I don’t know enough about Russ Warner to write his biography, but I can tell you he lived a full life till the day he died. He was energetic, passionate, hilarious, ingenious, artistic, generous and full of love. He was 87 on October 27th when he died in his sleep at home in Escondido.
This is not an obituary or a mournful tribute, but a small collection of memories I savor of a rare and significant contributor and curator of the Muscle Beach era and beyond. George Eifferman introduced me to Russ in the summer of ’63. I have recalled the scene a hundred times since, reminding me, thus, of its personal importance, persuasion and delight. A new recruit to the Weider California team (a team of three or four walking in circles and scratching our heads), I was yet to find permanent digs. There I lay sprawled on the new mustard-colored foldout couch in the small 5th Street office of the fledgling West Coast Weider Barbell Company. George -- ever-eager, Mr. Universe -- Eifferman nudged my mattress gently (George did everything gently) and apologized (George was always apologizing) for waking me so early on a Sunday morning.
"Dave, I want you to meet my friend, Russ Warner."
I rolled over and stretched and wrestled with disjointed sleep, self-consciousness, hunger, recognition of new surroundings, and the appropriate response to meeting a blurry, yet smiley figure at the foot of my borrowed and subject-to-visitors bed. Russ was engaged in chuckling, observing and expressing himself with bouncy movements of the shoulders and arms.
"George, he looks like a corralled stallion being groomed for the next big race at Santa Anita. Let’s sneak him a wild mare and run out the back door."
"Howdy, Mr. Warner. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir."
Within 10 minutes we were ordering breakfast at Zucky’s Deli on the corner, which was to become our favorite feeding trough over the amazing years to follow.
"I’ll have a chicken-liver omelet, please, thank you." My favorite.
George was heading for Hawaii to open a gym and Russ was taking his place as chief of the Weider West Coast operation. I was to spend the next three years with Russ to do what was needed to set Joe’s muscle machine in motion. The road was long and uphill; the muscle machine was running on three cylinders, three wheels and a flat, but Russ could make clunky things go, and go fast.
Soon after dear George sought bluer skies and time did its maturing thing and greener grass began to grow beneath our feet, Russ uncovered his favorite gadget, tool and plaything, hobby, mode of artistic expression and master-key to the world of bodybuilding -- his camera.
"Joe needs pictures for upcoming issues of the magazine, a few covers and some stories." Russ was looking at the ceiling when he said this; there was no one else in the room.
"I’m the shipping clerk, Russ, the backroom guy." I was looking at the floor when I said this.
"Yeah, I know," he agreed. "What are we going to do?"
By this time I was scrutinizing with dropped jaw and bulging eyes (typical expression of an east coaster during his first six months in California) the folder of 8x10s of Reg Park, Steve Reeves, Zabo, Clancy Ross, Jack Delinger and Biff LaLanne. The photos were a mixture of outdoor and studio shots in black and white and stark contrasts. The men of sweeping muscle were the best and the pictures exuded drama, inspiration and might. "Shipping clerk" was still stuck in my throat.
Russ was twice my age, but he brought out the kid in me. While I worried about the sky falling, Russ would tell me stories of Jack LaLanne walking down 10 fights of stairs on his hands or Clancy Ross and Jack Delinger performing feats of strength on Oakland street corners -- things done with beer kegs and engine blocks and sledge hammers and always with a pretty neighborhood gal balancing atop their heads. My scowl faded. Jersey’s hard to shake, like the flu, maybe TB, or barnacles.
Russ said, "There’s a place I know in the Valley. The studios use it as a background for shooting westerns. They call it the Bat Crap Rocks. You’ll love it; it’s full of cool rock formations and desert and cactus. It’s secluded. You and I and Dick Tyler can cruise out in a couple of weeks and shoot a few rolls of film... it’ll be fun... a test run... no one will see them... just us... promise... I’ll bring sandwiches... whadaya say?"
I, the backroom guy from Jersey, said almost inaudibly and without stirring conviction, "But, I... I’m not, well... gee-whiz... do I have... sandwiches?... okay." Nuts.
Russ posed my girth against some very photogenic outcroppings and the pictures ran in the magazines for an entire winter season. A magician of the lens, with forbearance and gentle persuasion, managed rocks and unwilling flesh into some striking shots, making me feel a small part of the California landscape, the West Coast Bodybuilding Scene.
Once, when the shipping was completed and four tons of fresh free-weight was unloaded from a Bobcat and neatly stacked in the backroom, Russ and I sat, fatigued and peaceful, in the inner office. The radio was on softly and we talked about, who knows what -- the freeway traffic, the weather, lunch -- when the programming was interrupted to make an urgent announcement: President Kennedy had been shot while in Texas and was being rushed to a hospital. We were shocked side-by-side, Russ and I, and the magnitude of the raw horror overwhelmed us.
My older friend had served as a Lieutenant in the Navy, as did JFK, understood politics and was affected more quickly and more deeply than I. There was a strain in his face and I heard a solemnity in his voice, levels of disgust and disappointment I had not yet developed. We were in big trouble together and enduring a cataclysmic fate -- a connection I didn’t fully understand at the time. A mutually endured catastrophe is bonding.
Where were you when JFK was shot? A strange question that arises now and then, and there I am with Russ in a dimly lit place listening to a small wood-veneer radio and gripped with reality. We locked the doors and went to Zucky’s for coffee, fresh air, daylight and hope.
Yo, Dave, Joe needs pictures. I’ll meet you at the Marina after lunch.
But Russ, it’s the middle of October and I don’t have a tan and I’m 10 pounds overweight and it’s freezing down there... and windy. Okay...
Yo, Dave, Joe needs pictures. Let’s shoot over to Century Boulevard in Century City and you can stand among the fountains and we’ll get some great stuff.
Aw, Russ, it’s the middle of March and I’m bulking up for a powerlifting challenge at Peanut’s Westside Barbell Club and I haven’t seen my trunks since we came back from the Marina. Okay...
Yo, Dave, Joe needs pictures. Let’s go to my studio in the back of Vince’s Gym. He wants indoor shots with heavy lighting.
Gee, Russ, I feel like a frog and so forth and so on... Russ just nodded and told me I looked great as he applied oil and adjusted the backdrop, lights, umbrellas, lenses and my attitude. We laughed at what a pickle puss I was and he swore it was from too much tuna and water and not enough sex. At 21 I thought he was dirty ole man... but very funny.
When I was the Gladiator for KHJ-TV, Russ was my agent. He knew people in Hollywood and was well liked. It turns out Mr. Warner was Jack LaLanne’s trusty TV manager and producer and good friend. They trained at Muscle Beach in the '50s and Russ practiced his photography while Jack practiced his hand balancing. Russ was behind the camera and by Jack’s side while Jack was on-camera inspiring folks to get in shape and eat right.
I visited Russ’s home one day somewhere toward Pasadena -- who knows where, he was driving -- and when we pulled into his driveway all I could see was a 60-foot antennae lashed down by thick cables protruding from his backyard. He was a king of the ham radio and one entire room was lined with dials, knobs and gauges, amplifiers, reducers, clusters of wires and speakers and microphones. Before the complex of communication equipment was a narrow runway with two or three stools with wheels to allow him to scoot about as he activated the gadgetry and spoke to friends across the world. He told me it was something he picked up in the Navy. In his garage were eight immaculately restored vehicles (my favorite a Cadillac Eldorado), which he claimed made his heart sing and kept him busy in his spare time. The singing part I understood, but what spare time? This I have always pondered. How much can one guy do?
After Weider, one must get a real job for awhile; it restoreth the soul and pays the accumulated bills. Russ went into the distribution of home gym equipment throughout central California and called his very successful venture All American Fitness. Missing show biz and loving bodybuilding, he introduced a popular, first-class physique show called the Russ Warner Classic, which ran thru the mid-'70s and '80s. I often sat in the front row or roamed around backstage, while Laree expertly wielded her Nikon from the stage’s edge. We have some very cool shots of contenders from those days hanging on the walls of the World Gyms in Santa Cruz and Scotts Valley.
So the story goes. Russ retired down San Diego way and along with his buds, Leo Stern and Steve Reeves, put together some classy old-timers gatherings. Old bodybuilders never die, they just keep on bombing and blasting and pushing that iron. So the story goes.
Russ Warner has a secret fan club and its members bump into each other regularly and exchange affectionate tales of Russ Warner at expos and contests and memorials, the later becoming a frequent form of entertainment and gathering for good old friends. The membership is impressive and includes a lot of bright and shining stars; Gene Mozee, John Balik, Don Howorth, Dick Tyler, Larry Scott, Rosemary Hallum, Stern and Pearl, Bob Delmontique, the Tannys, the LaLannes, the Weiders... the list is as long as a Barry Bonds home run if he was on Bomber Blend.
I love and respect and am supremely grateful for Russ. He was the best.
Bombs away, dear bombers... Dave
Oh, one more story. Russ had one of those little colorful cylinders that when inverted would emit a mooing sound like a cow giving birth. When we were all busily and quietly working at the little Weider shop -- Russ, Ray (my partner), Annie (Joe’s aunt) and I -- and the silence was as thick as a cloud, Russ would turn over the little round cow-box and let 'er rip. He’d then come running out of his office on tip-toes like a mischievous child and huddle with Ray and me, as we cracked up with hands over our mouths to muffle and contain our laughter. We called this hilarious.
We were grown and responsible men, well on our way to achievement, recognition and social contribution. The terrific, silly noise drove poor Annie nuts, and though we adored her, we submitted to the naughty joke. We figured Annie, who thought we were juvenile and who sat at the front counter representing The Weider Barbell Company to California and was four times older than Ray at 19 (76 years old and under five foot and 90 pounds), should have, like us, an extraordinary sense of humor. We were introducing her to such exceptional humor. Russ said we were being sensitive. Where’s that little round box full of laughs when you need it?
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