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Music History #13: "Midnight Rambler"

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“Midnight Rambler”
Written by Mick Jagger & Keith Richards (1969)
Performed by The Rolling Stones

The Music


Neither Mick Jagger or Keith Richards ever admitted directly that this song was about the notorious serial killer known as the Boston Strangler. But at four and a half minutes into the song, Jagger sings, “Well, did you hear about the Boston . . .” and it brings the rest of the lyric into focus. With references to the title character “wrapped up in a black cat cloak,” “jumping the garden wall,” and “sticking a knife right down your throat,” it’s clear enough the song is about some kind of killer.

“Midnight Rambler” was never a single, but has long been a featured part of the band’s live set. Elsewhere in pop culture, the Boston Strangler was also the subject of a 1968 movie with Tony Curtis, and the case has been invoked in several TV shows, including American Gothic and Rizzoli & Isles.

The History


Photo Courtesy Rare Newspapers

Between June 1962 and January 1964, 13 women were murdered in and around the Boston area. Most of them were sexually assaulted, then strangled in their apartments. The killer’s grotesque flourish was to tie a bow around the victims’ necks, using their nylon stockings. What confounded the police was there was never any sign of forced entry in the homes. The women either knew the murderer, or voluntarily let him in the door. And even with the increasing coverage of the serial killer in the papers and on TV, the attacks continued.

The first seven victims suggested a pattern. They were all single white women between the ages of 55 and 85 who lived alone. The police surmised that they were looking for a white male who hated his mother, and was acting out his rage repeatedly. But the next murder broke the pattern. The victim was a 20-year-old black woman who shared an apartment with someone. The murders continued, with the pattern varying slightly each time. The only constant was the nylon stocking bow. By early 1964, several police forces in Massachusetts, along with FBI agents and even a psychic, were coordinating efforts to try to stop the killer.

Then in October 1964, they caught a break. A stranger posing as a detective entered a woman’s home, tied her to the bed, sexually assaulted her, then fled, saying, “I’m sorry.” The woman’s description of the assailant eventually led the police to arrest a man named Albert DeSalvo. He confessed to all the killings.

Case closed. Or was it?

The Wrong Man


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Albert DeSalvo was a convicted sex offender and a patient in a Boston mental institution. In early 1965, he told a fellow inmate that he had committed the murders. The inmate then relayed this information to an attorney, F. Lee Bailey. DeSalvo was put on trial.

What convinced the police they’d caught the real Strangler was the accuracy of DeSalvo’s descriptions of the various crime scenes. He remembered small, telling details—like the brand of a pack of cigarettes knocked to the floor beside a bureau, or the apartment number etched in gold on a glass storm door. His attorney Bailey later said, “He would close his eyes, then as if he were watching a videotape replay, he would describe what had happened.”

It was a compelling reason to believe he was guilty. But there was a problem: There was no physical evidence, such as fingerprints, at any of the crime scenes linking DeSalvo to the murders. Nor were there any eyewitnesses.

Another inconsistency: DeSalvo claimed that he drove his car to all the murder scenes. But some of the locations would have posed impossible parking situations. Where did he park? Why couldn’t anyone find the parking receipts?

Because he was a mental patient, DeSalvo’s confession couldn’t be used against him. Consequently, he stood trial only for his earlier crimes of robbery and sexual assault. During his defense, Bailey wove in the confession to the stranglings in order to convince the jury that DeSalvo was “not guilty by reason of insanity.” The judge refused to accept the insanity verdict, and in 1967, DeSalvo was sentenced to life in prison.

Further Doubts


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The same year, DeSalvo escaped from jail with two fellow inmates (weird trivia: one of them was named George Harrison). He gave himself up the next day, and was thrown into maximum security. Six years later, DeSalvo was found stabbed to death in the prison infirmary. His killer was never identified.

Was DeSalvo the Boston Strangler? Doubts still remain. There’s the lack of physical evidence, and the pattern variations in the crimes. FBI profiler Robert Ressler said, “You’re putting together so many different patterns that it’s inconceivable behaviorally that all these could fit one individual.” It’s also believed that DeSalvo’s visual recall of the crimes could’ve easily been gleaned from newspaper reports and photos that he memorized. Susan Kelly, author of The Boston Stranglers, a book that proposes there were several killers, said, “It’s very interesting to me that the details that Albert got wrong in his confession were identical to the details that the newspapers got wrong.”

In 2000, the case was reopened. The body of the Strangler’s final victim, Mary Sullivan, was exhumed, along with DeSalvo’s. More inconsistencies were found. DeSalvo had claimed that he had sexual intercourse with the victim then strangled her with his bare hands. Forensics proved that neither was true. The investigation continues to this day; the true identity of the Boston Strangler may never be known.

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Pop Culture
Fumbled: The Story of the United States Football League
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There were supposed to be 44 players marching to the field when the visiting Los Angeles Express played their final regular season game against the Orlando Renegades in June 1985.

Thirty-six of them showed up. The team couldn’t afford more.

“We didn’t even have money for tape,” Express quarterback Steve Young said in 1986. “Or ice.” The squad was so poor that Young played fullback during the game. They only had one, and he was injured.

Other teams had ridden school buses to practice, driven three hours for “home games,” or shared dressing room space with the local rodeo. In August 1986, the cash-strapped United States Football League called off the coming season. The league itself would soon vaporize entirely after gambling its future on an antitrust lawsuit against the National Football League. The USFL argued the NFL was monopolizing television time; the NFL countered that the USFL—once seen as a promising upstart—was being victimized by its own reckless expansion and the wild spending of team owners like Donald Trump.

They were both right.

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Spring football. That was David Dixon’s pitch. The New Orleans businessman and football advocate—he helped get the Saints in his state—was a fan of college ball and noticed that spring scrimmages at Tulane University led to a little more excitement in the air. With a fiscally responsible salary cap in place and a 12-team roster, he figured his idea could be profitable. Market research agreed: a hired broadcast research firm asserted 76 percent of fans would watch what Dixon had planned.

He had no intention of grappling with the NFL for viewers. That league’s season aired from September through January, leaving a football drought March through July. And in 1982, a players’ strike led to a shortened NFL season, making the idea of an alternative even more appealing to networks. Along with investors for each team region, Dixon got ABC and the recently-formed ESPN signed to broadcast deals worth a combined $35 million over two years.

When the Chicago Blitz faced the Washington Federals on the USFL’s opening day March 6, 1983, over 39,000 fans braved rain at RFK Stadium in Washington to see it. The Federals lost 28-7, foreshadowing their overall performance as one of the league’s worst. Owner Berl Bernhard would later complain the team played like “untrained gerbils.”

Anything more coordinated might have been too expensive. The USFL had instituted a strict $1.8 million salary cap that first year to avoid franchise overspending, but there were allowances made so each team could grab one or two standout rookies. In 1983, the big acquisition was Heisman Trophy winner Herschel Walker, who opted out of his senior year at Georgia to turn pro. Walker signed with the New Jersey Generals in a three-year, $5 million deal.

Jim Kelly and Steve Young followed. Stan White left the Detroit Lions. Marcus Dupree left college. The rosters were built up from scratch using NFL cast-offs or prospects from nearby colleges, where teams had rights to “territorial” drafts.

To draw a line in the sand, the USFL had advertising play up the differences between the NFL’s product and their own. Their slogan, “When Football Was Fun,” was a swipe at the NFL’s increasingly draconian rules regarding players having any personality. They also advised teams to run a series of marketable halftime attractions. The Denver Gold once offered a money-back guarantee for attendees who weren’t satisfied. During one Houston Gamblers game, boxer George Foreman officiated a wedding. Cars were given away at Tampa Bay Bandits games. The NFL, the upstart argued, stood for the No Fun League.

For a while, it appeared to be working. The Panthers, which had invaded the city occupied by the Detroit Lions, averaged 60,000 fans per game, higher than their NFL counterparts. ABC was pleased with steady ratings. The league was still conservative in their spending.

That would change—many would argue for the worse—with the arrival of Donald Trump.

Despite Walker’s abilities on the field, his New Jersey Generals ended the inaugural 1983 season at 6-12, one of the worst records in the league. The excitement having worn off, owner J. Walter Duncan decided to sell the team to real estate investor Trump for a reported $5-9 million.

A fixture of New York media who was putting the finishing touches on Trump Tower, Trump introduced two extremes to the USFL. His presence gave the league far more press attention than it had ever received, but his bombastic approach to business guaranteed he wouldn’t be satisfied with an informal salary cap. Trump spent and spent some more, recruiting players to improve the Generals. Another Heisman winner, quarterback Doug Flutie, was signed to a five-year, $7 million contract, the largest in pro football at the time. Trump even pursued Lawrence Taylor, then a player for the New York Giants, who signed a contract saying that, after his Giants contract expired, he’d join Trump’s team. The Giants wound up buying out the Taylor/Trump contract for $750,000 and quadrupled Taylor’s salary, and Trump wound up with pages of publicity.

Trump’s approach was effective: the Generals improved to 14-4 in their sophomore season. But it also had a domino effect. In order to compete with the elevated bar of talent, other team owners began spending more, too. In a race to defray costs, the USFL approved six expansion teams that paid a buy-in of $6 million each to the league.

It did little to patch the seams. Teams were so cash-strapped that simple amenities became luxuries. The Michigan Panthers dined on burnt spaghetti and took yellow school buses to training camp; players would race to cash checks knowing the last in line stood a chance of having one bounce. When losses became too great, teams began to merge with one another: The Washington Federals became the Orlando Renegades. By the 1985 season, the USFL was down to 14 teams. And because the ABC contract required the league to have teams in certain top TV markets, ABC started withholding checks.

Trump was unmoved. Since taking over the Generals, he had been petitioning behind the scenes for the other owners to pursue a shift to a fall season, where they would compete with the NFL head on. A few owners countered that fans had already voiced their preference for a spring schedule. Some thought it would be tantamount to league suicide.

Trump continued to push. By the end of the 1984 season, he had swayed opinion enough for the USFL to plan on one final spring block in 1985 before making the move to fall in 1986.

In order to make that transition, they would have to win a massive lawsuit against the NFL.

In the mid-1980s, three major networks meant that three major broadcast contracts would be up for grabs—and the NFL owned all three. To Trump and the USFL, this constituted a monopoly. They filed suit in October 1984. By the time it went to trial in May 1986, the league had shrunk from 18 teams to 14, hadn’t hosted a game since July 1985, kept only threadbare rosters, and was losing what existing television deals it had by migrating to smaller markets (a major part of the NFL’s case was that the real reason for the lawsuit, and the moves to smaller markets, was to make the league an attractive takeover prospect for the NFL). The ruling—which could have forced the NFL to drop one of the three network deals—would effectively become the deciding factor of whether the USFL would continue operations.

They came close. A New York jury deliberated for 31 hours over five days. After the verdict, jurors told press that half believed the NFL was guilty of being a monopoly and were prepared to offer the USFL up to $300 million in damages; the other half thought the USFL had been crippled by its own irresponsible expansion efforts. Neither side would budge.

To avoid a hung jury, it was decided they would find in favor of the USFL but only award damages in the amount of $1. One juror told the Los Angeles Times that she thought it would be an indication for the judge to calculate proper damages.

He didn’t. The USFL was awarded treble damages for $3 in total, an amount that grew slightly with interest after time for appeal. The NFL sent them a payment of $3.76. (Less famously, the NFL was also ordered to pay $5.5 million in legal fees.)

Rudy Shiffer, vice-president of the Memphis Showboats, summed up the USFL's fate shortly after the ruling was handed down. “We’re dead,” he said.

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entertainment
The Time Douglas Adams Met Jim Henson
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On September 13, 1983, Jim Henson and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy author Douglas Adams had dinner for the first time. Henson, who was born on this day in 1936, noted the event in his "Red Book" journal, in characteristic short-form style: "Dinner with Douglas Adams – 1st met." Over the next few years the men discussed how they might work together—they shared interests in technology, entertainment, and education, and ended up collaborating on several projects (including a Labyrinth video game). They also came up with the idea for a "Muppet Institute of Technology" project, a computer literacy TV special that was never produced. Henson historians described the project as follows:

Adams had been working with the Henson team that year on the Muppet Institute of Technology project. Collaborating with Digital Productions (the computer animation people), Chris Cerf, Jon Stone, Joe Bailey, Mark Salzman and Douglas Adams, Jim’s goal was to raise awareness about the potential for personal computer use and dispel fears about their complexity. In a one-hour television special, the familiar Muppets would (according to the pitch material), “spark the public’s interest in computing,” in an entertaining fashion, highlighting all sorts of hardware and software being used in special effects, digital animation, and robotics. Viewers would get a tour of the fictional institute – a series of computer-generated rooms manipulated by the dean, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, and stumble on various characters taking advantage of computers’ capabilities. Fozzie, for example, would be hard at work in the “Department of Artificial Stupidity,” proving that computers are only as funny as the bears that program them. Hinting at what would come in The Jim Henson Hour, viewers, “…might even see Jim Henson himself using an input device called a ‘Waldo’ to manipulate a digitally-controlled puppet.”

While the show was never produced, the development process gave Jim and Douglas Adams a chance to get to know each other and explore a shared passion. It seems fitting that when production started on the 2005 film of Adams’s classic Hitchhiker’s Guide, Jim Henson’s Creature Shop would create animatronic creatures like the slovenly Vogons, the Babel Fish, and Marvin the robot, perhaps a relative of the robot designed by Michael Frith for the MIT project.

You can read a bit on the project more from Muppet Wiki, largely based on the same article.

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