November 12, 2025 • 22 mins
If you liked what you heard...check out more stories at: https://tinyurl.com/DeadAirPodcast
This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
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I the smoky clubs and backrooms of the early 1950s, a voice began to rise.
It wasn’t loud or flashy — it was warm, patient, and impossible to forget.
In just two years, he became the name whispered in record shops, sung about on street corners, and headlined on marquees across the South. Then, on Christmas night, in a room thick with laughter and music, a single moment stopped everything.
Theories spread. Rumors grew. The truth… slipped away into the shadows. This is the story of a star the world thought it would have forever — and the haunting echo he left behind.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I the smoky clubs and backrooms of the early 1950s, a voice began to rise.
It wasn’t loud or flashy — it was warm, patient, and impossible to forget.
In just two years, he became the name whispered in record shops, sung about on street corners, and headlined on marquees across the South. Then, on Christmas night, in a room thick with laughter and music, a single moment stopped everything.
Theories spread. Rumors grew. The truth… slipped away into the shadows. This is the story of a star the world thought it would have forever — and the haunting echo he left behind.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Oh, Danny, go get a real nice face, now, don't you. Johnny.
I'm well, actually I'm Johnny. That's what Johnny. That's we're
going to tell the boys about Johnny Doctor Johnny air
fever and I am burning up in here. Johnny. All right,
(00:20):
welcome in. I actually had the day off because I
went to Paul McCartney last night and Sue, I'm going
to play you one of my new podcasts. I have
a brand new podcast called Johnny's Dead Air Podcast where
I talk about the eerie, spooky things of the music industry,
tell stories that you may not have heard of before.
And this story is about Johnny Ace, who was one
(00:43):
of the early early performers of rock and roll back
in the R and B days in the mid nineteen fifties.
So if you like this story, make sure you check
out Johnny's Dead Air Podcast on the iHeartRadio app. That's
just look up Google Johnny's Dead Air Podcast and you'll
you'll pop up have a spooky skeleton logo there, so
(01:07):
check that out. I've got like thirteen fourteen other stories
that you can check out as well, so hopefully you
enjoy this one. So anyway, all right, here you go.
Here's another story of music's dark side. Before Elvis, before Motown,
(01:27):
even before rock and roll even had a name, there
was a sound. It was smooth, smoky, and raw, a
voice the world thought would be the next great star.
Until one night, a night where most people celebrate. That's
when the music stopped. This is script two. This story
is called the Lost King of Rhythm and Blues, Act one,
(01:52):
before rock and roll had a name. Picture this a
one room apartment in Memphis, nineteen fifty one. On the
paint on the wall is cracked. The calendar from the
local grocery store still shows October because no one remembered
to flip it. Outside, a lone street light flickers, throwing
shadows across thin curtains. In a corner, a filedco radio hums.
(02:17):
Its orange dove glows faintly, and the sound coming through
is full of static. Suddenly, suddenly there's that voice, warm, patient,
wrapping itself around you like a blanket after a long day.
You stop mid step, spoons still in hand, dinner cooling
on the plate, because once you hear it, you can't
(02:39):
not listen. In the early nineteen fifties, rhythm and blues
was more than music, It was a lifeline. It played
in dim lit juke joints with sawdust on the floor,
where couples lean close, whispering in each other's ear. It
floated from the back rooms of record shops after the
day's official business had ended. The songs were about love
(03:01):
and loss, longing, and for those who lived in segregated America,
they carried a different kind of truth. Somewhere inside this sound,
a new voice was beginning to break through. It wasn't
brash or flashy. It didn't need to be. It was felt.
Now close your eyes, you're back in that one room apartment.
(03:25):
The plaster walls are yellow from years of cigarette smoke.
The only light comes from the bare bald in the
ceiling and a glow of that filc The air is heavy, human,
even in December, and the faint scent of fried food
from the diner downstairs hangs in the air. The radio
is picking up a signal through that static, one of
(03:45):
those low power stations that fades in and out if
you lean too far left or right, and even through
the static, you can't miss it. You can't miss it.
Not that, not that voice. It's it's it's different It's
not that clipped precision of Bing Crosby, not the silver
(04:06):
polish of Nat King Cole. This is something else, something warmer,
a voice that doesn't just sing the words, but wears
them like a well loved jacket. There's no big band,
no horn section blasting to the rafters, just a small combo,
the small shuffle of brushes on the snare, a bass
(04:27):
walking lazily through the changes, and this man's voice floating
over it all. It's smooth and smoky and raw, like
a glass of whiskey poured too close to midnight. This
is rhythm and blues. Before anyone in a suit thought
you could sell it. You only heard it in juke
joints or in back rooms after the whites only crowd
(04:49):
had gone home, in living rooms where couple sit with
the lights off, letting the music do all the talking.
And somewhere in the middle of this world there's a
voice starting the cut through it all soft and sincere,
vulnerable in a way men didn't dare be in public
back then. It isn't shouting like a gospel preacher. He
(05:10):
isn't grinning like a showman trying to charm the room.
He is just telling how he feels and making you
feel the same way. By the age of just twenty five,
he's a star in the black community, hit after hit
after a hit, touring the South End packing auditoriums. But
(05:31):
if you want to know his name, you will have
to wait just a little bit longer. We'll get to
that in act too, next act too. The assent his
name well, his name at birth was John Marshall Alexander Junior, Memphis, Tennessee,
(05:54):
nineteen twenty nine. He's born into a world already on
its knees from the great to rush. Cotton prices are low,
jobs are scarce, and the streets of South Memphis are
a patchwork of shotgun houses and corner stores with hand
painted signs. His father is absent early on, and his
mother does laundry to keep the lights on. Steam and
(06:17):
soap in the air, And the rhythm of washboards and
ringers is a kind of music itself. Wooden traits stacked
in the corner, jars of starch on the shelf, The
steady swish swish of wet close against the washboard is
in rhythm with the old gospel tune humming from the radio.
John sits on the stoop outside, tapping his foot, mimicking
(06:40):
the beat with his fingers on the wooden railing. He
doesn't realize it yet, but this is his first band.
The laundry, the hum of the radio, in his mother's voice,
singing underneath her breath. Music is everywhere in Memphis, in
the churches where gospel choirs lift the roof on Sunday mornings,
on the street corners, where a man with a guitar
(07:00):
might stop a crowd cold with a twelve bar blues,
in the clubs on Beal Street, where horns slice through
the smoke and the piano keys sparkle the under the
stage lights, and John absorbs it all. It's a sticky
summer night. Beal Street is buzzing. A trumpet blasts from
an open window. A man on the corner picks a
(07:22):
guitar with a cigarette hanging from his lips. The sidewalks
are crowded with women in bright dresses, men and hats
tilted just so. Ten year old John weaves through the crowd,
wide eyed, taking it taking it all in the clink
of bottles, the smell of barbecue, the rhythm of footsteps
(07:42):
on the wooden sidewalks, He doesn't know it yet, but
this street will shape the rest of his life. By
the time he was seventeen, world War two is ending.
He's wiry, restless, and ready to see the world beyond Memphis.
The Navy is his way out. He's learns discipline and
sees port's most Memphis boys will only hear about When
(08:05):
he comes home. Memphis is still beating to the sound
of blues gospel in early jazz, John starts gigging everywhere
he can, small bars, rent parties, after hour spots where
the music doesn't stop till the sun comes up. He
gets gigs playing the piano in local bars, singing when
someone hands him a mic. It's enough to keep the
(08:27):
rent paid, but more than that, it's fuel for something bigger.
Just imagine it's one of those shotgun houses with the
furniture pushed to the walls. The air is thick with
cigarette smoke and the smell of frying chicken. A gallon
jug of homemade bruce sits in the corner, beads of
condensation on the glass. A piano is wedged against the wall,
(08:49):
keys yellowed with age. John sits down, flexes his fingers
and starts playing something slow, slow and sweet. The talking stops,
even the ice game in the kitchen goes quiet. People
start swinging where they stand, eyes half closed. This isn't
a gig, This is a communion. And about this time,
(09:12):
this is when John falls in with the Beals Streeters,
a loose band of young players with more talent than money.
There's bb King, still a local name, Bobby Blue Bland,
with a voice like honey and gravel, Roscoe Gordon, who
could make a piano bounce like nobody else. They swap songs,
trade gigs, and sometimes crash on each other's couches. The music,
(09:36):
the music, is their survival. It's Saturday night on the
edge of town. You push open the creaky screen door
and step into a haze as smoke. The room smells
like fried catfish, cheap whiskey and sweat. On a small stage,
a trio is playing slow and low. A couple sways
in the corner of their bodies, moving as one. Someone
(09:58):
at the bar taps their foot int beer bottle in hand.
The singer leans into the mic, eyes half closed, as
if he's not just performing for the room, he's living
living that song. John Marshall, Alexander Junior. That's the old John.
He needs a new name. This new name isn't just change,
(10:20):
It's going to be a transformation, something cool, confident, the
kind of name that belongs on a marquee outside the theater.
So what is it? In nineteen fifty two, he signs
with Duke Records, run by Don Roby in Houston, a
man known for his business hustle and an ear for talent.
(10:41):
John's first single, My Song, is slow and aching, and
it rockets up the R and B charts to number one,
and then the hits keep coming. Cross my Heart, please
Forgive Me, and never let me Go. Each one is
like opening a letter from someone you love, tender but unflinching.
(11:01):
Each release cements his place. Women send fan letters sealed
with lipstick kisses. DJ spin his singles back to back.
Young men both black and white, start wearing his hairstyle.
In a time when crossing over to the pop charts
was nearly impossible for black artists, John is already halfway there.
(11:22):
His career is red hot. By the time he's twenty five.
He's already known in black neighborhoods, but now his voice
is breaking through speakers and neighborhoods where black artists are
rarely heard. Eight hits in two years, a touring schedule
that keeps him in motion, and every night, every night,
that voice could just stop a crowd cold. By nineteen
(11:44):
fifty four, black neighborhoods from Memphis to Chicago. If you
asked who was going to be the next big thing,
there was only one answer, and that is Johnny Ace.
That's right, Johnny Aceme. His new persona. Johnny's fame is
climbing higher and higher and higher, intil it all came
(12:09):
crashing down at three, Next at three, the Tragedy of
Christmas Night. It's two am in a tiny club, the
kind with a bar so short you can touch both
ends if you stretch out your arms. BB King is there,
(12:31):
guitar slung low, Bobby Blue Bland is telling jokes in
between songs. John Now, Johnny Ace takes the mic for
a slow ballad that chatter dies instantly, glasses stop midair,
Even the bartender pauses, because when he sings, it's not
about the notes. It's about the way he makes you
(12:52):
believe every word. It's that way, city after city, town
after town. Now it's Houston Tech December twenty fifth, nineteen
fifty four. The City Auditorium is buzzing. The ticket takers
are stamping hands. The crowd is dressed in their Christmas best,
and the air smells faintly a popcorn and cigarette smoke.
(13:15):
Johnny's on tour with Big Mamma Thornton, the woman whose
voice could shake a room. You know Big Mamma Thornton.
She's the originator of you Ain't Nothing but a olm Dog.
The show's been electric so far, the audience clapping in time,
the band tight as a drum between sets. Backstage is
cramped butt but warm. Folding chairs scrape across the floor.
(13:39):
A card game is going on in one corner, coins
clinking as bets are made, somebody passing a bottle. There's laughter,
the kind that comes from road worn friends sharing one
more holiday together. Just imagine you're leaning against the wall
watching someone laughs so hard they slap The table is
(14:00):
in the corner, cigarette dangling, voice booming as she tells
a story from the road. Johnny. Johnny sits quietly, a
smile playing at the edge of his lips. He's always
been the calm in the storm, and Johnny is leaning
back in his chair. He has that cool, that cool.
It doesn't need to be announced, it's just there. And then,
(14:25):
as casually as pulling out a cigarette from his pocket,
he pulls out a revolver. It's not that unusual. He's
been known to carry one, part swagger, part protection. He
spins it in his hand the way a card dealer
flips a deck. Put that thing away, someone says, without
looking up from the cards. Big Mama across the room
(14:47):
fixes him with a look, Johnny, don't be messing with
that thing. But Johnny grins. He just grins. Maybe it's
the whiskey. Maybe maybe he's just bored, Maybe he's just
showing up off. He flips open the cylinder, spins it,
snaps it shot. It's not loaded, he says, half to himself,
(15:08):
half to the room, and then Johnny puts the gun
to his head. Stay with me at four? Is next
at four? Confusion, legend and loss. Time slows. The laughter
(15:29):
in the room dies in an instant. You smell the
acrid sting of gunpowder, sharp and metallic, curling through the air.
Someone drops their drink, the glass shattering on the floor
echoes like the gunshot of its own. Big Mama's voice
cuts through the haze. One word, one word, loud and
urgent Johnny, but it's too late. His head dips forward,
(15:54):
shoulder slack. The revolver slides from his grip, clattering to
the wood floor. A chair tips over in the chaos.
The music from the stage is still playing, muffled through
the walls, but the backstage world has shifted. Christmas night
has turned into a nightmare. A runner bursts into the
(16:15):
hall looking for help. The card game scatters, musicians, stagehands, friends.
They all crowd around, disbelief written across their faces. Somebody
says it was an accident. Somebody else says no, no, no,
he was fooling around, And in the corner, a young
sax player whispers the question was he playing Russian Roulette.
(16:37):
It's minutes after the gun goes off. You're in the audience,
still sipping your drink, waiting for Johnny Ace's next set.
The dance floor is full. Big Mama Thornton's last word
still hangs in the air when the MC announces there's
going to be a brief intermission, but he says it
with such urgency, an unguarded glimpse that all was not
as it seemed. You have no idea what's happening. Backstage,
(17:01):
the bass player stands in the shadows, staring at the floor.
A trumpet player is leaning against the wall, his eyes
glazed over. Somewhere in the building, you hear a siren,
faint but drawing closer. The news spreads before dawn. The
Houston Chronicle calls it quote an accidental shooting. Other papers
(17:23):
suggest Russian roulette, a few whispered, darker things, that maybe
he'd been heartbroken, and maybe the fame was heavier than
it looked. But the truth, the truth. It's buried with Johnny,
and still the numbers tell the story. Eight consecutive top
ten R and B hits in just two years, a
(17:44):
fan base that followed him like he was family, a
voice built for the coming rock and roll storm. Instead,
the name Johnny Ace becomes a cautionary tale, a headline
more than a man. It's a week later. You're in
the control room of a small Southern radio station. The
DJ DJ, veteran of the R and B scene, is
(18:06):
sitting in front of the turntable, cigarette smoke curling towards
the ceiling. He cues up, never let you go, He
takes another drag off the cigarette, blows it out, keys
the mic and says, this one is for Johnny. His
voice steady, but his hand trembling on the fader. As
(18:26):
the needle drops, the room fills with that voice. Oh
that voice, rich, warm, heartbreak wrapped in velvet. Outside. Couple
slow dance in their kitchens in clubs, the jukebox clicks
and whirls, and then the song plays and people get quiet.
They're not just listening, they're remembering Johnny Ace the epilog
(18:53):
a voice that echoes next Johnny Ace Block. In early
nineteen fifty five, Duke Records releases One Last Johnny, a single,
pledging My Love. The song is like a whisper in
your ear, slow, sincere and aching. If you didn't know
(19:14):
the story, it would still be one of the most
beautiful love songs ever recorded. But when you do know,
it's something else entirely. Johnny sings Forever, my darling, our
love will be true always and forever. I love just you.
It sits at number one on the R and B
(19:34):
charts for ten weeks, crosses into the pop Top twenty,
and becomes his signature. People play it at weddings they
play it at funerals, They play it when the night
is too still and the heart is too heavy. On
February nineteen fifty five, you're in a small record shop
on the South side of Chicago. The windows are foggy
(19:55):
from the heat. Inside, the smell of vinyl and cardboard
sleeves thick in the air. A teenage couple stands at
the counter holding hands, asking for that new Johnny Ace record.
The clerk doesn't ask for which one. There's only one
left to get. He slides Pledging My Love into a
brown paper bag. Then they leave. The bell over the
(20:19):
door jingles. The song starts playing on the store's turntable.
For a moment, everyone in the room, the customer's browsing,
the clerk behind the counter, just listens. And then nothing.
No tours, no interviews, no second act, just a voice
(20:42):
frozen in time. In the years that follow, the music
world explodes, rock and roll, soul, motown, British invasion. But
in every thread you can hear echoes of Johnny Ace,
artists who learned how to sing soft flee but carry
the weight of the world in their voice. Yes, they
(21:03):
owe it all to Johnny Ballads that dare to be
tender in a loud, fast world today, When you hear
those songs, you're just not hearing notes and words. You're
hearing a man who didn't get the years he deserved,
a man whose music shaped the sound of what came next.
Even if his name faded from the Marquis, some voices fade,
(21:28):
other voices echo, and Johnny Ace's it still plays if
you tune the dial just right, late at night, when
the static is thick and the universe is just quiet
enough to hear him. Well, I hope you enjoyed Johnny Ace,
(21:49):
the Lost King of Rhythm and Blues. Script two of
Johnny's Dead Air podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. I'm Johnny Heartwell,
thank you so much for listening.
Oh, Danny, go get a real nice face, now, don't you. Johnny.
I'm well, actually I'm Johnny. That's what Johnny. That's we're
going to tell the boys about Johnny Doctor Johnny air
fever and I am burning up in here. Johnny. All right,
(00:20):
welcome in. I actually had the day off because I
went to Paul McCartney last night and Sue, I'm going
to play you one of my new podcasts. I have
a brand new podcast called Johnny's Dead Air Podcast where
I talk about the eerie, spooky things of the music industry,
tell stories that you may not have heard of before.
And this story is about Johnny Ace, who was one
(00:43):
of the early early performers of rock and roll back
in the R and B days in the mid nineteen fifties.
So if you like this story, make sure you check
out Johnny's Dead Air Podcast on the iHeartRadio app. That's
just look up Google Johnny's Dead Air Podcast and you'll
you'll pop up have a spooky skeleton logo there, so
(01:07):
check that out. I've got like thirteen fourteen other stories
that you can check out as well, so hopefully you
enjoy this one. So anyway, all right, here you go.
Here's another story of music's dark side. Before Elvis, before Motown,
(01:27):
even before rock and roll even had a name, there
was a sound. It was smooth, smoky, and raw, a
voice the world thought would be the next great star.
Until one night, a night where most people celebrate. That's
when the music stopped. This is script two. This story
is called the Lost King of Rhythm and Blues, Act one,
(01:52):
before rock and roll had a name. Picture this a
one room apartment in Memphis, nineteen fifty one. On the
paint on the wall is cracked. The calendar from the
local grocery store still shows October because no one remembered
to flip it. Outside, a lone street light flickers, throwing
shadows across thin curtains. In a corner, a filedco radio hums.
(02:17):
Its orange dove glows faintly, and the sound coming through
is full of static. Suddenly, suddenly there's that voice, warm, patient,
wrapping itself around you like a blanket after a long day.
You stop mid step, spoons still in hand, dinner cooling
on the plate, because once you hear it, you can't
(02:39):
not listen. In the early nineteen fifties, rhythm and blues
was more than music, It was a lifeline. It played
in dim lit juke joints with sawdust on the floor,
where couples lean close, whispering in each other's ear. It
floated from the back rooms of record shops after the
day's official business had ended. The songs were about love
(03:01):
and loss, longing, and for those who lived in segregated America,
they carried a different kind of truth. Somewhere inside this sound,
a new voice was beginning to break through. It wasn't
brash or flashy. It didn't need to be. It was felt.
Now close your eyes, you're back in that one room apartment.
(03:25):
The plaster walls are yellow from years of cigarette smoke.
The only light comes from the bare bald in the
ceiling and a glow of that filc The air is heavy, human,
even in December, and the faint scent of fried food
from the diner downstairs hangs in the air. The radio
is picking up a signal through that static, one of
(03:45):
those low power stations that fades in and out if
you lean too far left or right, and even through
the static, you can't miss it. You can't miss it.
Not that, not that voice. It's it's it's different It's
not that clipped precision of Bing Crosby, not the silver
(04:06):
polish of Nat King Cole. This is something else, something warmer,
a voice that doesn't just sing the words, but wears
them like a well loved jacket. There's no big band,
no horn section blasting to the rafters, just a small combo,
the small shuffle of brushes on the snare, a bass
(04:27):
walking lazily through the changes, and this man's voice floating
over it all. It's smooth and smoky and raw, like
a glass of whiskey poured too close to midnight. This
is rhythm and blues. Before anyone in a suit thought
you could sell it. You only heard it in juke
joints or in back rooms after the whites only crowd
(04:49):
had gone home, in living rooms where couple sit with
the lights off, letting the music do all the talking.
And somewhere in the middle of this world there's a
voice starting the cut through it all soft and sincere,
vulnerable in a way men didn't dare be in public
back then. It isn't shouting like a gospel preacher. He
(05:10):
isn't grinning like a showman trying to charm the room.
He is just telling how he feels and making you
feel the same way. By the age of just twenty five,
he's a star in the black community, hit after hit
after a hit, touring the South End packing auditoriums. But
(05:31):
if you want to know his name, you will have
to wait just a little bit longer. We'll get to
that in act too, next act too. The assent his
name well, his name at birth was John Marshall Alexander Junior, Memphis, Tennessee,
(05:54):
nineteen twenty nine. He's born into a world already on
its knees from the great to rush. Cotton prices are low,
jobs are scarce, and the streets of South Memphis are
a patchwork of shotgun houses and corner stores with hand
painted signs. His father is absent early on, and his
mother does laundry to keep the lights on. Steam and
(06:17):
soap in the air, And the rhythm of washboards and
ringers is a kind of music itself. Wooden traits stacked
in the corner, jars of starch on the shelf, The
steady swish swish of wet close against the washboard is
in rhythm with the old gospel tune humming from the radio.
John sits on the stoop outside, tapping his foot, mimicking
(06:40):
the beat with his fingers on the wooden railing. He
doesn't realize it yet, but this is his first band.
The laundry, the hum of the radio, in his mother's voice,
singing underneath her breath. Music is everywhere in Memphis, in
the churches where gospel choirs lift the roof on Sunday mornings,
on the street corners, where a man with a guitar
(07:00):
might stop a crowd cold with a twelve bar blues,
in the clubs on Beal Street, where horns slice through
the smoke and the piano keys sparkle the under the
stage lights, and John absorbs it all. It's a sticky
summer night. Beal Street is buzzing. A trumpet blasts from
an open window. A man on the corner picks a
(07:22):
guitar with a cigarette hanging from his lips. The sidewalks
are crowded with women in bright dresses, men and hats
tilted just so. Ten year old John weaves through the crowd,
wide eyed, taking it taking it all in the clink
of bottles, the smell of barbecue, the rhythm of footsteps
(07:42):
on the wooden sidewalks, He doesn't know it yet, but
this street will shape the rest of his life. By
the time he was seventeen, world War two is ending.
He's wiry, restless, and ready to see the world beyond Memphis.
The Navy is his way out. He's learns discipline and
sees port's most Memphis boys will only hear about When
(08:05):
he comes home. Memphis is still beating to the sound
of blues gospel in early jazz, John starts gigging everywhere
he can, small bars, rent parties, after hour spots where
the music doesn't stop till the sun comes up. He
gets gigs playing the piano in local bars, singing when
someone hands him a mic. It's enough to keep the
(08:27):
rent paid, but more than that, it's fuel for something bigger.
Just imagine it's one of those shotgun houses with the
furniture pushed to the walls. The air is thick with
cigarette smoke and the smell of frying chicken. A gallon
jug of homemade bruce sits in the corner, beads of
condensation on the glass. A piano is wedged against the wall,
(08:49):
keys yellowed with age. John sits down, flexes his fingers
and starts playing something slow, slow and sweet. The talking stops,
even the ice game in the kitchen goes quiet. People
start swinging where they stand, eyes half closed. This isn't
a gig, This is a communion. And about this time,
(09:12):
this is when John falls in with the Beals Streeters,
a loose band of young players with more talent than money.
There's bb King, still a local name, Bobby Blue Bland,
with a voice like honey and gravel, Roscoe Gordon, who
could make a piano bounce like nobody else. They swap songs,
trade gigs, and sometimes crash on each other's couches. The music,
(09:36):
the music, is their survival. It's Saturday night on the
edge of town. You push open the creaky screen door
and step into a haze as smoke. The room smells
like fried catfish, cheap whiskey and sweat. On a small stage,
a trio is playing slow and low. A couple sways
in the corner of their bodies, moving as one. Someone
(09:58):
at the bar taps their foot int beer bottle in hand.
The singer leans into the mic, eyes half closed, as
if he's not just performing for the room, he's living
living that song. John Marshall, Alexander Junior. That's the old John.
He needs a new name. This new name isn't just change,
(10:20):
It's going to be a transformation, something cool, confident, the
kind of name that belongs on a marquee outside the theater.
So what is it? In nineteen fifty two, he signs
with Duke Records, run by Don Roby in Houston, a
man known for his business hustle and an ear for talent.
(10:41):
John's first single, My Song, is slow and aching, and
it rockets up the R and B charts to number one,
and then the hits keep coming. Cross my Heart, please
Forgive Me, and never let me Go. Each one is
like opening a letter from someone you love, tender but unflinching.
(11:01):
Each release cements his place. Women send fan letters sealed
with lipstick kisses. DJ spin his singles back to back.
Young men both black and white, start wearing his hairstyle.
In a time when crossing over to the pop charts
was nearly impossible for black artists, John is already halfway there.
(11:22):
His career is red hot. By the time he's twenty five.
He's already known in black neighborhoods, but now his voice
is breaking through speakers and neighborhoods where black artists are
rarely heard. Eight hits in two years, a touring schedule
that keeps him in motion, and every night, every night,
that voice could just stop a crowd cold. By nineteen
(11:44):
fifty four, black neighborhoods from Memphis to Chicago. If you
asked who was going to be the next big thing,
there was only one answer, and that is Johnny Ace.
That's right, Johnny Aceme. His new persona. Johnny's fame is
climbing higher and higher and higher, intil it all came
(12:09):
crashing down at three, Next at three, the Tragedy of
Christmas Night. It's two am in a tiny club, the
kind with a bar so short you can touch both
ends if you stretch out your arms. BB King is there,
(12:31):
guitar slung low, Bobby Blue Bland is telling jokes in
between songs. John Now, Johnny Ace takes the mic for
a slow ballad that chatter dies instantly, glasses stop midair,
Even the bartender pauses, because when he sings, it's not
about the notes. It's about the way he makes you
(12:52):
believe every word. It's that way, city after city, town
after town. Now it's Houston Tech December twenty fifth, nineteen
fifty four. The City Auditorium is buzzing. The ticket takers
are stamping hands. The crowd is dressed in their Christmas best,
and the air smells faintly a popcorn and cigarette smoke.
(13:15):
Johnny's on tour with Big Mamma Thornton, the woman whose
voice could shake a room. You know Big Mamma Thornton.
She's the originator of you Ain't Nothing but a olm Dog.
The show's been electric so far, the audience clapping in time,
the band tight as a drum between sets. Backstage is
cramped butt but warm. Folding chairs scrape across the floor.
(13:39):
A card game is going on in one corner, coins
clinking as bets are made, somebody passing a bottle. There's laughter,
the kind that comes from road worn friends sharing one
more holiday together. Just imagine you're leaning against the wall
watching someone laughs so hard they slap The table is
(14:00):
in the corner, cigarette dangling, voice booming as she tells
a story from the road. Johnny. Johnny sits quietly, a
smile playing at the edge of his lips. He's always
been the calm in the storm, and Johnny is leaning
back in his chair. He has that cool, that cool.
It doesn't need to be announced, it's just there. And then,
(14:25):
as casually as pulling out a cigarette from his pocket,
he pulls out a revolver. It's not that unusual. He's
been known to carry one, part swagger, part protection. He
spins it in his hand the way a card dealer
flips a deck. Put that thing away, someone says, without
looking up from the cards. Big Mama across the room
(14:47):
fixes him with a look, Johnny, don't be messing with
that thing. But Johnny grins. He just grins. Maybe it's
the whiskey. Maybe maybe he's just bored, Maybe he's just
showing up off. He flips open the cylinder, spins it,
snaps it shot. It's not loaded, he says, half to himself,
(15:08):
half to the room, and then Johnny puts the gun
to his head. Stay with me at four? Is next
at four? Confusion, legend and loss. Time slows. The laughter
(15:29):
in the room dies in an instant. You smell the
acrid sting of gunpowder, sharp and metallic, curling through the air.
Someone drops their drink, the glass shattering on the floor
echoes like the gunshot of its own. Big Mama's voice
cuts through the haze. One word, one word, loud and
urgent Johnny, but it's too late. His head dips forward,
(15:54):
shoulder slack. The revolver slides from his grip, clattering to
the wood floor. A chair tips over in the chaos.
The music from the stage is still playing, muffled through
the walls, but the backstage world has shifted. Christmas night
has turned into a nightmare. A runner bursts into the
(16:15):
hall looking for help. The card game scatters, musicians, stagehands, friends.
They all crowd around, disbelief written across their faces. Somebody
says it was an accident. Somebody else says no, no, no,
he was fooling around, And in the corner, a young
sax player whispers the question was he playing Russian Roulette.
(16:37):
It's minutes after the gun goes off. You're in the audience,
still sipping your drink, waiting for Johnny Ace's next set.
The dance floor is full. Big Mama Thornton's last word
still hangs in the air when the MC announces there's
going to be a brief intermission, but he says it
with such urgency, an unguarded glimpse that all was not
as it seemed. You have no idea what's happening. Backstage,
(17:01):
the bass player stands in the shadows, staring at the floor.
A trumpet player is leaning against the wall, his eyes
glazed over. Somewhere in the building, you hear a siren,
faint but drawing closer. The news spreads before dawn. The
Houston Chronicle calls it quote an accidental shooting. Other papers
(17:23):
suggest Russian roulette, a few whispered, darker things, that maybe
he'd been heartbroken, and maybe the fame was heavier than
it looked. But the truth, the truth. It's buried with Johnny,
and still the numbers tell the story. Eight consecutive top
ten R and B hits in just two years, a
(17:44):
fan base that followed him like he was family, a
voice built for the coming rock and roll storm. Instead,
the name Johnny Ace becomes a cautionary tale, a headline
more than a man. It's a week later. You're in
the control room of a small Southern radio station. The
DJ DJ, veteran of the R and B scene, is
(18:06):
sitting in front of the turntable, cigarette smoke curling towards
the ceiling. He cues up, never let you go, He
takes another drag off the cigarette, blows it out, keys
the mic and says, this one is for Johnny. His
voice steady, but his hand trembling on the fader. As
(18:26):
the needle drops, the room fills with that voice. Oh
that voice, rich, warm, heartbreak wrapped in velvet. Outside. Couple
slow dance in their kitchens in clubs, the jukebox clicks
and whirls, and then the song plays and people get quiet.
They're not just listening, they're remembering Johnny Ace the epilog
(18:53):
a voice that echoes next Johnny Ace Block. In early
nineteen fifty five, Duke Records releases One Last Johnny, a single,
pledging My Love. The song is like a whisper in
your ear, slow, sincere and aching. If you didn't know
(19:14):
the story, it would still be one of the most
beautiful love songs ever recorded. But when you do know,
it's something else entirely. Johnny sings Forever, my darling, our
love will be true always and forever. I love just you.
It sits at number one on the R and B
(19:34):
charts for ten weeks, crosses into the pop Top twenty,
and becomes his signature. People play it at weddings they
play it at funerals, They play it when the night
is too still and the heart is too heavy. On
February nineteen fifty five, you're in a small record shop
on the South side of Chicago. The windows are foggy
(19:55):
from the heat. Inside, the smell of vinyl and cardboard
sleeves thick in the air. A teenage couple stands at
the counter holding hands, asking for that new Johnny Ace record.
The clerk doesn't ask for which one. There's only one
left to get. He slides Pledging My Love into a
brown paper bag. Then they leave. The bell over the
(20:19):
door jingles. The song starts playing on the store's turntable.
For a moment, everyone in the room, the customer's browsing,
the clerk behind the counter, just listens. And then nothing.
No tours, no interviews, no second act, just a voice
(20:42):
frozen in time. In the years that follow, the music
world explodes, rock and roll, soul, motown, British invasion. But
in every thread you can hear echoes of Johnny Ace,
artists who learned how to sing soft flee but carry
the weight of the world in their voice. Yes, they
(21:03):
owe it all to Johnny Ballads that dare to be
tender in a loud, fast world today, When you hear
those songs, you're just not hearing notes and words. You're
hearing a man who didn't get the years he deserved,
a man whose music shaped the sound of what came next.
Even if his name faded from the Marquis, some voices fade,
(21:28):
other voices echo, and Johnny Ace's it still plays if
you tune the dial just right, late at night, when
the static is thick and the universe is just quiet
enough to hear him. Well, I hope you enjoyed Johnny Ace,
(21:49):
the Lost King of Rhythm and Blues. Script two of
Johnny's Dead Air podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. I'm Johnny Heartwell,
thank you so much for listening.
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