War Stores From the Road

Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head

Over the years, I had great fun bringing strange and wonderful ethnographic objects to the cameras at Antiques Roadshow. Ironically, some of the most memorable things I ever saw never made it onto television.

This was one of them.

I can't remember the city, but I remember the couple. They were conservative, buttoned-up, perfectly respectable-looking people. They arrived at the Tribal Arts table and carefully placed a small, hand-painted square box in front of me.

I looked at it and said, "I don't do anything like that."

They assured me that I certainly did.

So I picked it up. It was a music box, and suddenly it began playing "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head."

Then the husband casually mentioned that he was a mortician.

In retrospect, that should have been my first warning.

One thing you learn as a Roadshow appraiser is that getting onto television isn't just about the object. The guest matters too. A great object, an unusual story and an interesting owner—that's television.

Then I noticed a little door in the box.

I opened it.

Inside was a shrunken human head.

Now I was interested.

I had a shrunken head, inside a music box playing "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head," owned by a mortician.

What more could television possibly want?

I felt like a surfer who had just caught a forty-foot wave breaking perfectly toward shore. This was television gold.

Or so I thought.

I found Aida Moreno, the founding executive producer of Antiques Roadshow and the person who could turn my brilliant idea into a segment—or kill it instantly.

She gave me a suspicious look as I approached carrying the box.

I launched into my pitch.

Shrunken heads, known as tsantsas, were historically associated particularly with the Shuar and Achuar peoples of the upper Amazon Basin. They weren't simply gruesome trophies. Traditionally, they were created as part of a complex ritual process involving warfare, spiritual power and controlling the dangerous spirit of the deceased.

I gave Aida the works: anthropology, religion, warfare, ritual significance.

This wasn't sensationalism.

This was education.

As I talked, I noticed Aida staring at the tiny head. I could almost hear what she was thinking:

How in God's name do you get a human head THAT small?

I saw my opening.

Unfortunately, I took it.

"I can explain that," I said. "I have the recipe."

That was a mistake.

Aida's expression shifted immediately to undisguised disgust.

"John," she said, "if I get calls complaining about elephant ivory, what sort of calls do you think this is going to inspire?"

For those unfamiliar with television terminology, that is what is known as a NO.

The little door closed.

The head went back into its box.

And "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" never made it onto PBS.

Twenty-five years on Antiques Roadshow, and one of the best segments I ever found never made it to you.

Until now.