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HBO has scrapped plans for a second season of “ Vinyl ,” the 1970s-set music biz drama exec produced by Martin Scorsese and Mick Jagger.
The series starring Bobby Cannavale as a larger-than-life record mogul had a rough run in its first season earlier this year, drawing modest ratings and lukewarm reviews. Ray Romano, Olivia Wilde and Juno Temple co-starred.
“After careful consideration, we have decided not to proceed with a second season of ‘Vinyl.’ Obviously, this was not an easy decision,” HBO said in a statement. “We have enormous respect for the creative team and cast for their hard work and passion on this project.”
HBO gave the show a second season renewal after its premiere in February. But by the end of the series’ run in April, HBO announced a showrunner change for season two, with Scott Z. Burns replacing creator Terence Winter. Burns was still in the early stage of working out a blueprint for season two and had not turned in any scripts.
The decision to pull the plug entirely comes after HBO has undergone a big transition in its programming ranks. Last month, Michael Lombardo stepped down after nearly 10 years as programming president and was replaced by Casey Bloys, HBO’s former head of comedy.
It’s understood that in the final analysis, the decision was made that the budget that would have been allocated to revamping “Vinyl” would be better served on other pending projects.
Given its Scorsese-Jagger pedigree, expectations for “Vinyl” had been high leading up to the series premiere in February. But creative troubles were evident early on. In his review for Variety , Brian Lowry wrote that the two-hour series premiere “is a big, messy affair, sometimes mesmerizing, occasionally aggravating, providing a taste of what’s to come while feeling too caught up in stylistic flourishes. All told, this is a huge project that perhaps only HBO could deliver. But so far, the album isn’t quite as good as the liner notes.”
“Vinyl” joins the ranks of the most high-profile one-and-done cancellations in HBO history. In 2012, HBO pulled the plug on a second season of horse-racing drama “Luck” because of the deaths of two horses during production. And in 2008, HBO’s racy comedy “Tell Me You Love Me” was also axed even though it had been renewed for a second year. In 2007, “John from Cincinnati” made its series premiere with a lead-in from the high-rated series finale of “The Sopranos,” then was canceled two months later, the day after its first season ended.
In the first place, I think that the Vietnamese war is nothing but a plot between the North Vietnamese and the South Vietnamese to get jeeps in the country.—Jack Kerouac, Firing Line (1968)
Out in the boonies these last six months one perilous day led to another, one place was much like another—the next sun could be my undoing. It had taken a long time to get used to fetid water, random bouts of violence, bugs and beefy loads. No world but the world of Charlie Company.
I magine my surprise, then, when Capt. Martinez pulled me out of the field to replace Sgt. Barclay, our company clerk. Martinez had picked me because of my education, but first I had to assure him that I was up for a job possessing a not inconsiderable competition.
What a relief! I stripped off my backpack, grenades, Claymores, M-60 ammo belt and gave them to the guys, along with my M79 and .45. However, amidst the glowing send-off from my friends, I had genuine misgivings about performing the job, sight unseen.
I left the bush on a resupply chopper to train at scruffy Tay Ninh. Barclay started me with a crappy old steel typewriter you had to pound on, some beat up file cabinets and a run-down desk. The phone was a crank party line type; a land line, no radio.
You'll get it. They did the same thing to me eight months ago.
It was scary using my brain again. Where was it? It had melted down in the field. Heavy going at first. My head hurt, I couldn't even spell simple words. B ut in a couple of days I knew I could handle the job. And i n time, it all came back.
Meanwhile, Barclay made the rounds, saying his goodbyes. When he left for the world after two weeks, I'd have to figure out the rest. T h e job was now squarely on my shoulders — I was the warrior clerk of Company C, 2nd Battalion, 7th Calvary Regiment (C2/7).
At the end of April, word came down that the old gang of mine would be invading Cambodia and I would be moving to Phuoc Vinh along with battalion. Although everybody was curious how all this was going to go down, nobody seemed to care. After all, the army bragged that the 1st Cavalry Division could be anywhere in the world in twenty-four hours. We all laughed.
On April 30, 1970, President Nixon watched Patton (1970) before announcing the invasion of Cambodia in a surprise televised speech that evening:
If, when the chips are down, the world's most powerful nation acts like a pitiful, helpless giant, the forces of totalitarianism and anarchy will threaten free nations and free institutions throughout the world.— Address to the Nation on the Situation in Southeast Asia
On May 4, 1970, four days of angry, violent demonstrations in Kent, Ohio against the Cambodian incursion got a big knock. The Ohio National Guard killed it when they fired sixty-seven live rounds at a group of unarmed students on the Kent State campus.
The victims were a mixed bag — protesting, walking or watching. Four killed, one paralyzed and eight wounded to varying degrees. Fortunately, a geology prof talked the remaining students out of a full-scale counterattack and the guard left.
Halfway around the world, Charlie Company was already inside Cambodia. The chopper carrying our squad had been the second one in. They found a large cache of munitions in an enemy bunker. Supplies for another Tet? Easily enough Chinese SKS carbines for each man in the company. Genuine war trophies. Once they were evacuated to Phuoc Vinh, I picked out mine from the leftovers.
We heard about Kent State like everyone else and were just as confused. The students either attacked the guard — or not. Outside agitators and Communists were in Kent to destroy the university and the town—or not. The guard knew they had live ammo — or not. Claims and counterclaims were flying everywhere.
Lawsuits, commissions and investigations still haven't swept it under the rug.
In 2007, the Strubbe audio tape of the shooting turned up. Four pistol shots and a violent confrontation is heard on the tape. Terry Norman, a campus and FBI informer, was carrying a .38 that day.
A minute later, a male voice on the tape shouts orders:
Get down!
Then,
Guard! . . .
A sustained volley of gunshots.
A nationwide student strike followed immediately. Five days later, President Nixon made an impromptu 4:15 am visit to the Lincoln Memorial to argue the merits of the war with a small group of protesters. Nobody won the argument, but he came away convinced that all war protesters were either bums or communists.
Later that day 100,000 protesters turned Washington D.C. upside down. Nixon took to Camp David and the 82 nd Airborne was ready in the basement of the executive office building.
The U.S. was at war with itself but we had other fish to fry. We were also in a war. Stateside events would have to wait.
Kent State won't let May 4 die. Numerous memorials have been erected on the site and a visitor center is maintained on campus. Commemorative speeches and ceremonies take place every year on the anniversary of that day.
On
moving day, designated army personnel loaded up the trucks.
Everything was well organized, I didn't have much to do. They even
packed some of my things. In order to minimize risk, we drove away in
a convoy and arrived safely at firebase Phuoc Vinh, twenty-five miles
northwest of Saigon, close to National Highway No. 1. The Black
Virgin Mountain was out of sight
but not out of mind in this flat, strange place.
Phuoc
Vinh Firebase (Camp
Gorvad) was a small
town
with an airstrip and gravel streets—a planned community of a
hundred unmarked buildings, all with the same blueprint, spread
across the base in a grid. It was home for many units, including our
battalion.
The
thousands of GIs in the 9.6 mile diameter clearing
lived within a heavily defoliated, former
tropical rainforest. Dioxin and other chemicals from the hundreds of
thousands of gallons of Agent Orange, Agent White and Agent Blue had
undoubtedly contaminated the water point (underground cistern) that
provided drinking water for the base and assorted troops in the
field. Medical histories of the vets who were present at Phuoc Vinh
are likely to be startling.
Company
headquarters was a single story, OD (olive drab) building about 8'
high, 40' long, and 20' wide, topped by an overhanging pitched metal
roof. Instead of windows, screens ran all the way around the upper
half, providing airflow for fans—no A/C. Sandbags heaped four feet
high against the wooden lower half, a bulwark against mortars and
rockets. The doors at either end led to a central space, open to the
rafters, which could be subdivided into rooms or partitioned any way
we wanted.
Herein
dwelt the supply Sgt., the mail clerk, the armorer, and me, while at
the same time providing a temporary residence for soldiers coming in
from the field to see a doctor, a dentist, to go on leave or go home.
For the rest of Charlie, the jungle was home.
The
nerve center of the company comprised a single room with a desk, a
typewriter, file cabinets, crank telephone, and a triple-deck bunk
bed. A safe for storing valuables of the guys in the field sat on a
table in back. Last in line was the locked arms room—heavy-duty
wire mesh on the upper half—for keeping extra weapons and any we
had confiscated in the field, such as AK-47s.
Mi,
a nice girl, daughter of a 1st Sgt. in the ARVN (South Vietnamese
Army), cleaned it every couple of days—what the doctor ordered in a
dust-pile like
Phuoc Vinh.
I took daily attendance , adding FNGs, subtracting WIA, KIA, TDY and those on leave, on sick call or going home. The rest of the personnel were presumed to be in the field. Also, promotions, travel orders, awards and decorations.
The principal daily humdrum involved typing a tedious five page numbered roster sheet on all personnel in the company including rank, birth date, R & R date, DEROS (date estimated return overseas), etc., and then mimeographing it, another time consuming process (we had no copy machines). The report circulated only to me, the CO, the 1st Sgt. and the battalion executives. The numbers were used in radio traffic to avoid mentioning soldiers by name.
I kept things hopping while my bosses, the CO and the 1st Sgt., were slogging through the jungle.
Our battalion boasted its own building. I got to know our battalion clerk so well that he let me work out in his weight room.
Using a 4-wheel mule—a steering wheel, seat and motor on a flatbed—our supply Sgt. would drive around the base requisitioning, trading, scrounging, stealing and hoarding supplies for the next log bird (logistical or resupply helicopter). He did whatever he had to. When the supply chopper arrived at the dirt pad outside our back door, a detail helped him load it up and off it went into the jungle.
A short distance beyond the pad, a barbed wire fence separated the base from the town of Phuoc Vinh. Because the base was on a clearing at the top of a hill, we could see the town church, plain as day, as well as a few other buildings of unknown utility ouside our back door.
The outhouse across the street held four 55 gallon barrels cut in half fitted with a lift-off wooden seat on top. Each day, a detail would take them out, pour in diesel fuel and burn everything inside. We pissed outside into artillery canisters buried 1-2 feet deep, trying not to miss too badly.
We also took showers outside, in an improvised structure fabricated from ammo box wood. You stood naked under a barrel of water filled by water trucks—one of them driven by our former platoon leader, demoted Lt. Eggleston—and heated by the sun. When you yanked the chain, warm water gushed over you. It was great!
In
the field, Doc handed out big, orange malarials—horse pills—once
a week. Soldiers
gulped them down, but something about Bobby Parris—maybe his fair
skin or freckles—made him especially susceptible to malaria. He
came down with both species: P. falciparum and P. vivax. Once the
guys threw him into a bomb crater filled with water to cool him down
before he was medevaced out. Each times he looked like shit when he
came into the base hospital with a high fever. And both times he was
sent back to the bush after a week's respite.
I
even played doctor with the hoard of penicillin pills acquired from
medics dropping off their supply before they went home. All the
single guys heading out or coming back from leave took a few of these
pills as a precaution against the clap. They figured it wouldn't
hurt. Neither did I.
The
married guys met their wives in Hawaii, but the single guys went to
Hong Kong or Bangkok where the beautiful girls would line up. You
took your pick.
One
of our combat vets, a redhead, met a prostitute in Hong Kong who was
hooked on the U.S. and fixed herself up with the name Margaret. After
he came back he declared,
The blond, good-looking radio operator (RTO) from St. Barbara fame was still in high demand. Whenever he came into Phuoc Vinh from the field, the girls would queue up outside our barracks, waiting to have a crack at him. He was a platinum blond and they all wanted a chance to have a platinum baby. To his credit, the RTO took it all in stride.
Oh well, some of us have a cross to bear.
A courier dropped in every afternoon with the daily casualty report and laid it on my desk. One of my chores as clerk was to review the very informative report to see what was happening to all the units in the brigade. No action on my part was required, but I read the condensed report with great interest, the same way people read the obituary column in the newspaper. Did I know anybody? Was he in my company? Did I go to school with him? etc.
I still can't forget the item, “Leech in penis.” Honest to God, that's all it said on the casualty report. I stared at it and read it over and over. How do you manage to get a leech in your penis? It was no joke because the soldier had been medevac-ed. How do you get it out? Do you use a catheter hooked up to a Hoover? I guess I'll never know.
Around the middle of my term as clerk, I acquired a chronic dental problem. Periodically, I would get severe, stabbing pains in a tooth lasting twenty to thirty minutes. I would grab my jaw and press hard until the pain went away. After a few of these little episodes, I made an appointment with the dentist on base and waited. When I finally got into the chair, there was no dental assistant, no x-ray machine, no dental tray. Just me and him. I held the instruments in my hands and forked them over as he poked and probed.
That mirror in your right hand, hand it to me.
Give me the scraper in your left hand. The double-ended curved thing.
When the exam ended he said,
I'm sorry, I can't find the problem. Can you live with it for awhile?
Well, dental issues don't go away by themselves. But since the pain came in spurts, I would forget about it until next time. When I took a week's leave in Hawaii to see my wife, I had a sweet, tropical drink right away. Bad move! The pain came on instantly. I was in agony for a half hour. I should have looked for a dentist there, but I had more urgent things on my mind. The tooth kept bothering me until I left Vietnam, but I was a vet, I could take it!
The first thing I did was to find a real dentist when I got back to the states. He found a pinhole in one tooth with his x-ray and filled it. A miracle!
Since then, I've told my story to many dentists in the states. Without exception, they react in shock and disbelief when I tell them how I held the implements in my hands and assisted in the exam.
The day before I left Hawaii to return to Phuoc Vinh, I interrupted my R and R (rest and recreation) to call the office to see how it was going in my absence. My substitute declared that 1 st Sgt. Luther O'Neal was on a rampage. He was running around telling everyone that the office was
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