By J.R. Taylor

WE JUST GOT word that Ray Charles is dead, and all the writers are mourning that there's no press room at the Songwriters Hall of Fame Awards. There was plenty of free food and drink last year. Now we're all gathered along a red carpet outside the Marriott Marquis. This really cramps my style. For example, a publicist comes along to announce that Don McLean is the first inductee to have arrived. She asks us who has questions for him. I'd like to ask McLean about how he's built his reputation as the most loathsome bastard in show biz. I could even find a way to bring that up in a social setting with, you know, free drinks.

However, it's inappropriate to ask some guy a question like that while he's just trying to gladhand his way into a hotel. Instead, you just have to rely on McLean to illustrate his own miserable ways. On this occasion, he's working a sound bite about how Ray Charles is the only person he can think of who deserves a state funeral this week.

What a shame that Elvis Costello isn't here tonight.

I'll miss Ray Charles, but now I have to spend the evening stuck with a bunch of journos parroting the same lame questions to build tomorrow's obituary. Then I take a phone call from my wife, and she brings up a good question—specifically, how weird was the idea of a blind heroin addict? That's worth asking. The only problem is that everyone keeps trying to spin that fun fact into something inspirational. The sole exception is Rob Thomas from Matchbox Twenty. "I hear blindness improves the high," he replies.

I will never make fun of Matchbox Twenty again.

To her credit, at least the reporter I'm standing next to is constantly conceding that she's asking the celeb to provide their umpteenth quote about Ray Charles. She gets the only other decent Ray Charles quote from the evening, courtesy of soul singer Bryan McKnight. He turns out to be the only guest who learned the news after arriving at the hotel. "I'd been watching ESPN," he explains, "and they hadn't said anything. I'm kind of pissed about that."

Meanwhile, some dolt from NBC is asking Motown legend Barrett Strong, "Where are you from?" The reliably clueless George Whipple, meanwhile, is trying to confirm how to spell the name of Hal David. George obviously can't be bothered to look it up on half of the most amazing pop songs of the 20th century. The legendary lyricist had plenty of inspiration, too. His wife is standing in the back, and she's one fine silver fox.

"Hey," I ask David, "do you think you don't get enough credit for having a hot wife that makes Bacharach's stable of bitches look like a bad day at the races?"

"Can I quote you on that?" he replies—and Mr. David certainly can. I'll even send him a clipping.

Speaking of hot older babes, it's always nice to see the luscious Leba Sedaka. I ask her husband Neil—honored tonight with the Sammy Cahn Lifetime Achievement Award—to confirm the bizarre legend of how he used to play piano in the Catskills long after he'd become an established recording star. "My mother-in-law owned the hotel," he begins, and that explains a lot. Anyone would want to keep Leba happy. There aren't many women of that age who can get away with wearing glitter.

I'm happy to report that Charles Fox is squiring a fine trophy wife that he's wisely held on to for a few decades. To be honest, I'd rather see Daryl Hall & John Oates get honored for their underheard rock songs than for their pop tunes. Fox, however, has truly snuck his way into the Songwriters Hall of Fame. He took over our living rooms with the themes to Happy Days, Laverne & Shirley and many more. But the guy's a mad genius, too, as evidenced by his original scores to 1973's The Laughing Policeman and 1968's Barbarella. He's also the man behind the strange sounds of 1968's The Green Slime.

"I wrote less of that score than you might think," Fox modestly claims. He further downplays his role as the man behind the 70s Krofft kreation the Bugaloos: "We went to see a movie recently, and these characters in the film are reciting all of their favorite old tv shows. One of them starts singing The Bugaloos theme—'Bugaloos are in the air'—and the other one says, 'Oh, I know that one!' I'm sitting in the audience, and I turn to my wife and say, 'I think I wrote that song.' I had to stay to watch the credits, but sure enough, that was mine. I'd forgotten about the Bugaloos."

As it turns out, incidentally, all the writers were bitching about nothing—except for the absence of free drinks. The red carpet is managed in an exceptionally smooth and chatty manner. There wasn't a lot of competition over Charles Fox, but everybody gets their quotes and nothing feels rushed.

I even get to press my theory that—considering international song collaborations—John Oates has enjoyed a more lucrative solo career than Daryl Hall. "I think if you add up all those royalties," Oates replies, "you'd have a good down payment on a motorboat." Hall thinks that's pretty funny, but I still say that figure's relative to being in a filthy rich pop act.

The carefree atmosphere changes after Stevie Wonder appears as the last arriving guest. He's the kind of icon that really ties up traffic. This gives me the chance to suggest that my fellow reporters can pretend that a few other old and sick musicians have passed away, so they can go ahead and get Wonder's comments on file. It's not like Stevie could turn them in later. I'd do it myself, but I'm already wimping out on asking Stevie how somebody would pull off being a blind junkie. Maybe you have to rely on groupies with steady hands.

I don't rate an invitation to the Hall of Fame dinner, but the post-dinner ceremony and concert is reliably grand. They've really streamlined the performances, most likely because Paul Williams isn't around to fill time by telling Pat McCormick stories. Brian McKnight almost sounds as soulful as Daryl Hall while doing "Sara Smile." I start to lose a little interest after Moby comes out to honor the chairman and CEO of Warner Chappell. He reliably complains about President Bush while demonstrating that the audience consists of the kind of Democrats who hire Republicans to be their accountants.

Then a slimmed-down Roberta Flack performs Charles Fox's co-written "Killing Me Softly With His Song." This sets up Fox's classy speech, and I'm really ready to go—until Garth Brooks comes out to do a Don McLean song. I can't resist hanging around for what I assume will be some typically creepy and self-absorbed statements from the honoree. McLean does not disappoint. No wonder Fox didn't care to mention who inspired Flack's big hit. o