August 15, 2025 • 20 mins
In 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
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
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
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
He welcome in. Here's another story of music's dark side.
This is script number two of Johnny's Dead Air Stories,
a production of iHeartRadio. I'm your host, Johnny Heartwell, Well,
(00:22):
are you ready? Are you ready for another tale of
rapid music success, another tail spin that will leave you
shaking your head. Well before Elvis, even before Motown, before
rock and roll even had a name, there was a sound.
It was smooth, smoky, it was raw, and it carried
a voice that could stop you in your tracks, a
(00:42):
voice the world thought would be the next great star
until until one night, a night where most people celebrate.
That's when the music stopped. This is the story of
the Lost King of Rhythm and Blues, Act one before
rock and roll had a name. Picture this a one
room apartment in Memphis, nineteen fifty one. The paint on
(01:06):
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. Its orange dove
glows faintly, and the sound coming through is full of static. Suddenly, suddenly,
(01:28):
there's that voice, warm, patient, wrapping itself around you like
a blanket after a long day. You stop midstep, spoons
still in hand, dinner cooling on the plate, because once
you hear it, you can't not listen. In the early
nineteen fifties, rhythm and blues was more than music. It
(01:50):
was a lifeline. It played in dim lit juke joints
with sawdust on the floor, where couples lean close and
whispered over the band. It floated from the back rooms
of record shops after the day's official business had ended.
The songs were about love and loss, longing, and for
those who lived in segregated America, they carried a different
(02:12):
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. The
plaster walls are yellow from years of cigarette smoke. The
(02:33):
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
those low power stations that fades in and out if
(02:53):
you lean too far left or right, and even through
the static, you can't miss it. You can't miss it.
Not that voice, it's it's it's different. It's not that
clipped precision of Bing Crosby, not the silver polish of
Nat King Cole. This is this is something else, something warmer,
(03:15):
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
walking lazily through the changes in this man's voice, floating
over it all. It's smooth and smoky and raw, like
(03:40):
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
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
(04:03):
voice starting to 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
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 twenty five, he was a
(04:26):
star in the black community, eight hits in two years,
touring the South packing auditoriums. But 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
(04:52):
at birth was John Marshall Alexander Junior, Memphis, Tennessee, nineteen
twenty nine. He's born into a war world already on
its knees from the Great Depression. 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
(05:16):
mother does laundry to keep the lights on. Steam and
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.
(05:39):
John sits on the stoop outside, tapping his foot, mimicking
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 some
(06:00):
on the street corners, where a man with a guitar
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 under the under
the stage lights, and John absorbs it all. It's a
sticky summer night. Beal Street is buzzing. A trumpet blasts
(06:21):
from an open window. A man on the corner picks
a guitar with a cigarette hanging. A man on the
corner picks a 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
(06:43):
in the clink of bottles, the smell of barbecue, the
rhythm of footsteps 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.
(07:06):
He serves, learns discipline, and sees port's most Memphis boys
will only hear about. When 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
(07:29):
local bars, singing when someone hands him a mic. It's
enough to keep the 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
(07:53):
piano is wedged against the wall. Key's yellowed with age.
John sits down, flexes his f and starts playing something
something slow. The talking stops, even the dice game in
the kitchen goes quiet. People start swaying where they stand,
eyes half closed. This isn't a gig, this is a communion.
(08:16):
And about this time, 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
(08:39):
crash on each other's couches. The music, 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
(09:01):
corner of their bodies, moving as one. Someone at the
bar taps their foot in time. A 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.
(09:22):
He needs a new name. This new name isn't just change.
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
(09:43):
man known for his business hustle and an ear for talent.
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.
(10:08):
Each release cements his place. Women send fan letters sealed
with lipstick kisses. DJ spin his singles back to back
in a time when crossing over to the pop charts
was nearly impossible for black artists. John is already halfway
there by the time he was twenty five. He's already
known in black neighborhoods across the South. Eight hits in
(10:30):
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 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 Ace. His
(10:55):
new name, his new persona. Johnny's fame is climbing higher
and higher and higher, intil it all came crashing down
at three next act three, The Tragedy of Christmas Night.
(11:19):
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, 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
(11:41):
bartender pauses because when he sings, it's not about the notes,
It's about the way he makes you believe every word.
It's Houston, Texas, December twenty fifth, nineteen fifty four. The
City auditorium is buzzing, the ticket takers stamping hands. The
crowd is dressed in their Christmas best, and the air
(12:04):
smells faintly a popcorn and cigarette smoke. Johnny's on tour
with Big Mama Thornton, the woman whose voice could shake
a room. 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
(12:25):
the floor. 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.
(12:46):
Big Mama is 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 s 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.
(13:10):
And then, 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,
(13:31):
without looking up from the cards. Big Mama across the
room 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 off. He flips open the cylinder, spins it,
snaps it shut. It's not loaded, he says, half to himself,
(13:55):
half to the room, and then Johnny puts the gun
to his head. No, no, Johnny, don't stay with me.
At four is next? At four? Confusion, legend and loss.
(14:17):
Time slows. The laughter 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
(14:42):
dips forward, shoulders 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 Knight has turned into a nightmare. A runner bursts
(15:04):
into the 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 words Russian roulette like he's trying
(15:27):
not to let them loose. 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.
You have no idea what's happening. Backstage. The bass player
(15:50):
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 sire and faint
but drawing closer. The news spreads before dawn. The Houston
Chronicle calls it quote an accidental shooting. Other papers suggest
(16:11):
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 him, and
still the numbers tell the story. Eight consecutive top ten
R and B hits in just two years, a fan
(16:32):
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,
(16:52):
veteran of the R and B scene, is sitting in
front of the turntable, cigarette smoke curling towards the ceiling.
He cues up, never let you go. This one's for Johnny,
He says into the mic, his voice steady, but his
hand trembling on the fader. As the needle drops, the
room fills with that voice. Oh, that voice, rich warm
(17:16):
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, a voice that echoes
(17:38):
next Johnny Ace epiloc 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 the story, it
(17:59):
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, My love will be true.
It sits at number one on the R and B
charts for ten weeks, crosses into the pop Top twenty,
and becomes his signature. People play it at weddings, they
(18:22):
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 fall from
the heat. Inside, the smell of vinyl and cardboard sleeves
thick in the air. A teenage couple stands at the
(18:43):
corner 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
door jingles. The song starts playing on the store's turntable.
(19:04):
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
frozen in time. In the years that follow, the music
(19:28):
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 softly but carry the
weight of the world in their voice. Yes, they owe
it all to Johnny Ballads that dare to be tender
in a loud, fast world. Today, when you hear those songs,
(19:52):
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,
other voices echo, and Johnny Ace's it still plays if
(20:15):
you tune the dial just right, late at night, when
the static is thick and the world is quiet enough
to hear him. Well, I hope you enjoyed Johnny Ace,
the Lost King of Rhythm and Blues. Script two of
Johnny's Dead Air podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. I'm Johnny Hartwell,
(20:37):
thank you so much for listening.
He welcome in. Here's another story of music's dark side.
This is script number two of Johnny's Dead Air Stories,
a production of iHeartRadio. I'm your host, Johnny Heartwell, Well,
(00:22):
are you ready? Are you ready for another tale of
rapid music success, another tail spin that will leave you
shaking your head. Well before Elvis, even before Motown, before
rock and roll even had a name, there was a sound.
It was smooth, smoky, it was raw, and it carried
a voice that could stop you in your tracks, a
(00:42):
voice the world thought would be the next great star
until until one night, a night where most people celebrate.
That's when the music stopped. This is the story of
the Lost King of Rhythm and Blues, Act one before
rock and roll had a name. Picture this a one
room apartment in Memphis, nineteen fifty one. The paint on
(01:06):
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. Its orange dove
glows faintly, and the sound coming through is full of static. Suddenly, suddenly,
(01:28):
there's that voice, warm, patient, wrapping itself around you like
a blanket after a long day. You stop midstep, spoons
still in hand, dinner cooling on the plate, because once
you hear it, you can't not listen. In the early
nineteen fifties, rhythm and blues was more than music. It
(01:50):
was a lifeline. It played in dim lit juke joints
with sawdust on the floor, where couples lean close and
whispered over the band. It floated from the back rooms
of record shops after the day's official business had ended.
The songs were about love and loss, longing, and for
those who lived in segregated America, they carried a different
(02:12):
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. The
plaster walls are yellow from years of cigarette smoke. The
(02:33):
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
those low power stations that fades in and out if
(02:53):
you lean too far left or right, and even through
the static, you can't miss it. You can't miss it.
Not that voice, it's it's it's different. It's not that
clipped precision of Bing Crosby, not the silver polish of
Nat King Cole. This is this is something else, something warmer,
(03:15):
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
walking lazily through the changes in this man's voice, floating
over it all. It's smooth and smoky and raw, like
(03:40):
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
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
(04:03):
voice starting to 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
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 twenty five, he was a
(04:26):
star in the black community, eight hits in two years,
touring the South packing auditoriums. But 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
(04:52):
at birth was John Marshall Alexander Junior, Memphis, Tennessee, nineteen
twenty nine. He's born into a war world already on
its knees from the Great Depression. 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
(05:16):
mother does laundry to keep the lights on. Steam and
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.
(05:39):
John sits on the stoop outside, tapping his foot, mimicking
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 some
(06:00):
on the street corners, where a man with a guitar
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 under the under
the stage lights, and John absorbs it all. It's a
sticky summer night. Beal Street is buzzing. A trumpet blasts
(06:21):
from an open window. A man on the corner picks
a guitar with a cigarette hanging. A man on the
corner picks a 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
(06:43):
in the clink of bottles, the smell of barbecue, the
rhythm of footsteps 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.
(07:06):
He serves, learns discipline, and sees port's most Memphis boys
will only hear about. When 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
(07:29):
local bars, singing when someone hands him a mic. It's
enough to keep the 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
(07:53):
piano is wedged against the wall. Key's yellowed with age.
John sits down, flexes his f and starts playing something
something slow. The talking stops, even the dice game in
the kitchen goes quiet. People start swaying where they stand,
eyes half closed. This isn't a gig, this is a communion.
(08:16):
And about this time, 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
(08:39):
crash on each other's couches. The music, 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
(09:01):
corner of their bodies, moving as one. Someone at the
bar taps their foot in time. A 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.
(09:22):
He needs a new name. This new name isn't just change.
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
(09:43):
man known for his business hustle and an ear for talent.
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.
(10:08):
Each release cements his place. Women send fan letters sealed
with lipstick kisses. DJ spin his singles back to back
in a time when crossing over to the pop charts
was nearly impossible for black artists. John is already halfway
there by the time he was twenty five. He's already
known in black neighborhoods across the South. Eight hits in
(10:30):
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 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 Ace. His
(10:55):
new name, his new persona. Johnny's fame is climbing higher
and higher and higher, intil it all came crashing down
at three next act three, The Tragedy of Christmas Night.
(11:19):
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, 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
(11:41):
bartender pauses because when he sings, it's not about the notes,
It's about the way he makes you believe every word.
It's Houston, Texas, December twenty fifth, nineteen fifty four. The
City auditorium is buzzing, the ticket takers stamping hands. The
crowd is dressed in their Christmas best, and the air
(12:04):
smells faintly a popcorn and cigarette smoke. Johnny's on tour
with Big Mama Thornton, the woman whose voice could shake
a room. 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
(12:25):
the floor. 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.
(12:46):
Big Mama is 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 s 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.
(13:10):
And then, 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,
(13:31):
without looking up from the cards. Big Mama across the
room 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 off. He flips open the cylinder, spins it,
snaps it shut. It's not loaded, he says, half to himself,
(13:55):
half to the room, and then Johnny puts the gun
to his head. No, no, Johnny, don't stay with me.
At four is next? At four? Confusion, legend and loss.
(14:17):
Time slows. The laughter 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
(14:42):
dips forward, shoulders 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 Knight has turned into a nightmare. A runner bursts
(15:04):
into the 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 words Russian roulette like he's trying
(15:27):
not to let them loose. 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.
You have no idea what's happening. Backstage. The bass player
(15:50):
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 sire and faint
but drawing closer. The news spreads before dawn. The Houston
Chronicle calls it quote an accidental shooting. Other papers suggest
(16:11):
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 him, and
still the numbers tell the story. Eight consecutive top ten
R and B hits in just two years, a fan
(16:32):
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,
(16:52):
veteran of the R and B scene, is sitting in
front of the turntable, cigarette smoke curling towards the ceiling.
He cues up, never let you go. This one's for Johnny,
He says into the mic, his voice steady, but his
hand trembling on the fader. As the needle drops, the
room fills with that voice. Oh, that voice, rich warm
(17:16):
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, a voice that echoes
(17:38):
next Johnny Ace epiloc 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 the story, it
(17:59):
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, My love will be true.
It sits at number one on the R and B
charts for ten weeks, crosses into the pop Top twenty,
and becomes his signature. People play it at weddings, they
(18:22):
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 fall from
the heat. Inside, the smell of vinyl and cardboard sleeves
thick in the air. A teenage couple stands at the
(18:43):
corner 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
door jingles. The song starts playing on the store's turntable.
(19:04):
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
frozen in time. In the years that follow, the music
(19:28):
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 softly but carry the
weight of the world in their voice. Yes, they owe
it all to Johnny Ballads that dare to be tender
in a loud, fast world. Today, when you hear those songs,
(19:52):
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,
other voices echo, and Johnny Ace's it still plays if
(20:15):
you tune the dial just right, late at night, when
the static is thick and the world is quiet enough
to hear him. Well, I hope you enjoyed Johnny Ace,
the Lost King of Rhythm and Blues. Script two of
Johnny's Dead Air podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. I'm Johnny Hartwell,
(20:37):
thank you so much for listening.
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