpiece, and the arrangement here is perfect...the added instrumentation inspiring, not jarring.

Turley always felt his gift was in R&B. Often in his early work, he was mistaken for a black artist. Once, a single of his disappeared off the R&B charts because in reverse-racism, a photo of his white face appeared in a trade magazine, turning off black disc jockeys. "I Heard the Voice of Jesus" is the perfect meld of R&B, gospel, folk, soul and rock...as is fitting for a guy with a five octave range.

Want to hear the song? You'll find it on Google's YouTube, where copyright infringement is a way of life. But for a perfect version on CD, plus more songs, plus the fascinating story of his life...the book/music package is $20 including shipping and available at turleyrichards.com.