DISGRACELAND - Otis Redding: A Chitlin Circuit Shootout, a Fatal Plane Crash, and Crossing Over to the Other Side

Episode Date: March 14, 2023

Otis Redding was nearly shot by James Brown while performing at an after hours club. He played sweet soul music to crowds of KKK sympathizers. He took the stage in his hometown despite a threat on his life. But as the former VP of Stax Records once said, Otis was an overcomer. He overcame danger, violence, and fear, in order to focus his sights on unprecedented commercial success. But in his great quest to jump from R&B to pop, Otis Redding crossed over in more ways than one.For a full list of contributors, see the show notes at disgracelandpod.com.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Otis Redding are insane. He was nearly shot by James Brown while performing at an after-hours club. He played sweet soul music in frat houses full of KKK sympathizers, where one wrong move could cost him his life. He took the stage in his hometown, despite a threat to his life,

scared to death that he would be murdered in front of thousands. But Otis Redding was, to quote the former vice president of his record label, an overcomer. He overcame danger, violence, and fear in order to focus his sights on the top of the charts, and not just the R&B charts, the pop charts. He did this at a time of great social upheaval and change, and he did it with great music. Some of the most definitive music of the 1960s,

music that endures, satisfies, and still demands R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Interstitial Elevator M-K-1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to daydream believer by the monkeys. And why would I play you that specific slice of sleepy gene cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 10, 1967. And that was the day that Otis Redding's Beach 18 airplane crashed into the frigid waters of Wisconsin's Lake Manona, before he was able to reach his destination and realize his dreams.

On this episode, a James Brown shootout, a fatal plane crash, Sleepy Gene Cheese, and Otis Redding. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Johnny Yase spun the cylinder of his 22 revolver and then snapped it shut with a flick of his wrist. He cocked the hammer and pointed the barrel at one of the women standing around backstage. He pulled the trigger, and the hammer went click. The woman jumped, and the small crowd backstage screamed. Johnny laughed.

The revolver wasn't loaded. The thing didn't shoot. Here, Johnny said. Watch. Johnny opened the cylinder again, spun it, snapped it closed, cocked the hammer, and this time shoved the barrel against the temple of his girlfriend who was sitting in his lap. He pulled the trigger, the hammer clicked. No bullet. The people in the room screamed, and once again, Johnny laughed. Like many young singers who suddenly find themselves famous, Johnny Ace wasn't exactly sure how to

deal with it all. He had a number one record on the R&B chart. It wasn't a crossover hit, But few, if any, black artists playing the Chitland Circuit in 1954 could brag about white audiences and pop charts. The Chitland Circuit was a string of black-owned nightclubs that existed outside the white mainstream and outside the law. The circuit wasn't just music. The circuit was dice games. The circuit was bootleg liquor. The circuit was the big wheel in the back room spinning three-cent bets, odds 200 to 1. The ubiquitous numbers game, aka the bug, as an I caught the numbers bug,

was catching the bug better or worse than getting caught by a switchblade or a signer. Either way, the white cops and politicians looked the other way as long as they got their piece. As a performer, you learned how to navigate it all. The vice, the crime, the things you had to do to survive. But navigating fame, that wasn't so easy. Getting drunk helped, getting laid was better, but a superstitious ritual with a revolver seemed to help Johnny Ace most of all. It was nearly midnight on Christmas Day.

Break time was over. Johnny was needed back on the bandstand. The show must go on. But before we returned to the stage, Johnny had time for one last run through his party trick. He picked up the 22, spun it, snapped it, cocked it. Then he pressed the barrel tight. against his head, and he pulled the trigger.

The bullet exploded from the 22's chamber and entered Johnny's head. Blood painted the walls in the floor of the small room. Johnny Yase fell to the floor, dead. Maybe Johnny forgot that he put a bullet in the chamber. Or maybe he knew it was there. Or maybe, as one story went, the self-inflicted fatal shot was a scheme cooked up by his record label boss, who took unlikely inspiration from Hank Williams,

dead for about two years now. yet more alive than ever on the country charts. And if that scheme is to be believed, it worked. Because in death, Johnny Ace crossed over, not just to the other side of this mortal coil, but to the other side of the racial divide on the billboard charts. One month after shooting himself dead, Johnny didn't just hold the number one spot on the R&B charts.

He cracked the top 20 on the pop charts. The Chitland Circuit didn't stop to mourn the death of one of its own. There were wheels to spin. bets to place, bugs to catch, and there was music to make. So the circuit kept moving. From Houston over to Macon, Georgia, where in the early 1960s, a young Otis Redding, barely out of his teens and his band, the Pine Toppers, were playing a late show at a juke joint called Club 15.

Otis was the band's singer, but he wasn't the star. Johnny Jenkins, the guitar player, all eyes were on him. He had flash, he had style, he moved when he played. Otis, on the other hand, he moved about as much as a plate of Chitland's. Otis was awkward, uncomfortable. It wasn't smooth. He sounded like a Sam Cookeuk knockoff one minute and a little Richard wannabe the next. And he had this weird quaver in his voice.

You really heard it when he sang ballads. Sad sack ballads. Real woes me shit. The way he looked, how he sounded, the songs he sang. When you added it all up, Otis' writing was just pitiful. So pitiful that it became his good. calling card. A DJ in Memphis called him Mr. Pitiful and the nickname stuck. But Otis wasn't going to be just some DJ's punchline. He was determined. He was committed. He was an overcomer.

He knew what to take feedback and use it to get better. Use it to sound not like Sam Cook or Little Richard, but like Otis Redding. And not by turning his back on Mr. Pitiful, but by using Mr. pitiful to his advantage. Maybe then he could get a taste of life beyond the Chitland Circuit out there in the unknown, the big stages, the white stages, the places guys like Johnny Ace never got to see. Otis Redding had no doubt he could be huge. Tonight, however, Otis and the pine-toppers were far from the biggest thing in Macon, let alone the entire country. Tonight, George's own James Brown was performing at the City Auditorium. Though his hometown was two hours away in Augusta, James was loved by Macon like he was their own. But James didn't love the show. Joe Tex was his

opening act and James had history with Joe, a history of answer songs and beef records completely driven by ego and pride. And during his opening set, Joe had the balls to parody James Brown's famous cape routine in James Brown's home state. So James Brown lost his shit. After the show, James followed Joe over to Club 15, where Otis and the Pine Toppers were in the middle of their set. James Brown didn't give a shit about Otis Redding's music. James Brown was on a mission. He walked into the juke joint carrying not one, but two, shotguns. And James Brown didn't walk around with zero bullets in the chamber like Johnny Ace. James Brown's shotguns were locked and loaded.

The pine-toppers didn't hear the first few shots over the music, but the way the crowd was starting to scurry told him something wasn't right. The band stopped playing. The audience was frantic. They were screaming, hiding under tables and running for the door. Then Otis heard it. The sound of Mr. Dynamite shotgun firing into a mass of people. There was a flash and a bang and then smoke and chaos.

Someone was hit by a shell and fell to the hardwood floor. James Brown reloaded. Fuck that Joe Tex, motherfucker. He fired again. Otis Redding shuddered. Another innocent bystander whose name was not Joe Tex was hit by a spray of shells. Now there was blood all over the hardwood floor. Otis panicked.

He was seconds away from becoming collateral damage. He took cover. Mr. Pitiful hid behind the drum set. This was some bullshit. All that time, Oda spent working dead-end jobs here at Macon, pumping gas and digging wells to finally make it to the stage of a juke joint club, to have his name out there, only to have it all in now. Like this. Now that.

James Brown soon ran out of ammo, or energy, or maybe he just gave up once he realized that Joe Tex had made us escape. Unlike the six or seven people who were shot that night, Joe Tex got lucky. And so did Otis Redding. But you can't live life on luck alone. Otis Redding knew this. You have to make your own luck in the world, especially grinding it out in the Chitlin circuit, where bad luck was just a toss of the dice away.

Otis wasn't gambling. Otis was betting, betting on himself. He was determined to make it. He was committed to make it. was committed. Otis Redding was an overcomer. The show was scripted. They all were. First, you come out blazing, sweaty, high-octane R&B. You get the crowd in the palm of your hand. You can tell you got them, by the way, they're drunkenly bouncing along to the beat, even if they are clapping on the one in the three instead of the two and the four.

They take swigs of old Milwaukee and foul stuff from pulled top cans. They think it can't get any crazier, so you make them think that they're right. bring things down. The chicks eat that ballad shit up. Mr. Pitiful? Who the fuck is that guy? The only guy feeling pitiful is the one who isn't you up on stage with that microphone in your hand. But you don't care about that guy or any guys, for that matter. It's the women you got to worry about. They look at you with lust in their eyes. Like the mic you're holding in your hand isn't a mic, but something else. And then, just as the women are fantasizing about you and your big microphone, You rev things back up, way up, even higher than the beginning of the show.

You leave them stunned. You leave them with what they wanted, but still wanting more. The dynamic shifts and notice writing's evolving stage show in the mid-1960s allowed him to own that unshakable nickname on his own terms, but also step outside of it. Shit, even had a song now called Mr. Pitiful. He was soft and hard. His true voice was emerging. his confidence was building.

And as Otis began to perform not just on the Chitland circuit, but at college frat house parties, visions of crossing over to the pop charts danced in his head. Not that it would be that easy. At one point, Otis's guitar player fell to the floor, as if the music forced him there. It was meant to look like a spontaneous move, but like the rest of his performance, it was 100% scripted.

The girl was not. She came from the audience of college kids and jumped to the stage, straddling the guitar play. player from above. She tossed her hair, she grinded her body, she spread her legs wide. Her short dress hung just inches from the guitar player's face. From where he laid on his back, the guitar slipped up into the dress to what was underneath him. His eyes went wide. Otis's eyes went wide, too, but not because he was getting a glimpse up some chick's skirt, because that girl on stage, the one straddling Otis's guitar player, was white. Look around. A frat house full of white kids.

Otis and his band were the only black people in the room. The college kids were rowdy, and they were horny. At any moment, however, that youthful energy could sour. All it took was one wrong move, one misstep. All it took was for one white boy in the crowd to misinterpret whatever it was that white girl was doing on stage, and then suddenly Otis Redding would be playing not just for drunk coeds. He'd be playing for his life. Playing white colleges in the south was good for expanding your reach beyond the Chitland Circuit

and necessary if you were going to cross over on the top. charts, but it brought its own set of challenges. That white girl wouldn't get in trouble for doing what she did. The black musician would. Then Otis and the rest of the band would too, guilty by association and guilty by the color of their skin, even though they didn't do a damn thing wrong besides play the music that everyone in the room wanted to hear. Otis and his band breathed the collective sigh of relief when that night's unscripted incident didn't escalate. They packed up their gear as quickly as they could. They got paid, or maybe they didn't. Honestly, it didn't matter. Otis just wanted to get the fuck out of there before his luck really ran out. As he walked to the

front door to leave, Otis spotted three key racks mounted on the wall. Each rack was a letter. Those letters weren't meant to just hang keys. They inspired some sort of fucked up pride to those who lived there. And to the guests, who looked like Otis Redding, those letters sent a message. The message said, K-K, such was the bullshit reality of the segregated south in the mid-1960s. But that's not how it was at Stax. Stacks Records, aka Soulsville, USA, aka the grits to Boutown's gravy, Stax was Otis' new home.

Stax wasn't just a place for some of the best soul music in America was being made. Stax was an idealistic vision of what America could be. That vision was written, recorded, and released not only on Stax's 45s, but via its subsidiary label, Volt Records, as well as Atlantic Records, the larger label Stacks had a distribution deal with. Booker T and the MGs, Stacks House Band, consisted of two black players, Booker T on Oregon and Al Jackson Jr. on drums, and two white players, Steve Cropper on guitar and Donald Duck Dunn on bass, one of the first racially integrated bands in the country, and arguably one of the best bands. Period. Perhaps only the Funk Brothers over in Detroit could challenge the MGs for that title, but unlike Motown, the sound of Stax was sparse, was lean. Stax just needed a star. The origin story about the union of Otis and Staxx has been distorted into legend over the years. No, there was not a studio full of witnesses who saw God or saw the future of rock and roll

at Otis's debut Stack session. If anything, Otis was underseen the first time he sang into a microphone at 926 East McLemore Avenue. What is true is that Otis made the trek from Macon to Memphis to show for his friend and fellow pine-toper guitarist Johnny Jenkins to his own session. Booker T and the MGs thought Otis was just a valet. Jim Stewart, Stacks his co-owner and producer running the session, was convinced to let Otis have a go at recording when he found out that he did more than drive. But the MGs weren't in the mood.

Backing up some country bumpkin and overalls, Otis, Who? Booker T had better shit to do. Booker T bounced. Those who did remain at the session for these arms of mine have conflicting memories of what went down. Jim Stewart heard that trademark quaver in Otis's voice and thought he was just some 21-year-old kid in way over his head. Stewart later admitted that the brilliance of Otis Redding went completely over his head that day. Steve Cropper, on the other hand, who wound up playing piano on the session in Booker T's absent said, the cat sang about two lines and the hairs on the back of his neck shot up. He could tell he was in the presence of something special. Lord have mercy. When these arms of mind

was released in the fall of 1962, it made it to number 20 on the Billboard R&B chart. It was just the start. Everyone at Stacks and everyone in Otis's life, including his proud wife, Zelma, watched Otis's talent and star power blossom right before their eyes. His songs got stronger and the chart positions got higher, music consumed him. He listened, he wrote. He dictated horn lines to the session players. He thought and spoke with music. And the hits kept coming.

That's how strong my love is, and I've been loving you too long. Worked the Mr. Pitiful angle. I can't turn you loose and respect showed the other side of Otis, the high octane side. Before Aretha Franklin turned respect into a feminist anthem for the ages, Otis took his original composition to number four on the R&B chart. It was the same spot he hit with his own masterful cover of the Rolling Stones as I can't get no satisfaction, so masterful that some listeners thought that Otis's version was the original,

not the other way around. Stacks made Otis and Otis made stacks. But Otis's virgining success didn't exactly make him feel safe. Touring the Chitland in college circuits, touring in the American South, didn't matter if you were a Johnny, come lately, her stacks as prize recording artists, he traveled with protection, maybe a 38 stuffed into your waistband, hidden under your jacket. Otis carried. Otis's manager carried. Everyone carried. But just because you had a pistol crammed inside your clothes didn't mean you were

safe from harm. In 1964, back in Macon for his own homecoming show, Otis's blood ran cold as he prepared to take the stage. There had been a bomb threat, and that got Otis's mind turning. What if someone was out there? Not James Brown and not some racist frat boy, but a serious guy with a serious gun. At 6-1, Otis made an easy target. He put his foot on the first step leading up to the stage where his band waited for him to join.

He took a deep breath. This was supposed to be a night celebrating Otis' climb to the top, but he feared he'd stumbled before he even reached that goal. It was moments like this that made Otis Redding wonder if he'd ever be ready. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Bill Graham was tearing ass down Gary Boulevard with a bag of ice in his hands. He was winded by the time he got back to the Fillmore Auditorium.

The Fillmore was San Francisco's premier venue for live music. The Fillmore was where the airplane, the dead, and Big Brother turned everyone on. But tonight, the Fillmore's ice machine wouldn't turn on, no matter what. And Bill Graham, Philmore's proprietor, wasn't about to let down. on his guest of honor. Otis Redding wanted ice. Otis Redding was getting ice. It was December 20th, 1966. Otis was just back from a tour of Europe where all you got was a funny look if you asked for some ice in your glass. And now, after killing it, and I mean killing it on stage at the film war, all Otis wanted was to quench his thirst with a glass of seven up with ice. It was night

one of a three-night run. Bill Graham, like everyone else in the audience, was still in awe. Otis was the real thing. He was the guy. Jerry knew it. Janice knew it. They all told Bill, he got to book Otis Redding. It was one thing to know that Otis was the guy or to hear him on record. There was another thing entirely to see him, to experience him happening in front of you. Because that's what Otis' three-night stand at the film war was, a happening. Dressed in a green suit, shirt, yellow tie with a keychain dangling from his belt. Otis didn't look like a Bay Area hippie, but he socked it to them. He socked it to them hard. And they felt it. Every note, every strut, every expression of pain and longing and sexual desire, every fa, fa, fa, fa, fa, fa,

five, fa, fa, fa, fa, women, black and white, couldn't take their eyes off him. He did something to them. They felt a shiver run down their backs and up their legs, and their knees went weak. They blushed. hell do you think they called him the big O'O anyway? Writing in the local paper, Ralph Gleason said Otis was quote-unquote, pure sex, the way he walked, the way he danced, the way he sang, all of it.

Pure sex. That was hard to deny, almost as hard as it was to believe, that the guy they used to call Mr. Pitiful had made his way out west to where it was all happening, where minds were expanding, and he was laying this trip on everyone. But Otis didn't feel out of place.

He was in the right place. just like he'd been in the right place when he first arrived at Stax in Memphis. In San Francisco, Otis Redding was surrounded by people who would do anything if it helped get him where he wanted to go. Otis held the glass of seven up with ice in his big hand. He gave Graham a look of humble disbelief. You went all the way down the street for ice for me? He asked.

Yeah, Bill said. So what? Let me tell you something, man, Otis said. When I play this town from now on, I play it for you. You. It wasn't just America that fell under Otis' spell. The spring, 1967, Stax Vault Review that toured Europe was the ticket to get. It was a smorgasbord for fans of American soul music. Booker T and the M.G.'s sauteing those green onions.

Arthur Conley with that sweet soul music. Eddie Floyd knocking on wood. Carla Thompson, G. Whiz, and hold on, man, Sam and Dave are coming. Otis Redding, of course. He came last. closing out each night with a performance that managed to be a hundred times more frenetic than the records never were. The tour was major headline material in every publication. Melodymaker called it the rave show to end them all. The Beatles sent limos to pick up Otis and the stacks crew at the airport.

The fans went buck wild. They clamored for autographs. They treated Otis like royalty, and they treated them like an equal, too. Europe wasn't segregated the way America was. Europe gave Otis perspective, gave him confidence, gave him confidence. It helped him realize that the world was bigger than he had ever imagined. And if the world was bigger, then Otis could be bigger too. And if Otis Redding had the potential to be bigger, he could do anything.

He could even cross over. You don't cross over in a bus. You cross over in a plane. You cut across the horizon. You ascend. You split the clouds in half. You open up the sky. And then you come back down again like a big bird sending down its wings.

When the plane carrying the Staxvolt Review Tour landed back in the States, Otis Redding stepped onto American soil with that superstar feeling intact. Didn't matter that the U.S. hadn't caught up to Europe yet. They'd get there. San Francisco and the film war were just the start. Otis was empowered. He was no longer the guy cowering behind a drum set while James Brown shot up a Chitland Circuit Club. Otis was on the level with guys like James Brown.

They were peers, equals. So Otis did what guys like James Brown did. He bought a plane. A Beachcraft Model 18, a twin engine model that was big enough to carry his entire band. In fact, the Beach 18 was the exact same kind of plane that James Brown himself used to own. It was good enough for the hardest working man in show business. It was good enough for Otis. As it turns out, however, the Beach 18 wasn't good enough for James Brown.

and James didn't think it was good enough for Otis either. Look, James told Otis, he shouldn't be fucking with no BJ team. The plane wasn't as big as it looked. It wasn't strong enough to carry all those musicians and their equipment. James told Otis this. That plane was not a sure bet. It was a gamble. Otis didn't heed the warning.

He did his due diligence. He made his decision. He even had a great new press photo taken in front of it, holding an acoustic guitar in his hand. He was determined, committed. It wasn't nothing that was too hard to handle. If a problem arose, he'd overcome it. J.B. could chill.

The price was right, so the size was right. The beach 18 was Otis's plane. The plane was still new to Otis on Sunday, December 10th, 1967, when he and the barcais, the stack session players who had only recently taken over from Booker T and the MGs, as Otis's backing band boarded it in Cleveland, bound for a gig in Madison, Wisconsin. Cleveland was cold and rainy.

Madison, on the other hand, was foggy and even colder, with temperatures hovering around the freezing mark. For nearly 400 miles, the clouds were thick. Visibility was low. But all things considered, the flight was normal. As the plane neared Madison, however, the clouds got thicker. And by the time the plane was above Lake Manona, due south of the airport, visibility had dwindled to nothing. The pilot prepared for landing. He tried to find the flashing lights of the runway, but couldn't see them through the air.

dense cloud cover. He pulled the lever to release the landing gear. The wheels came down with a loud thud. The plane jerked forward. The cabin shook violently. Otis felt his stomach lurch as the nose of the plane quickly spun, and the plane was now pointing directly toward the ground. Otis thought about how earlier, before boarding, they'd been told by a mechanic that the plane's battery was low. Otis asked the pilot if the battery concerned him, if the beach could make the 400-mile run. The pilot was confident they'd be okay. And let's go, Otis said. This, though, was not okay.

It felt like the front end of the plane was being sucked down towards the lake by a giant magnet. As it fell faster and faster, the plane began to roll to the left, and it rolled some more, and then it began to spin. Otis couldn't breathe. Everything was moving way too fast. But within seconds, the Beach 18 shot out from a thick cloud cover, spinning and diving downward and slammed into the surface of Lake Manona. The water was freezing.

The plane burst into pieces, and Otis Redding was sinking. But that didn't mean he was no longer ascending. Less than six months before his plane crashed into Lake Manona, Otis Redding performed a concert that would prove to be a pivotal moment in his career. It only took five songs on a Monterey stage to get him in with the in crowd. The love crowd. The performance found Otis once again, not gambling, but betting.

Betting on himself. And this bet, like so many of his others, not only worked, it worked despite the fact that it was done completely ass-backwards from the way he usually did these things. performing was Otis's job. Otis got paid to sing. But on June 17, 1967, Otis Redding performed for a crowd of over 8,000 people for free. The Monterey Pop Festival in Monterey, California,

wasn't unlike the Chitland Circuit in that both places introduced some of the most important rock and R&B musicians of the 20th century to a new audience. Both were also hotbeds of illegal activity. But instead of dice games, bootleg booze and dramatic shootouts, Monterey had marijuana, LSD, and violent acts committed against guitars. The biggest difference, of course, was the audience. The crowd at Monterey Pop was mostly white,

and they were all looking for the next big thing. It was like the film war to the highest power. It was just the boost Otis Redding needed to cross over from R&B to pop, and dominate not just one segment of the charts, but the whole damn thing. Otis knew the sacrifice he was making. He knew that foregoing a paycheck to play for one of the biggest audiences of his career to date would pay dividends. He told his wife Zelma that Monterey was going to lift him higher, that a breakthrough was imminent, that a change was going to come. He could feel it. Part of the change was already there.

It was a new material like sitting on the dock of the bay. The introspective song Otis co-wrote with Steve Cropper, a song that was more pop than soul, a song that took heavy inspiration from A Day in the Life, the final track on the Beatles' brand new identity-bending opus Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club band. It didn't sound like anything he'd done before. It sounded so different that some, like Zelma, straight up, didn't like it. But Steve Cropper thought it was the best thing Otis had ever cut.

Steve and Otis could feel it. The dock of the bay was going to take Otis to places he'd never been. Otis Redding crossed over. Twice. He crossed over when, sitting on the dock of the bay was released as a single in January 1968. The song went straight to number one on both the Aram Beach chart and the Billboard Hot 100, where it remained the nation's top pop song for four straight weeks. But that was about a month after the first time Otis

crossed over when his Beach 18 twin engine crashed into the icy waters of Lake Manona, killing him and seven others. At that moment, Otis running crossed over. from this world to the next. Just 26 years old, deprived of witnessing his greatest achievement. One of the greatest achievements made by a singer in the 1960s, or in any decade for that matter. Such a disgrace.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at Disgraceland Podcast. If you're listening as a disgrace land all-access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelampod.com

slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of disgrace land ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com slash membership. for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelamPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at disgraceland pod. Rockerola.