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Ron Stevens long story about Dave Mason, his time with Traffic and a snow storm. Ron was a DJ on KSHE-95 from 1968 - 1976. On Saturday, November 27, 1976, Dave Mason played Kiel Auditorium in St. Louis. If you grew up in St. Louis, you know that was one of many times Dave played Kiel. He played there a decade earlier with Traffic, the band he co-founded. He was there with Black Oak Arkansas in the summer of ’72. Dave Mason was what we would call a friend of St. Louis. He was here a lot. From Kiel Auditorium in the late 60’s to his last show in our town, at The Factory STL on April 5, 2024, Dave Mason always drew a crowd of loyal fans … and friends. Dave’s most memorable visit may have been at the Mississippi River Festival on July 21, 1978. He opened with the Dave Mason classic, “Only You Know and I Know,” written by Dave and made famous by his friends Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett. Bonnie may have been at that show, as she once lived right down the road in Granite City (and lives there now). That night, Dave also played the highest charting song of his career, “We Just Disagree,” which was still on the national music charts that summer. He was on top of his game, for sure. And before the night was over, he played Dylan’s “All Along The Watchtower,” probably as a nod to the time he spent recording tracks for Hendrix at Electric Lady Studios. Dave played with some of the biggest names in rock, including Eric Clapton, Fleetwood Mac, Hendrix, Cass Eliot, Phoebe Snow, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr. He was everybody’s friend. But Dave Mason’s show here in St. Louis in the winter of 1976 was one I will not forget. Joy and I did not go. Four months earlier, our house in Kirkwood had burned to the ground while we were asleep in it. Spoiler alert, we survived. By November of 1976, we were settled into our new home on Ponca Trail in Kirkwood. Ponca Trail was, and still is, a very small and private community of homes that were built in the 1890’s as part of a resort area, overlooking the Meramec River. About a mile west of the Kirkwood Train Station, if you follow the railroad tracks, you will find a much smaller station, once known as the Meramec Highlands Train Station, built in 1891. It is now a private residence. Joy and I were fortunate enough to own one of those beautiful homes on Ponca Trail in 1977. And when we were finally settled by November, we decided to have a party to show our friends … on November 27. So we missed Dave’s show. But that day, a few hours before Mason stepped on stage at Kiel, we received a phone call from the record label promoter. “Dave wants to do something after the show. Can he come to your party?” My response was quick and to the point. “Sure. As long as he doesn’t bring a guitar. I hate when guys bring their guitars to parties.” God, I hope he didn’t tell Mason I said that. But he came, showing up just before midnight. Right around when the snow started falling. Dave, as expected, was very cordial and sociable. I’m not the greatest conversationalist at parties, but I found him to be very easy to talk to, considering the millions of topics we could have addressed that night. Two days earlier, The Band had held their farewell concert (“The Last Waltz”) in San Francisco. A week earlier, Patty Hearst had been freed on $15 million bail. But we talked about his days with Traffic. And what he told me stayed with me for all of these years. I would hear the story told many times again by other artists. I asked him if he missed those earlier days playing in Traffic, or something just as Farley-ish. “Ron, let me put it this way. For the first time in my life, as a musician, I’m finally actually making money for my work. I never received a dime for anything I did in Traffic.” My reaction was probably WORSE than Chris Farley. I stared at him. No words came out of my mouth for quite some time. Then I realized he was serious, and no “just kidding!” line was coming. “How … how?” I blurted. “You were in a legendary band! You wrote songs! THE songs!” He explained to me how musicians often didn’t own their own work. The record labels and music publishers owned everything. There were exceptions, of course, and over the years, artists learned how to play that game effectively. It was an eye-opener for a young disc jockey who assumed the recording industry treated artists with the respect they certainly deserved. But now, all these years later, I look for the “happily ever after” stories and hang on to them. Dave’s is one. He persisted. He never quit doing what he loved. He ended up with more than financial wealth. He lived his life out with an overabundance of friends who loved him. And friends he loved back. By the end of the evening, around 2am, after Dave had shaken every hand and answered every question, he said goodbye. As I mentioned, it began snowing around the time he arrived. It snowed over 13” that night in St. Louis. The official count was 13.9”. But no one would leave the party until Dave did. Fortunately, everyone got out of our little private street okay. Joy and I moved all of the half-empty glasses to the kitchen and got to bed by 3:30am. At about 7am, there was a knock at our front door. Then the doorbell. At 7am. After less than 4 hours of sleep. Joy pushed me out of bed. It was her way of saying, “Get that. I’m not.” When I opened the front door that early Sunday morning, standing before me was … Dave Mason. “What the hell are YOU doing here?!” “I can’t find my limo.” Dave arrived in a white stretch limo. A snow white stretch limo. I looked just past him, right behind him. “It’s right there, Dave.” It was right there. It had been right there all along. Granted, it was difficult to see with all the snow. The driver was in it. In the back. Asleep. Imagine it’s a cold, snowy night in November in St. Louis, and you look out your front window to check out the virgin snow covering your yard, your driveway, and the street. It’s, say, 4am. The scene is always beautiful. But this time, a guy is staggering around messing it all up. If you lived on Ponca Trail in 1976 and thought you saw a ghost, it was Dave Mason. Sorry it took me so long to tell you. Rest in peace, Dave. Your life was blessed with many friends because you were such a good friend to so many. Ron Stevens was a prominent DJ and program director at KSHE 95 in St. Louis during the 1970s, specifically active as a key personality and leader during the station's formative rock era from 1967 through the 1970s. He later produced the documentary Never Say Goodbye: The KSHE Documentary, highlighting the station's history.