Voice of Reason : Man Leads Crusade of Talk--on TV, in Church and to Probationers

Things are a little different at Billy’s Place.

For starters, there are no bitter women ranting against cheating men. No applause for the antics of feuding roommates. No raucous laughter when teenagers publicly disrespect their parents.

“People watch that because there’s nothing else on,” Billy Walker said. “I want to bring some wholesomeness back, some reality back.”

For 2 1/2 years, Walker, a Palmdale resident, has been the host of “Billy’s Place,” a cable talk show that offers up a serving of news, entertainment and educational issues.

Walker’s show is one of about 40 programs that air weekly on Channel 25, the public-access channel of Tele-Communications Inc. in Van Nuys, the nation’s largest cable system operator.

“His show delivers what I consider very, very important information,” said Larry D. Jones, TCI’s programming and production operations manager. “He’s touched on everything from AIDS to health care to crime, to getting started in this business.”

If Walker’s take on talk is a bit different, consider his life and its many dimensions.

Audiences know him as Billy, an amiable and down-to-earth talk show host who has held audiences with the likes of the Rev. Zedar Broadous, president of the Valley chapter of the NAACP, rapper Ahmad and basketball star Kenny Anderson of the Charlotte Hornets.

But to the members of the Greater Missionary Baptist Church in San Fernando, he is Pastor Walker, a spiritual leader who preaches and prays and comforts his flock through hard times.

And to kids and co-workers in the Crenshaw area, he is P.O. Billy Walker, a no-nonsense county juvenile probation officer who at times speaks in the authoritarian tones of the law, at other times in the caring tones of a big brother or an uncle.

As disparate as the roles may seem, a chord of continuity runs through all that Walker is: Talk. Meaningful talk. The kind, Walker says, that can bring people together, that can instruct, and uplift and heal divisions.

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“While you have so many elements pulling us apart, there aren’t a great deal of elements pulling us together, and I just want to be one of those elements pulling us together,” he explained.

The mere possibility keeps Walker’s mouth moving: on the air, at church, in the office.

His life in front of the camera as an entertainer seems a natural evolution.

His father ran a nightclub in Pontiac, Mich., called “The Green Door.” His mother owned “Miss Irene’s,” a soul food restaurant. Soul singer Jackie Wilson became a close family friend.

Then there was the allure of Motown, 20 miles away, but close enough to hold Billy and his 10 brothers and sisters in awe. They grew up making yearly trips to Detroit for the Motown Revue.

“Every year at the Fox Theatre in Detroit,” he said. “Stevie Wonder, the Temps, the Supremes, Smokey Robinson, every act they would put on stage, and you would see them all for $1.50,” he said. “That whole Motown era, it had a way of rubbing off on you.”

“We would be in the frontyard playing like we were the Temptations.”

As a student at Tennessee State in Nashville, Walker majored in communications. Outside class, he worked as a deejay, hosting a jazz program and an early morning gospel show.

After finishing school, he moved to Los Angeles. It was his own need to act on his dream of a career in entertainment and his frustration with talk shows on television that led Walker to enroll in a public access production program at Tele-Communications Inc.

Who cares, Walker asks, if some woman’s boyfriend and her sister are sleeping together?

“There’s nothing real that you can gain from that,” Walker said. “Tell me how to make it in today’s world, get an education and be a better person.”

On the set of “Billy’s Place,” Walker is the consummate interviewer. Sitting next to a round coffee table, he banters easily with singer Freda Payne.

“Camera One? Can you get a shot of her? Now, you’ve got to do at least one line of ‘Band of Gold,’ you’ve got to,” he pleads as a smiling Payne sings a line from her decades-old hit.

In another episode, meanwhile, he and Broadous discuss NAFTA and its impact on the local community, Proposition 187, and community-based policing. Sometimes, during live tapings, viewers are invited to call to speak with guests.

Walker’s ability to reach audiences with his ideas is an advantage of public access, Jones said. By law, cable companies must provide training and production opportunities to the community, Jones said. The result is a mix of shows, some targeting specific communities and issues.

“There are some shows that are very professionally and intelligently produced,” Jones said. “They’re not all a bunch of wackos playing vanity videos.”

Unlike regular television or cable programs, “Billy’s Place” airs irregularly, depending on the availability of time slots.

Walker’s next show is scheduled to air Thursday.

Though he is critical of some shows, Walker is not without role models in film and television: Robert Townsend, Bill Cosby and particularly actor Denzel Washington, both for his style and his substance.

“He’s family oriented and he’s down to earth,” said Walker, who is married, has four children, and, like many in the entertainment industry, is loath to reveal his age. “There are certain roles he won’t take, certain language he won’t use. I really admire that a lot.” And, Walker adds, “He can dress!”

Like any other aspiring entertainer, Walker is hoping to make it big and move from a public access station to a network.

Until then he is honing his craft, and going about the other business of his life.

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One day recently he sat in his county office on Crenshaw Boulevard as three teenage boys came for mandated visits. Two had been arrested for robbery, one for taking a weapon to school.

One 16-year-old smiled as he showed Walker that he had completed his community service and had a money order to pay court-ordered fines. Walker lavished praise, which the boy heartily accepted.

But then Walker turned and asked the boy’s mother about his behavior at home. She described her frustration when he asks repeatedly to go to parties after curfew, to be in places he shouldn’t be.

The praise ended and the preaching began.

“Once she makes her decisions, that’s it,” Walker said. “Don’t come back at her five times. It might seem unfair, but guess what? It might save your life. You know what happens at those parties. Fools drive by, get to shootin’. You look at a guy the wrong way. Anything might happen. She don’t want to hear about you being dead or in jail.”

The mother nodded her head approvingly.

“Let me tell you, good brother,” Walker said to the boy. “Don’t give her a reason to call me. I’ll take your freedom.”

It takes a lot to reach young people, Walker said after the visits. But he tries, mostly by showing he cares. He shows up at school unexpectedly, attends games of athletes, and calls. The kids don’t know it, but he often prays for them.

When he was assigned to Sylmar Juvenile Hall, Walker arranged for industry friends to talk to the kids about getting on the right road--and staying there. Actors Tommy Davidson, Willard Pugh and Tommy Ford visited. So did singer James Ingram and actress Loretta Divine.

For a program at Walker’s church, rapper and actor Tone-Loc spoke to kids, who seem to reach out to Walker.

“They’ll go and talk to him about things that they won’t go and talk to their parents about,” said Alphonse Jones, chairman of the deacon board. “He’s a dynamic young preacher.”

Walker joined the ministry when he was 21. Back then he was working at Pontiac Motors to help out his family and playing basketball at a junior college.

“The conviction that was placed on my heart was unlike anything I’ve ever had put on me,” said Walker, who attended First American Baptist Divinity School in Nashville.

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His spiritual responsibility is the basis for all that he does, he said.

On Sundays, standing at the pulpit, dressed in long white ministerial robes, he preaches in a style built on call and response.

“God is good,” he says.

“All the time!” is the response that rises from the audiences.

“Have I got a witness?” he asks.

“Yeah!”

Walker slides easily into a gravelly voiced rhythm, as consistent as the movement of fans held by choir members seated behind him.

“Folks think we crazy and out of our minds because we love folks that hate us,” he says, periodically wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Folks think we ain’t wrapped too tight when we reach out to do something for people we don’t even know.”

Then he tells the story of the disciple Paul, who, undaunted, delivered a tough message to a man not yet ready to hear his truths. It is a parable that clearly holds special meaning for Walker.

“As Paul preached this sermon, there was something about what he said,” Walker preached. “There was power in his words. There was spirit in his words.”