Art Fein’s Poker Party

NO ROOM FOR SQUARES
by Skip Heller

Art Fein was one of my closest friends from the time we first met in 1998. I had been a fan of him since I read his LA Musical History Tour book in 1993, when I was still living in West Philadelphia. Through my tremendous luck, we immediately became brothers. He died this summer (2025), and I was asked to give his eulogy. It was difficult for several reasons, not the least of which being how not to make it all about me, as he and I had been so close for so long and some of the most important things about my life had come of our friendship. So the stories that I tell about Art when I’m asked about him directly by a person sitting across the table from me, I left those out. I addressed a room full of people, most of whom had known him at least as long as I had, and it was palpable that everyone in attendance had been impacted in the best way by his generosity at least as much as I had. Because he was so important to me, I’m starting my Substack posts by giving it up to him.

Well, here we are. That I have been specifically asked to speak on this occasion is as terrible an honor as I can name. Art was an incredible person, equal parts the great historian Barbara Tuchman and Broadway Danny Rose. My first few years in Los Angeles would have been very different without him. I would have starved to death, for starters. Art, Ray Campi, and Dave Alvin likely convened secretly to make sure I ate daily. Through the kindness of those three and a few other extremely generous souls, I learned how to make my life here.

Even before I arrived in ‘95, I knew of Art, because of his involvement with the Blasters, his great liner notes, the landmark LA Rockabilly album, and above all his LA Musical History Tour book, which I bought in West Philadelphia. I reread it until I could quote it at length. It was an absolutely great rock’n’roll book: the historianship was flawless, and the writing was clear, sparkling, deeply felt, warmly funny and self-effacing, just like its author, as I would come to know. I had no clue that I’d contribute – credited, I might add – to the second edition, which meant more to me than I can ever tell you. I couldn’t be more proud if I had worked on The Powerbroker. And for all of Art’s achievements – as a promoter of live music, TV host, historian, band manager, it is my opinion that his greatness most brightly shows itself in Art Fein The Writer. His actual vocation was journalism. He read widely – Caro, McWilliams, Perelman and a thousand others whose names escape me. He internalized his influences, and combined them with humor, love, and insider knowledge. The only thing he did better than writing was friendship.

So the first time I met Art – at a birthday party for Jennifer at a Middle Eastern Restaurant – I told him I was a huge fan. He called bullshit. I pointed at him and said, “Don’t show up. Send a tape”, quoting a line that pops up throughout the LA book. He laughed out loud, and we spent the night bonding. Two days later, he invited me to the apartment where he, Jennifer, and Jessie lived, and I got the full Art Fein treatment. He showed me all this video I read about but had never seen – the famous Sister Rosetta Tharpe clip of “Up Above My Head”, Louis Jordan on the Steve Allen Show featuring my late friend Bert Payne on guitar, Gatortail Jackson on the Nat Cole show – just an incredible library. My head was spinning.

See, before YouTube, people traded for grainy VHS tapes of this sacred stuff. The further you lived from the Pasadena swap, the more you had to offer in trade. Ask Dominic Priore – the Beach Boys fans were the most usurious tape traders. But Art not only had the sacred stuff, he gave you copies of it. And he made hundreds of mixtapes for his friends. As we all know, every year, in planning the annual Elvis Birthday Bash he donated a month of intense labor, completely on the house. He said yes to everyone. It didn’t matter if you were Joe Schmo and KitKats from Rancho Cucamonga or an established professional like [James]Intveld. Art – and Ronnie Mack – had no velvet rope, just a red carpet, and everyone was allowed.

He was selfless. If he knew about something – whether a great record, restaurant, used book store, movie – he shared it enthusiastically. And of course, that generosity was at the root of his most sustained achievement: Art Fein’s Poker Party. He interviewed hundreds of formidable people – everyone from Dion to the members of the Circle Jerks to Huggy Boy to Dave & Deke. That show was a narrative that delved into technological, social, and artistic evolution in popular music – and he invited us – his friends – and unselfishly gave spotlight to our knowledge and let us ask questions. Poker Party was a public document of our community. I mean, just as a way to trace Paul Body’s development as a fashion icon… It is a record of who we were, what we cared about, and the way we talked among ourselves. Make no mistake: Art was generally the smartest guy in the room – crossword puzzles in ink etc – who kept facts incredibly straight and recalled names and dates on demand. He didn’t need our help to interview these people. But he pulled us in and never pulled rank. He was gracious. I learned a lot from that.

Through him, I met people whose work influenced my outlook as I was coming up – the writers Gene Sculatti, Dick Blackburn, Joel Selvin, and Paul Krassner, groundbreaking audio engineers Stan Ross, Dave Gold, and Larry Levine, the incredible bassist and producer Cliffie Stone, of course Phil Spector, and – dearest to me – Dr Demento. For years, if Art was going somewhere interesting, he brought me. And as my modest professional fortunes improved over time – thank you Jennifer, I might add – he took pride in my progress, but never credit. If Art believed in you, he was your advocate. He tirelessly rooted for Paul Hampton, Chuck Weiss, Mighty Mo Rogers, the Sprague Brothers, the Heaters, of course the Blasters. And – make no mistake – his paragon was Swamp Dogg.

The generation of musical citizen-scientists that he – along with Demento, Ron Weiser, and Jim Dawson – raised up with their liner notes, articles, radio shows, obviously Poker Party and all – guys like me, Deke, Big Sandy, Cameron Davis, Larmen, Dominic Priore – We cannot begin to adequately express our gratitude.

Personally, I feel fortunate that several times in the course of our friendship, he and I actually said “I love you”. I will leave it to Jessie and Jennifer to talk about Art the Family Man.

I’ll end these remarks with three short quotes, the first from Carey McWilliams, who Art venerated. I think it sums up the Art Fein regard for this place he loved so:

“In all the world, there neither was nor would ever be another place like this City of the Angels. Here the American people were erupting, like lava from a volcano; here, indeed, was the place for me – a ringside seat at the circus.”

The second is from Sophocles, “One must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day has been.”

Art, my irreplaceable friend and mentor, the loss of you is my dark evening. But thank you for years of such splendid days.

The third and last is from Merle Haggard, who I think speaks for each of us today. He said, “You have a friend in California who misses you.”