The shopping bag for the Jive Hive store at 1010 McKinney right off Main Street
captured the hustle and bustle of the downtown location.
Photo courtesy of author.
M
y newlywed parents
came to Houston at
the end of World War II with
$150 to open a record shop.
A former railroad employee,
my dad, Frank Zerjav, hailed
from Pittsburgh, Pennsylva-
nia, and had served as a mas-
ter sergeant in the Air Force;
my mother, Irene Freeman,
created department store ads
before going to work for a
colonel at Goodfellow Field
in San Angelo. They fell in
love driving around the base
listening to their song, Bob
Wills’s “New San Antonio
Rose,” and other Texas
swing hits.
1
I suppose that
made getting into the record
business a logical choice
after they married—he had
experience in purchasing, she
had experience in sales, and
they loved music and people.
Two of my mother’s sisters
already owned businesses in
Houston—Baker’s Beauty
Supply and Barbour’s Opti-
cians—so my parents, like
many who ocked here after
the war, felt condent the
city offered them a shot at
the American dream.
They found a spot at 2053
West Alabama at Shepherd,
in between a liquor store
and Burger Bar, catty-corner
across the street from the
Rockin’ and Boppin’:
Houston’s Record Shops and
Radio, 1940s to 1960s
By Debbie Z. Harwell
HOUSTON HISTORY Vol. 11 • No. 1 7
Alabama Theater. Opening in December 1945, they called
their place the Jive Hive and sold Christmas trees in the
parking lot to help make ends meet. Before long, the busi-
ness grew with their reputation for customer service and
carrying the latest hits. In 1948, my dad took advantage
of the G.I. Bill and enrolled in classes at the University of
Houston where he learned to repair radios and record play-
ers to expand their services. In 1952, I was born and took
up residence in a playpen in the back of the shop—that is
until I learned to remove the slats and toddle to the front
where I gained an appreciation for all kinds of music from
Offenbach’s Gaîté Parisienne to “Hound Dog” (1956) and
“The Chipmunk Song” (1958). It was a happy time.
True to its name, the Jive Hive buzzed with activity.
Irene’s sister, Joy Gould, remembers the place was always
full of young people who loved the atmosphere because
“everything was lively.” As with most record shops around
town, a customer could come in with friends and sit down
at a turntable to play a 45-rpm single or a whole album
to make sure they liked it before
making a purchase. My parents
kept track of their customers’ musi-
cal preferences and contacted them when
something new came in they might like. If
the shop did not have what a customer was
looking for, my mother would nd it.
2
This type of personalized service made
these people more than customers, they
became friends and, in some cases, like fam-
ily. Houston attorney Jimmy Brill recalls that Irene became
his “second mother,” and he often hung out at the store with
his friends during his high school days at Lamar, “I would
go in and start grooving and I was there for the day.” While
a student at The University of Texas, his rst stop on visits
home was the Jive Hive.
3
Brill also remembers the importance of radio in promot-
ing music and hanging out at Top-40 station KNUZ-AM
at the corner of Caroline and Blodgett, where Paul Berlin
began his Houston career. The radio legend’s rst on-air
appearance came after he won a high school contest for a
summer DJ job in his hometown of Memphis, Tennessee,
in 1948. When the program director asked if Berlin liked
radio, he replied, “How could you not like sitting down for
one hour a day playing your favorite music and dedicating
it to your hoodlum buddies who are all out there listen-
ing?” He loved it, and the station offered him a regular job
for $55 a week. But one night in 1950, he fell asleep working
the graveyard shift. His boss had to let him go but referred
him to Dave Morris at KNUZ who liked what he heard
on the audition tape and hired Berlin.
4
Memphis’s loss was
Houston’s gain.
Berlin remembers how music trends shifted in the post-
war era locally and nationally. In the 1940s, big bands
Capitol Records distributor for Houston, Pat Quinn and Nat King
Cole with Paul Berlin at the Music Hall in the late 1950s.
Photo courtesy of Paul Berlin.
The original Jive Hive stood between Burger Barn and a liquor
store facing the corner of Alabama and Shepherd, the Alabama
Theater, a Walgreen’s, and A&P grocery store. Images of bee
hives and bees playing various instruments decorated the interior.
Photo courtesy of author.
Frank and Irene Zerjav with daughter Debbie standing behind the
counter at the original Jive Hive location, circa 1955.
Photo courtesy of author.
8 HOUSTON HISTORY Vol. 11 • No. 1
ruled, but dancing and ballrooms like Houston’s Plantation
Ballroom lost popularity when people began staying home
to watch television. Vocalists like Sarah Vaughn,
Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Vic
Damone, and Doris Day, many of whom also had
movie careers, took their place. In the 1950s, rhythm and
blues hit it big with Chuck Berry’s “Maybellene,” Fats
Domino’s “Boogie Woogie Baby,” and The Drifters’
“Money Honey.” By doing something different with a
rhythm and a beat, they quickly replaced the vocal art-
ists. No other decade, Berlin says, had the variety of music
heard in the 1950s.
5
With records a popular source of entertainment, the
changing trends led to the success of radio stations and
record shops, all of which worked closely with distributors
like Houston’s Pat Quinn of national distributor Columbia
Records and local producer Howard “Pappy” Daily of
Starday Records. In addition to the Jive Hive, other popular
Houston record shops included Paul Berlin’s Record Room,
Don’s Record Shop, Avalon Records, and Talley’s.
Other than entertaining radio audiences, Berlin brought
named performers to Houston. Early on, he booked big
bands like those led by Tommy Dorsey, Artie Shaw, and
Jimmy Dorsey at the Plantation Ballroom as well as country
acts like Bob Wills, Hank Williams, and Ernest Tubb. He
brought rock and roll and rhythm and blues acts like Brook
Benton, The Platters, The Drifters, and LaVern Baker to
the City Auditorium. Although much of Houston remained
segregated, Berlin was the rst to offer African Americans a
chance to sit in front-row seats, rather than relegating them
to the balcony, by dividing the sections left and right at
rhythm and blues concerts.
6
The Jive Hive promoted all of the day’s favorite perform-
ers. My dad received a gracious thank you note from Doris
Day for supporting her career, and they met notables like
Perry Como. Houstonian Kenny Rogers came into the shop
frequently during his early career, and my parents were
thrilled when he later hit it big with the First Edition. Like
many music-lovers, however, my mother’s favorite was Elvis
Presley. In fact, besides giving birth, her proudest moment
was being one of the rst in town to sell Elvis records and
meeting him during one of his many trips to Houston in the
mid-1950s. A perk for being a loyal supporter also meant
they attended private showings of Elvis’s early movies, Love
Me Tender (1956) and Jailhouse Rock (1957), with me in tow.
Elvis’s rst hit single on Sun Records was “That’s Alright
Mama” and “Blue Moon of Kentucky.” He revolution-
ized the industry with a combination of his bluesy-style
and hip-gyrating performances. Berlin met Elvis many
times in 1954 and 1955. Elvis played the Grand Prize (Beer)
Jamboree with guitarist Scotty Moore and bass guitarist
Bill Black and then appeared at the Magnolia Garden. The
trio received a total of $300 for both shows. Berlin recalls,
“He could sing!” Nevertheless, Berlin points out that Elvis
did not write his own music and that, as his movie career
took off, his promoters encouraged him to ll soundtracks
with seven or eight songs, many of which Elvis later regret-
ted recording. By contrast, Hank Williams composed about
“ninety percent” of his songs. “His lyrics said something
In 1954 and 1955, Elvis Presley, shown here with Paul Berlin, made
numerous appearances at the Municipal Auditorium, Magnolia
Gardens, and Cook’s Hoedown Club among other places in Houston.
Photo courtesy of Paul Berlin.
Paul Berlin poses with Mary Tyler Moore, right, and an unknown
dancer. The two women appeared as uncredited dance hall girls in
the 1958 movie Once Upon a Horse … featuring Dan Rowan and
Dick Martin.
Photo courtesy of Paul Berlin.
HOUSTON HISTORY Vol. 11 • No. 1 9
and meant something,” Berlin explains. Then quoting one of
Williams’s hits, he adds, “‘Today I passed you on the street
and my heart fell at your feet. I can’t help it if I’m still in
love with you.’ Now that’s a great line!”
7
Disc jockeys had a big impact on record sales and had
to be smart enough to pick a winner from a loser. “When
you get a stack of new records (which we used to do) you’ve
got to go through them and decide which ones do I play?”
Berlin explains, “You don’t play them all. It’s like shop-
ping for a new suit. You don’t try on all the suits. You
look at them and the ones with eye appeal are the ones you
grab. You listen to a record, and the ones with ear appeal,
those are the ones you put aside [to play].” Lyrics were his
rst criteria; he wanted to understand what the person was
singing. Then he judged the reaction of his listeners. The
DJ who was right most of the time had inuence, but that
person also had to be willing to admit it when he missed one
another DJ introduced to radio audiences.
8
Many people may remember, “Hellooooo, Baaaaby,” as
the opening line of “Chantilly Lace” by the Big Bopper, J. P.
Richardson of Beaumont. A disc jockey himself, he con-
tacted Berlin and asked him to listen to the song, which he
had recorded on Daily’s “D” record label. Berlin promised
he would listen to it like he would a new Elvis record but not
necessarily play it. Richardson said that was all he asked.
A few weeks later, Berlin toured American Army bases in
Western Europe with nine other top DJs from around the
country. Each brought the hottest record from his home-
town to play for the troops, and Berlin chose “Chantilly
Lace.” “None of these other guys had ever heard it,” he re-
calls; and “Once the G.I.s heard me
playing that ‘Hello, Baby!’ . . . I got
more reaction with ‘Chantilly Lace’
than anything they brought.” The
DJs wanted to know who the singer
was and where to get the record so
they could play it in their markets.
In 1957, my parents sold the
Alabama and Shepherd store to
John and Helen Flintjer, who
changed its name to the Record
Rack. The new Jive Hive opened
downtown at 1010 McKinney
just off Main Street, half a block
from Woolworth’s and around
the corner from Neiman-Marcus
and the Lowes and Metropolitan
Theaters. Besides being larger, the new store had custom
made racks to display the records and private booths for
customers to listen to music. Light blue velvet with peach
accents covered the walls and futuristic brass light xtures
with tiny stars hung from the ceiling. My parents enjoyed
two very successful years before progress took their build-
ing. In 1959, First City National Bank bought the block that
included their store to construct a new high-rise, now One
City Center, and the Jive Hive was no more. My dad, who
liked the idea of a steady paycheck, took a job as a purchas-
ing agent for an engineering company; and my mother, who
liked being her own boss, started Copy Cat Printing.
Musical trends changed again in the 1960s. The British
invasion swept the nation, most notably, The Beatles,
who came to Houston in 1965. (Tickets for the show at
the Coliseum cost ve dollars!) Berlin acknowledges the
contributions of The Beatles songs like “Yesterday” and
“Something” to the period’s music, but he found most
of the later sixties’ music negatively inuenced by dope.
“Marijuana became as common as Hershey bars and then
psychedelics, the ‘y me to the moon’ era . . . the music was
so loud you couldn’t stand to be in the room with it, and it
didn’t make any sense musically,” he recalls.
9
I have often
reected that it was a good thing my parents got out of
the business when they did because they would never have
tolerated the drug-culture music (let alone sold a roach clip,
as many stores did), and my mother would not have liked
seeing male customers with long hair and beards.
Also at this time, the record business took a turn that
hurt the small independent shops. Large department stores
like Foley’s began selling records and, because they bought
Paul Berlin brought Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme to Houston’s Arena Theater. He considers
the couple some of the nicest people he ever met and mourns the passing of Gorme who died
August 10, 2013.
Photo courtesy of Paul Berlin.
Bee drawings by
Aaron Goffney.
10 HOUSTON HISTORY Vol. 11 • No. 1
in bulk and sold other products,
they could discount the price of re-
cords to draw people into the store.
The Flintjers, who bought my par-
ents original shop, sold the Record
Rack to employee Bruce Godwin
in 1982. He saw music go from the
disco craze to new wave and alter-
native music before he concentrated
on “dance and club music, cutting-
edge imports and specialty vinyl.”
Over the years, though, he had to
downsize twice before nally decid-
ing to close the store and auction it
on eBay in 2002.
10
Eventually digital music down-
loads eliminated the need for
records, tapes, and CDs.
11
Tod ay,
the downward trend for store-
bought music continues as even
electronic giants like Best Buy, that
started out with music and movies
as a mainstay, no longer have much
selection of either in stock.
Paul Berlin continued his career
in radio and retired in 2004; how-
ever, after a guest appearance on
Dan Patrick’s show in 2010, Patrick
promptly decided Berlin should return to the airwaves.
Today, he has Houston’s only “oldies” radio program, a
Saturday evening show from 6:00-8:00 p.m. on KSEV, 700-
AM. His format is “AOR” or “all over the road” because
he likes all kinds of music. He plays a mix of Dixieland, big
band, country, rhythm and blues, and rock and roll, point-
ing out, “I’m a mood guy.” Of his long career, he says, “You
know there were a lot of days I didn’t feel like going to work,
but there was never a day that I didn’t want to go to work.
Big difference. I always loved what I did.” His formula for
being happy in life is “someone to love, something to do,
and something to look forward to.” Although Paul Berlin
lost his wife of sixty-one years earlier this year, it seems he
managed to nd all three.
12
Today when I click on iTunes to download a forgotten
oldie or a new hit, it is second nature. I then plug in my
headphones or set my iPhone on a docking station to listen
to music, which I have organized in playlists – like Paul
Berlin – by mood. It is easy now; I no longer have to insert
small plastic discs in the middle of 45 records so they can
drop one at a time on my stereo, or worry about lightly plac-
ing the needle on an album to avoid scratching (and ruining)
it. In the process, though, I also miss out on the experience
of sharing music with my friends the way earlier generations
did. The 1940s to early 1960s represented a moment in time
when the era’s music created a bond between music-lovers
who were “rockin’ and boppin’” to sounds produced on a
vinyl disc spun on a turntable in a record shop, at home, or
in a radio studio. No wonder people like my parents and
Paul Berlin thought it was music’s nest era.
Debbie Z. Harwell received her Ph.D. in history from the Univer-
sity of Houston and is the managing editor of Houston History.
Paul Berlin (right) greets Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds at a
cocktail party for Dan Rowan and Dick Martin’s movie Once upon
a Horse . . . The Zerjavs named their daughter for Reynolds after
seeing her in Singin’ in the Rain.
Photo courtesy of Paul Berlin.
Paul Berlin joins music legend Ray Charles at Jones Hall. Charles
played at over thirty different venues in Houston during his long
career.
Photo courtesy of Paul Berlin.
HOUSTON HISTORY Vol. 11 • No. 1 11
