By GUY MENDES
It came as if by magic out of the cool Madison County night, high, wide and handsome, staking claim to a sizable portion of a young black kid's imagination.  The Grand Ole Opry. Every Saturday night brought with it such greats as Oscar Stone and the Possum Hunters, Uncle Dave Macon, George Wilkerson and the Fruitjar Drinkers and many more, all fading in and out of an old second-hand Crosley Showbox radio; their sounds giving form to a world that was a far sight different from that of a poor auto mechanic's son.   It couldn't be too long before young Steve Taylor, his head filled to the brim with Music City, U.S.A., would strike out for other parts; like up to Lexington, for instance--just the first stop, you understand . ..
But wait, that was years ago, close to forty in fact, and there are other things to think about right now;there's a show to do tonight.
The old radioman steps out of the restaurant on Lexington's southside where he clears tables for a living and heads for the bus stop in a slow, rheumatic walk. A smile plays across bis face and his head bobs slightly, obeying the dictates of a nervous tic, or maybe just following the rhythm of a tune that's playing way back in his head.   Resting on his ears, fairly covering half his head is a large brown
cowboy hat, pushed back at an angle, looking like some kind of frontierland nimbu s.
A short bus ride, a few words with the driver and he is downtown, where he stops in to visit his friends at the Esco Hankins Record Center, the best place in town for country music. There he looks over the new 45s, thinking on which ones he might buy come next payday, exchanging pleasantries with Esco and "Miss Jackie" (Mrs. Hankins) and maybe taking time for a plate of brown beans that Miss Jackie has cooked up in the back.   Then it's back on to another bus for the ride to his one-room walkup in the west end, where he takes the stairs one at a time, removes the little padlock on the door, goes in and immediately flips on a couple of old switches that are worn like rocks under a waterfall. It's a little late, so he hardly has his coat off and the bare On-The-Air bulb screwed in when he leans into a professional-looking microphone and says:
"Good evening.   This is radio station WSEV signing on the air at seven minutes past six o'clock, Eastern Standard Time.   WSEV is owned and operated by Steve Taylor and WSEV is located on Jefferson Street, near Fourth.   And now, we begin our one and only broadcast here on the Country Jamboree. "  The theme song, Flatt and Scruggs's "Shuckin' the Corn" blares out for a minute and
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then, in a rough voice-over, "Well, we're a little late getting started tonight friends, but we're gonna carry on here until 'long about seven o'clock, Eastern Standard Time. Right now we're gonna start the program off with one of the old ones, a little number by the Stanley Brothers, Carter and the late... Ralph and the late Carter Stanley, called 'Stone Walls and Steel Bars.' Come on in here, boys. "
When they do, he fishes a transistor radio out of his coat pocket, puts it to his ear and adjusts the tuner. "There it is, " he says handing it to a guest, who takes it, listens to the beleaguered signal and wonders, "But is there anyone out there? " hoping there is and not pausing to consider that maybe it isn't a vital concern.
khe old radioman continues on with his show just as he's done for nearly ten years, three or four or five nights a week, an hour a night, commanding his simple array of unhealthy-looking equipment: two worn turntables that look like they might have come out of children's record players; a poorly-made wooden workbench that is brightened by a coat of pink paint and some leftover Christmas wrapping paper; an old amplifier with a metal cover that got a coat of that same