DISGRACELAND - Van Morrison: Astral Weeks, Movement and Murder

Episode Date: April 3, 2018

In 1968, Van Morrison was hiding out from the New York City Mafia in Boston, Massachusetts. Recently the victim of a physical attack from a Genovese crime family member, Morrison was desperately trying to piece together a band to complete what would become his landmark creative statement, Astral Weeks. One of the musicians who would help him achieve this goal—a young, handsome guitar player from Emerson College named Rick Philp—would mysteriously go missing and eventually wind up dead. Disgraceland pieces together this story using, as one of many sources, the critically acclaimed book Astral Weeks: A Secret History of 1968 by Ryan Walsh. This episode was originally published on April 3, 2018. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTokSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Just like great shoes, great books take you places. Through unforgettable love stories and into conversations with characters you'll never forget.

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The story about Van Morrison's time spent in Cambridge, Massachusetts is kind of crazy. He was hiding out from the New York City Mafia. Recently, the victim of a physical attack from a Genovese crime family member and starving and desperately trying to keep his career together. He was playing in a band with a young, talented Emerson College student who would wind up beaten to death in a Beacon Street apartment in a matter of months. Van Morrison was ornery, broke, and reclusive, despite early success. First, with a seminal rhythm and blues-inspired garage rock outfit, them, and later, with a smash solo hit, Brown-eyed Girl. For Van, though, it wasn't enough. He wanted more. More great music. That music you heard at the top of the show,

That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Church Organ Low, MK1. I pled you that loop because I can't afford the license for Hey Jude by the Beatles. And why would I play you that specific slice of anthemic mac of cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America

on November 1st, 1968, and that was the day that George Ivan Morrison a.k.a. Van Morrison, aka Van the Man, would release Astral Weeks, his second solo album, an album that defined grace and beauty, but is underpinned by desperation.

On this episode, Lod Church organs, anthemic Maca Cheese, Astral Weeks, Van Morrison's time in Cambridge Mass and a dead guitar player. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland.

Finding a musician is easy. Holding on to one is a different story entirely. Musicians are transient. They come and they go. We move through our daily lives, and every couple of months or so, one of our favorite musical artists blows through town for a show.

We fork over our hard-earned cash, and if we're lucky, the artist is worth it, and the show is transcendent, and we get swept away, and are given a respite from our otherwise very unrock star our lives. Then, after the obligatory encore or two, poof, a small army of hardworking roadies and fast-talking handlers are thrust into motion to quickly move the musician from our town to someone else's. And musicians not only move from town to town, they move from gig to gig,

from band to band, from opportunity to opportunity, in and out of people's lives, from one lover to another, from party to party, drug to drug, in and then out of rehab, there, then gone again. Us civilians, our lives are sedentary by comparison. But for musicians, the rest of the world comes and goes, as do all of the people in it. Few albums convey this sense of transience with as much grace as Van Morrison's landmark long player Astro Weeks. The lyrics are poetic, more. melancholic, and in constant struggle with an unwelcome inertia. Astral Weeks is about coming and going, about being stuck, and with any luck, maybe being reborn.

In every note from the sweeping strings to the chugging acoustic guitars and heavy-hearted flutes, you feel a sense of trying to get somewhere, a sense of movement. And Van Morrison, who wrote the record, was at the time, anything but moving. He was stuck, a five-foot-five-inch, chubby, sullen, wildly talented

and inspired and movable object, hiding out from the New York City Mafia in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Starving and desperately trying to piece together the makings of a band to get Astro Weeks out of his head and onto tape and yes, to get his career moving again.

New York City was tough on Van Marr. Despite the success of his first band, Them, and their anthemic hit, G-L-O-R-I-A, Gloria, the blue-eyed Irish soul singer was broke, but bursting at the seams with talent and vision. Van's plan was to bust through the silly haze of the Summer of Love as a serious solo artist. His old-school producer, Bert Burns, mobbed up and money-hungry, had other plans and miscast Van as a psychic. Akeedlic novelty act. A move that in Van's eyes threatened to derail the second act of his career before it even got started. So Van attempted to negotiate a release from the draconian contract that bound him.

He wound up having his guitar smashed over his head by a Genevese family thug. New York City was dead to him. Or if he stayed, would likely be the reason he would wind up dead. New digs were in demand, so it was off to King. Cambridge with its flourishing folk scene, rich pool of talented young musicians, and its underground radio station and alternative weekly newspaper across the river in Boston. Yeah, Cambridge would do just fine, for a time anyway. The move was about getting his career moving again, not just ducking the mob.

And one of the people who would help him find his way, a young, gifted, handsome guitar player would mysteriously disappear from Van's life. just as quickly as he'd arrived. But it wasn't career opportunities or drugs or alcohol that would move the musician out of Van's world with shockingly quick transience. It was a violent beating, inflicted upon him via savage blows to the head with the wooden spindle

from a broken banister. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And Rule 2, never mess with her friends either. We always say that, trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man.

A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care, so they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the IHart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever, my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary.

I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance. Like he's about to attack me. Like making karate noises. And his entire the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going. And the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. And I immediately know that I've been a sleepwalk. David O'Yellowo.

I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion. or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kimman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that.

Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena, Monjeu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea, on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. All I know is that his name was Rick. He had worked with the Monkeys.

And a few weeks after our first show, after Astro Weeks was released, he was murdered. That's Van Morrison's Boston-based bass player at the time, Tom Kilbania, talking about Rick Filp, the guitar player in the first band Van had put together to woodshed the songs that would eventually become Astero. weeks. In 1967, when Rick Phelp arrived in Boston to attend Emerson College, the music industry had already chewed him up and spit him out. But Rick, apparently a glutton for punishment, made himself available for gigs nonetheless. Rick's previous band, Middle Class, from his hometown of Berkeley Heights, New Jersey, was a pet project of songwriting power couple Carol King

mean Jerry Goughin, who had taken the band under their tutelage and signed them to their record label, Tomorrow Records. That's how the monkey's gig happened, but otherwise, the band went nowhere. They had a regional following in some good press, but in the grand scheme of things, Rick Phillips band, middle class, was a bust. I mean, they were good for sure, but you know the When your parents are up your butt about how the whole quote-unquote music thing is going. How many times could Rick answer with something like, pretty good, you know, we just had a great gig at Summit High School last month. This crazy band called Velvet Underground opened up for us. I know they're really going places and, you know, Carrowell is going to get this new distribution

deal for the label. And even though her and Jerry are on the outs, I feel like there's some strong material coming our way, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. What your parents heard was, my son is on a fast track to nowhere with this music thing. So the band broke up. But to keep his old man off of his back, Rick decided to head off to Boston to go to school. He quickly hooked up with Van Morrison, another young kind of sort of casualty of the music industry,

but one who wasn't equipped for or interested in resigning himself to study groups in campus sit-ins. For Van Morrison, school was out. No more teachers, more books, Van was searching, off on some other trip entirely. Playing with Van Morrison was no doubt a boost for Rick Filt. Van, his current situation notwithstanding, was a known quantity. Brown-eyed girl wasn't quite the ubiquitous classic we know it as today, but it was still a hit, and Rick knew he was potentially

into something good. And he and Van hit it off personally. Van seemed to like him, which was saying something because the guy didn't really like anyone, or at least he seemed to not dislike him. They bonded the night Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. Watching the fallout and disbelief from Van's Cambridge Port apartment glued to the television, Van knew it then. Rick could hang and play. Rick was a good musical match for Van. Instinctually, Rick knew that his van was hunting for a sound to pin down. He'd be wise to not paint the surly. Trubador into a musical corner with his guitar playing. So Rick hung back and played around Vans phrasing

and afforded the singer the space to evolve the songs organically while he sorted Astero Weeks out in his head, in rehearsal, and on stage. For a time, it was all good. Then, in a flash, it wasn't. Rick's apartment mysteriously caught fire. Twice. Rick was fine. and so was his roommate, and possibly just as important, Rick's guitars were not damaged.

All that was lost were some of Rick's clothes and books, but two fires. Weird, right? Rick found it odd, but brushed it off. His roommate, Harvey Alter, didn't seem bothered in the least. Then Rick's guitars went missing, stolen right out from under him. Rick was devastated, having his guitar stolen, effectively losing extended. of himself was crushing, as it would be for any serious guitar player. His roommate had no idea where they went.

Nobody did. Rick's roommate Harvey was an odd dude. He and Rick had hooked up somehow at Emerson and lived in a little basement apartment on Beacon Street, just across the street from Boston Common. Surrounded by gaslit street lanterns with its beautiful public garden and picturesque frog pond, the entire neighborhood at the time screamed old-school romance. And romance was what Harvey had in mind, not for his girlfriend who was more of a beard,

but for his good-looking guitar-slinging roommate, Rick Philp. Harvey Alter was obsessed with Rick, and for whatever reason, Rick was blind to it. Harvey had a weird control over him, or at least he tried to exert some sort of control over him. He repeatedly attempted to sabotage Rick's relationship with his girlfriend Kathy, who was out of state away at school but frequently visited Rick at the apartment. And he insisted that when Kathy spent the night that she and Rick leave the bedroom door open

so Harvey would not feel left out. Controlling, sure, but dude was just fucking weird. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends.

I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends... Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by it. a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your

podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests, like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come off. to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. And my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb.

And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance. Like he's about to attack me. Like making karate noises. And his entire the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going. And the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and scream. I immediately know that I've been a sleepwalk. David O'Yellow. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts.

Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Madarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena Monsu. Camilla Morone,

Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Driving home after work one night, Harvey couldn't get his head around the issue of Rick and Kathy. Fucking Kathy. Always around. Was she moving to Boston to be with Rick or not?

Couldn't she take a hint? She wasn't welcome. Harvey hated her, and deep down, he knew Rick did too. Rick was just too nice to bring himself to admit it. Rick. Rick was gorgeous and sweet and kind and talented. He loved Rick, and he knew Rick loved him back, even if Rick didn't know it yet.

Rick was going places. Carol King thought so. And this new gig Rick had with the angry little Irish guy with that song about the girl with the brown eyes, Shalati Da, Shalati Dam, this gig had. real potential. Yeah, Rick was going places. He was a mover, and he'd take Harvey with him. Harvey just knew it. Once upon a time, not so long ago, Harvey hadn't always been so convinced. That's why he took Rick's guitars. Fucking Rick. Did he really think he was going to travel the

world playing guitar without Harvey? Nah. If Harvey couldn't come, then Rick couldn't go either. Musicians, always coming and going. Who did they think they were anyway? But Harvey now knew that Rick wouldn't leave without him. Things were starting to come apart with Kathy, but still, Kathy kept coming back around, making a last-ditch effort to pin Rick down and boxing Harvey out. Fucking Kathy, Harvey had an idea.

Scare her away. But do it carefully, in a way that wouldn't come back on him and piss off Rick. Harvey couldn't just threaten her. That wouldn't work. He needed to be subtle. That's when the idea hit him. Earlier that night at work,

The deli boy in the kitchen nearly cut his finger off on the meat slicer. He'd been bumped into by a busboy, lost his footing, slipped, and his finger ventured into the area where the big rotating blade spun mercilessly. Blood splurted everywhere. Harvey couldn't help but wonder. What if the slip the deli boy took was a little more drastic? What if the bus boy knocked into the deli boy hard, causing him to buckle over? And what if the screw cap on that old rickety slicer's feed screw knocked loose?

Well then, at that point, the rotating blade would surely spin itself off its axle with the power of a tornado and hurl straight toward Kathy's neck, I mean the buckled over Deli Boy's neck, and then Kathy's head, I mean the deli boy's head, would, well, you get the picture. Harvey came home from work at the restaurant with a manic look in his eyes, barged into Rick and Kathy's bedroom and told them what he'd just witnessed. Kathy, you won't believe what I just saw. This deli boy at work, such a shit, really.

Always up in everybody's business. It's no wonder this happened. I mean, karma, right? Anyway, he was slicing meat on the meat cutter. You know the kind, right? The kind with the big, sharp, rotating blade. He slipped while using it because he wasn't careful probably minding someone else's business or something.

Anyway, he slipped, buckled over toward the machine. And at that same exact moment, you won't believe this. A screw from the machine came. came off and the blade rocketed off its axle and flew right through his neck. His head came clean off. Crazy, right? The blood. My God, the blood. You wouldn't believe it. Poor guy. I mean, he maybe had it come and no one liked him anyway. No one wanted him around. You know what I mean, right? He just couldn't take a hint. And now he's gone. For real. Real gone. Rick and Kathy were in shock. Kathy especially. They both knew Harvey was bullshitting them. And they both knew the story was meant

to intimidate Kathy. Rick wondered why Kathy didn't. She'd picked up on Harvey's fascination with Rick before and tried warning Rick off, but Rick, to this point anyway, was in denial. But this little tall tale changed things. Rick now thought that maybe those fires weren't an accident. All of a sudden, Harvey seemed to Rick to be well off his rocker. And what about his missing guitars? Did Harvey, the devious little prick, have something to do with that, too? Rick didn't know. But what he did know was that he needed to get away. from this dude. Shortly after, Rick moved out of his apartment with Harvey and into a place in Brighton with a couple friends from back home. Harvey was just too weird.

Safely ensconced in his new digs, Rick busied himself with his music. He was always writing, sending demos out to Carol King in L.A., recording with a new band. and he was pulling together, picking up side gigs with Tony Kinigliero's band, outfielder for the Boston Red Sox and legendary nightclub prowler, and of course, still lending his considerable talent to whatever it was that Van Morrison was cooking up in his head. Their new combo had a name, the Van Morrison Controversy. Rehearsals at the National Express Recording Studio at 304 Columbus Avenue in Boston's

South End were where the band would begin to hone the musical. identity for Astral Weeks. The neighborhood at the time was a mix of beauty and grit. Expansive brownstones and back alley cobblestones rubbed up against trash-strewn crime-ridden streets that in the daytime bustled with working-class Bostonians moving through their daily routines. Beauty, grit, movement, sentiments that would come to dominate the sound of Astral Weeks. The Van Morrison Controversy brought that sound to the stage on April 20th, 1968. The show was held on Boston Common, just across from the apartment Rick Philp had shared with Harvey Alter as part of a festival called Spring Sing,

with a bunch of other bands whose names sounded like they were invented inside a hippie-dippy-dippy-Madlib's cliche machine. Third World Raspberry, the Tangerine Zoo. You get the picture. There's a photo from that day of Rick on stage with Van. Looking at it, you get the vibe of the two men who are standing exactly where they're supposed to be, for a moment anyway. Van would keep searching for that sound,

and Rick would keep searching for those lost guitars. He'd all but given up until one day he got a call from Harvey. Harvey had told him that he had quote-unquote found Rick's guitars. Rick just needed to come by Harvey's apartment to get that. them. So on May 19, 1969, Rick Phelp descended the stairs to Harvey Altar's basement apartment at 233 Beacon Street and knocked on the door. Harvey answered excitedly, happy to see his old friend. Rick was in no mood. He was polite, but blunt. He wanted his guitarist. He didn't even care how Harvey had come upon them. He just wanted them back. Harvey dodged. He was making small talk,

acting as if nothing had changed between them since Rick moved out. How are things going? What's new with your music? How's school? That sort of thing. Rick kept to the point. Where are my guitars, Harvey? Harvey lit a joint, clearly stalling. Fine, Rick thought. I'll humor him. Things are good, Harvey. I'm thinking of leaving Boston over break. Kathy is going to be home from school and it'd be good to be with her for a while. Then, after that, who knows? L.A. maybe. Probably. Maybe New York. All Harvey heard was, I'm leaving Boston.

Harvey started whining to Rick. He couldn't leave. He just had to stay in Boston. They had so much to do together. They were just getting started. Rick, I'm in love with you. You know. Rick, of course, knew that despite the girlfriends, Harvey was gay. But Rick didn't care so long as he didn't come on to him. He politely let Harvey down, gently. But all Harvey heard was, I'm leaving Boston. I don't love him. I don't love him. You love you. I never loved you. Harvey moved closer to Rick and tried to pull him in. Forget the proclamations. Show him how much you love him. Rick pulled away. This just wasn't his thing. He protested. All Harvey heard was, I'm leaving Boston. I don't love you. I never loved you. You're gay. I'm not. Harvey wasn't taking no for an answer. Rick just needed to be shown how

good it could be between them. Now Rick up pissed and angrily pushed Harvey away, told him to leave him the alone and give him his guitars and he'd be out of there. But all Harvey heard was, I'm leaving Boston. I don't love you. I never loved you. You're gay. I'm not. Fuck off.

Harvey snapped. Fucking Rick. Who did he think he was? Did he think he could just leave? Just go and be with someone else? Move away? No. If Harvey couldn't have Rick, then nobody could have Rick.

Harvey grabbed him. A struggle ensued. Harvey threw Rick back into the short staircase. leading out of the apartment. His fall broke the banister on his way down. Rick clumsily tried getting to his feet. Harvey grabbed one of the banister spindles that had broken off. It was perfect, fit perfectly into his hand.

Rick was moving for the door. Harvey was blind with rage, outside of himself, off on some other trip entirely. Fear, shame, loneliness, and sexual excitement. All banged violently together inside Harvey's head, while Harvey violently brought the banister spindle banging down under Rick's head with brute force. When it was over, Harvey came too. What had he done? Rick was hurt, badly.

Harvey had it together enough to pull Rick into his bed and put him under the covers, but that was about it. For three and a half days while Rick lay mortally wounded in his bed, Harvey slowly lost his mind, pacing the apartment, taking turns, mumbling to himself and screaming in horror. Finally, Rick's head wounds, left untreated, proved to be too much, and the young musician with the bright future died. Dead or not, Harvey finally had his man. He'd stopped the young musician, Rick Philp, the object of his obsession from moving. No small feat, given that musicians

are like sharks, they stop moving and they die. Van Morrison knew this. You can hear it in every note of Astro Weeks. Van was searching on a quest, figuratively and literally. Moving on from the first phase of his career, moving on from one sound to the next, moving on from the musician he was to the musician he was to the man he was to become. Movement equals life, which is why Astral Weeks sounds so vibrant. There's transience and grace in every note. The album, is alive. Rick Philp is dead. When police finally showed up at Harvey Alter's apartment,

responding to a neighbor calling in what was described as disturbing sounds coming from the basement, Harvey answered the door and immediately told the police, he's dead. I killed him. I killed Rick. Rick Phelp moved in and then out of Van Morrison's life with the quickness, just as many people before and since have done. And Van Morrison keeps moving, just as musicians do. Making more records, playing more shows, doing what a musician does.

Astro Weeks would become Van Morrison's landmark creative statement. It is a masterpiece. Sure, it doesn't have the hits of some of Van's other works, but ask any musician about it, and they'll like you tell you that it's his best album. That is, if you can get one of them to stop moving long enough to talk to you. 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 disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland 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 Disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland 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 disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelandPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at DisgracelandPod. Rock a roll. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific colonel artist. They take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your

podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia a clerk. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. And my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yelloo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts.

Dennis Leary, Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things. Tena Monsu. Camilla Morone. Carrie Kenny Silver and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder.

If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.