Love Song

By 10 a.m., crowds had jammed every available inch in the old House caucus room. Motion-picture and television cameras stood tripod to tripod, electrical cables matted the floor like jungle vines. Both crowds and cameramen had come with a single purpose: to watch James Caesar Petrillo, the union boss of all U.S. musicians, dropped into the legislative meat grinder and publicly reduced to scrapple.

The House Education and Labor Committee was in a bitter and bilious mood. Its members had spent six days investigating Petrillo's practices. They had heard the big men of the record business deplore his record ban. They had listened while the big men of the radio networks denounced his ban on television and his refusal to let FM stations share standard musical broadcasts. But they had been unable to draw forth suggestions for punitive legislation. The big men wanted to negotiate with Petrillo, not demolish him. Somewhat frustrated, the G.O.P. committee members swore that they themselves would reduce Caesar to size.

Touch of Sadness. But both crowd and committee were slightly nonplussed when Petrillo sat down in the bright glare of the lights. He was dressed as quietly as a banker and he smiled a happy smile, like a man back at last among his dearest friends.

He immediately drew fire from New Jersey's redheaded Congressman Fred Hartley, committee chairman and coauthor of the Taft-Hartley Act. Hartley's voice trembled with outrage as he cried: "Do you know that the London Gramophone Corp. is flying records to the United States, and that it brought in twelve tons this week and that 250,000 more records are on the way? These British companies will make lots of "money. . . ."

Petrillo spoke quietly and with just a touch of sadness. "If they do, I hope they will treat their musicians a lot better than American companies treated our musicians."

After that Petrillo took over the hearing. At times he was a frankly bewildered man, asking the committee's advice and guidance. "Are we right, or are we wrong? We don't know. We have asked the industry what is the future of television. They tell me, 'Jim, we don't know.'"

Bit of Laughter. He was reassuring. He hinted strongly that he could reach a peaceful settlement in his present negotiations with the radio networks. FM? Television? He was "keeping an open mind on those questions." He made it plain that James Caesar Petrillo had a heart which beat for the public. He and his musicians were perfectly willing to make records for home phonographs; they refused only because 20% of the product was used by radio stations and jukeboxes without payment of royalties to the musician or the union.

At times, his answers set off uproarious waves of laughter. At one point he complained that musicians were too poor even to patronize the nightclubs in which they played. Illinois Republican Thomas L. Owens quoted back a statement of President Harry Truman's that everybody had a lot of spending money. Petrillo beamed. "I don't contradict the President," he said. "After all, as a piano player, he's a potential member of the union."

In two hours, the fascinated committee was gazing at Petrillo like high-school sophomores watching a juggling act. One member, Pennsylvania's Republican Congressman Carroll D. Kearns, a member of the union, suggested amending the Taft-Hartley Act to authorize royalties on records sold for commercial use. The hearing ended. Further hearings were postponed. Everyone--including James Caesar Petrillo--seemed very, very happy.

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