How John Denver Saved My Life
In the summer of 1975, I finally got what appeared to be a really great job in the record business. It was a simple work-a-day clerk routine, but it was at Peaches Records and Tapes at 2282 Peachtree Road, just south of the smaller Buckhead community of the time. Peaches was the hottest and coolest destination in Atlanta at the time. It wasn’t simply a matter of being able to purchase any LP or tape that was available then. It was the place to see and be seen.
(Top row, left to right: Tim Timberlake, Ric Burnett, Al Compton. Bottom row, left to right: Bob Sturgess, Marty Feldman, Darlene Starr, Jeff Cochran, Donnie Graves, circa 1976. Photo by Diana Desern.)
Relationships and marriages were born, as well as divorces, at Peaches. The late night crowd gathered on the weekends, before or after an evening at Harrison’s or Vittorio’s. Our customers included Lester Maddox, Cicely Tyson, Lou Reed and Maynard Jackson. To paraphrase The Beatles, a splendid time was had by all.
Then there was the collection of handprints and footprints, ala Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The prints were placed alongside our building. People lingered over the collection that included Paul McCartney, Willie Nelson, James Brown, The Beach Boys, The Allman Brothers Band, The O’Jays, Robert Shaw, Dolly Parton, The Isley Brothers and some two dozen more. It was a great place to be and a fun place to work, but not always.
It became clear that the joy of getting a job in the record business was negated somewhat by the music that was dominant at the time. As the great Atlanta musician and humorist, Darryl Rhoades declared, it was a time of Olivia Elton John Denver. Elton had given us a lot of great music but he would soon be releasing a single with Kiki Dee (“Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”). That was pretty bad. Then there was the disco insurgency.
But John Denver. Supposedly he had been a true folkie who scored a few hits yet still made decent albums. But then he got big. Real big. He received acclamation and love from millions of record-buying Americans who adored his melodious tidings celebrating the wonders of nature. His anthems to the natural environment were accompanied by mammoth string arrangements. It was too much. But he was selling a lot of records. Lots, as in millions. We were retailers and we played a part in the movement of Denver’s work.
It was decided to build a mountain in the store in which to display Denver’s latest album, Windsong. The store’s talented artist, John Campbell, constructed a mountain of plaster and chicken wire or similar materials. It dominated prime display space. Denver’s record label, RCA, was pleased with the mountain. So were the employees since it provided us another place to lean against when we should have been waiting on customers.
On a pleasant autumn evening, things were proceeding smoothly enough. Business was good. For the most part, the store was running itself. No worries until a cashier called me and a manager to the front. A gentleman making some purchases was trying to take his LPs home via a stolen credit card. The man bolted and ran up Peachtree. For some reason, a few of us chased him although he had nothing in his possession. Situations like these now give pause to those who have sons in their early twenties.
We chased the guy down and brought him back to the store. Our security guard, no more imposing than Deputy Dawg, accompanied us and the perp back to the office area where he would be held until the police arrived. The drama would soon be over.
But then as the guard struggled to find the right key, the perp grabbed Deputy Dawg’s gun and pulled it on me and the manager. He’s going to shoot us over the credit card? Let’s give it back to him. Don’t leave here without it. But all of a sudden, he became distracted with something near the warehouse door. At that moment, the manager and I ran back into the store. Where would we hide? Oh, take us home country roads. Take us to the John Denver Mountain where we belong. Immediately afterward, the guy looked around for us but did not think about us hiding behind a silly mountain of plaster and chicken wire. So, with his pistol, holding it as calmly as he would a cassette tape, he walked out of the store.
The perp was caught less than two hours later. Even then, the Atlanta Police Department was serving and protecting, but offering no protection as secure as that mountain.