by Carter Alan
Northeastern University Press
An imprint of
University Press of New England
www.upne.com
© 2013 Carter Alan
All rights reserved.
For permission to reproduce any of the material in this book, contact Permissions, University Press of New England, One Court Street, Suite 250, Lebanon, NH 03766; or visit www.upne.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Alan, Carter.
Radio free Boston : the rise and fall of WBCN / Carter Alan ;
foreword by Steven Tyler.
pages cm.
ISBN 978–1–55553–729–6 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978–1–55553–826–2 (ebook)
1. WBCN (Radio station : Boston, Mass.)—History. 2. Music radio stations—Massachusetts—Boston—History. I. Title.
PN1991.67. M86A43 2013
384.54’53—dc23 2013004735
FOR CARRIE
Contents
Foreword by Steven Tyler
Preface
Thanks
The American Revolution
A Radio Commune
I Read the News Today
Movin’ on Up
Camelot
The Battle Joined
Power to the People
“The Reallllll WBCN, Boston!”
I (Don’t) Want My MTV
Number 1 Rock ’n’ Roll Connection
Camelot Redux
From Boylston Street to Wall Street
Nelson, Howard, and “The Love Shack”
Any Given Sunday, Any Given Weekday
A Bad-Boy Business
Shine on You Crazy Diamond
Afterword
Bibliography
Index
Color plates
foreword
STEVEN TYLER
Imagine a time when you could get good in a band by practicing in a basement or garage, when you could play in local bars or clubs, and when local radio stations were actually running themselves. Real human personalities owned the music as much as the bands that wrote it; they frequented clubs, knew personally the pulse of local talent, and knew the goings-on of a community or city. This, in fact, is how everyone from Willy Dixon to Elvis, the Beatles, the Beastie Boys, Run DMC, and a little unknown band from Boston called Aerosmith got their foot in the door and proceeded to wreak havoc and bring the house down for the next forty years.
It’s all Maxanne Sartori and WBCN’S fault. We were ruffling our feathers one night when we caught her attention at a club called Paul’s Mall. And before you knew it, I was sitting on her lap in the studio at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning doing a cat-and-dog public service announcement. I tickled her fancy, so to speak, into playing “Dream On” and turning the daytime jocks on to our demos, which we had just recorded at Intermedia Studios on Newbury Street.
The timing was perfect, and the rest is history.
Due to the passion of these local DJS, we were able to ignite a fire that would burn in the hearts of millions . . .
THANK YOU WBCN,
Steven
preface
Just weeks after WBCN folded in August of 2009, I got a call from Stephen Hull from University Press of New England. “Would I be interested in writing a book telling legends and fables from the birthplace of Boston progressive radio? My qualifications were that I’d actually been employed as a DJ and music director at WBCN for a good chunk of its forty-one-year history (from 1979 to 1998) and that I’d already published a couple of books. Although the idea intrigued me, the thought of militantly organizing my writing time around an already-bulging schedule at ’BCN’S sister station WZLX did not intrigue me. I had jousted with that stress monster before, and as Confucius or maybe Charles Laquidara said, all work and no play leaves one a bundle of nerves and the master of nothing. So I stonewalled, fascinated by Hull’s idea while equally fearing it, before declining. But Stephen refused to close the door and urged me to think about it.
Enter the wife here. Carrie also worked at WBCN, as a sales secretary from 1989 until 1995 (conveniently leaving the station moments after we tied the knot). She argued, “You know most of the people that worked there; why shouldn’t you write it?” That was logical, but the issue remained that accepting the project would result in no life for an extended period of time, like when you were in fifth grade and all your friends ran past the house in a raging snowball fight, but your mom wouldn’t let you suit up and join them until you finished that damn book report on Robinson Crusoe. Multiply that example into a year or two of abstention. Ouch!
“Well, if you don’t write it, someone else who didn’t work there will do it . . . like that guy who wrote the Aerosmith book.”
“Stephen Davis,” I replied. “He also wrote Hammer of the Gods—the Led Zeppelin book, as well as one on Jim Morrison, Bob Marley, Guns and Roses . . . ”
“Yeah, Stephen Davis will write it. Then what?” Now, those are fighting words because I’m a bit envious of Davis. He’s a damn good writer and, along with Cameron Crowe, seems to have had the greatest rock and roll journalism adventures on record. I mean, he knows the truth behind the “Mudshark” mythology! Button pushed, I replied, “Yeah, why should he get the ’BCN story?” I found myself shouting: “He gets all the other stories! I’ll do it!”
A callback to Stephen Hull and my fate was set, for not one, or even two, but over three years. Writing in a limited time frame from five to eight every weekday morning with as much time as possible on the weekends, and recording and transcribing over one hundred interviews (104 to be exact, and no, I didn’t try to do that), sent the project into serious overtime. I actually tried to bail at one point because my health started to go downhill, but Hull gave me slack and urged me to stay on it, albeit at a less frenetic pace. With apologies to Stephen Davis, I found myself becoming jealous of the fact that he could exclusively write for his supper and not need to divide his time between writing and work. It became a no-win every morning: if I was writing well, I’d be upset that I had to put the computer away and do battle on the Mass Pike. If the writing resembled caveman gibberish, I’d have no further time to wrestle the words into a decent representation of the English language, and I’d hit the shower in frustration.
Nevertheless, commissioned to my task, I found myself lucky and privileged to be able to share the misery of regimentation that all writers must endure. I also feel honored to have been one of the illustrious staff at WBCN and part of a great radio experiment that began in 1968 and survived through some of the most turbulent changes in all of human history. At its best, WBCN represented what a community of believers, not preoccupied with testing the limits of personal gain, could accomplish. At its worst, the station found itself swept out of that humble place and down the inevitable road of capitalism, losing its innocence as it slid toward a desired stock price at the end of the rainbow. WBCN went from Baltic Avenue to Boardwalk with hotels on it, and it wasn’t a pretty end, but there was magic created all along that forty-one-year ride past “Go.” That’s why this book is here: to pull out some of that magic before we all begin to forget it.
WBCN became the major force in Boston radio and, along with WRKO and WXKS (KISS 108), dominated every other station in awareness in the market. Sure, others made that dent occasionally, WCOZ, WEEI, WAAF, and WFNX, but they never approached the status and power of the WBCN legend or became internationally recognized as a true phenomenon of American radio. Recognized in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, this is the station that introduced new ideas that became fresh trends, and then accepted dogma. The ’BCN jocks were test pilots, really, getting out there like Chuck Yeager in a leaky X-1, beating the speed of sound and passing the how-to-do-it on to the next g
eneration. Underground, progressive, AOR (album-oriented rock) radio, and alternative were format labels taped on ’BCN’S journey through the years, a swath of influence and innovation that dated back to Lyndon Johnson’s presidency. Refined in the fires of the sixties antiwar movement, swept into the color-splashed, pixilated eighties world of MTV, and eventually drained of its blood in the consolidated radio industry of the new century, this is the station that rocketed through it all. There are some stations with colorful stories, but none as vibrant as the one you’re about to read. WBCN began as a spark on a windy day, somehow catching into a decades-long conflagration. Eventually, that fire would eat itself, but happily, it took a long time . . .
thanks
Johnny and Beth A., Bill Abbate, Katy Abel, Adam 12, Carrie Alan, Dan Beach, Andy Beaubien, Tony Berardini, David Bieber, Bill Bracken, John Brodey, Larry Bruce, Julie Brummer, Bo Burlingham, Cali Calandrello, Mark Cappello, CBS Radio, Nik Carter, Tony Chalmers, Lauren Chiaramonte, Lenny Collins, Mike Colucci, Tom Couch, Steve Crowley, Charles Daniels, Ron Della Chiesa, Deke Diedricksen, Michael Dobo, Matt Doll-off, Kaye Dudek, Billy Finnegan, Michael Fremer, John Garabedian, Clint Gilbert, Jerry Goodwin, Roger Gordy, Andrew Govatsos, Leo Gozbekian, Tommy Hadges, Donna Halper, Mark Hamilton, Mark Hannon, Hardy, Larry Harris, Tami Heide, Stephen Hull, Susan Hunter, Sal Ingeme, Bradley J., Juanita, Bill Kates, Mark Kates, Frank and Janice Kearns, Charlie Kendall, Martin Kessel, Bruce Kettelle, Andrew King, Sam Kopper, Jonathan Kraft, Bob Kranes, Heidi La Shay, Charles Laquidara, Kathryn Lauren, John and Sandra Laurenti, Don Law, Dave Lawrence, Lee Leipsner, Jonathan Lev, Maurice Lewis, Bill Lichtenstein, Larry “Chachi” Loprete, Karalyn Mallozzi, Dan Mason, Dan McCloskey, Paul McGuinness, Bob Mendelsohn, Mim Michelove, Marc Miller, Mark Mingels, Bruce Mittman, Tim Montgomery, Roger Moore, John Mullaney, Patrick Murray, Neil Napolitano, Steve Nelson, Chuck Nowlin, Albert O., Dan O’Brien, Oedipus, Tom O’Keefe, Mark Parenteau, Jim Parry, Al Perry, Rachel Phillips, Dave Pierce, Ron Pownall, Gina Preziosi, Curtis Raymond, Ray Riepen, Tracy Roach, Neal Robert, Tammy Robie, Joe Rogers, Kate Curran Rooney, Stu Rosner, Cathy Rozynek, Jefferson Ryder, Tom Sandman, Don Sanford, John Scagliotti, Matt Schaffer, Danny Schechter, John Sebastian, Steve Segal, Paul “Tank” Sferruzza, Bob Shannon, Ken Shelton, Eli Sherer, Rich Shertenlieb, Shred, Matt Siegel, George Skaubitis, Clark Smidt, Jeannie Smith, Joe Soucise, Sue Sprecher, Bill Spurlin, Tod Stevens, Greg Strassell, Steve Strick, “Mr. Mike” Symonds, Fred Taylor, Melissa Teper, Mike Thomas, Fred Toucher, Lisa Traxler, Steven Tyler, Debbie Ullman, Dinah Vaprin, Mike Ward, Billy West, Sherman Whitman, John Taylor Williams, Gahan Wilson, Norm Winer, Paul Winters, Dave Wohlman, Peter Wolf, Anngelle Wood, WZLX-FM, Kenny Young, and Dana Zazinski. Special thank you to Lord God for bringing it home!
You had this revolution going on and nobody in radio was doing anything. Albums were outselling singles, so it seemed to me that someone ought to be playing the music that people were buying or wanted to listen to. We cut the balls off of Top 40! RAY RIEPEN
THE AMERICAN
REVOLUTION
Joe Rogers had a new job. It didn’t pay much, but that wasn’t the point. This was a gig to dream about, like scoring in Vegas for a cool million or winning a gleaming new ’68 Camaro SS in a raffle. Barely three weeks earlier, the Tufts student had been spinning his thoughtful arrangement of folk and blues records at WTBS-FM in Cambridge, the noncommercial station at MIT, when he’d met a most unusual figure. Filled with energy and ideas, the dynamo of a man radiated a wild entrepreneurial spirit and confidence that made it seem like his crazy schemes could actually work. His name was Ray Riepen, and he came off like some older midwestern lawyer: starched and unfappable, with the bulletproof assurance of an innocent newly arrived in the scheming Versailles of sophisticated Bostonians, and itching to work his way into the next hand. Even at Rogers’s relatively young age, he had a sense that the world was often unkind to people with dreams; yet, this guy glowed with foresight and just seemed to be a heck of a lot smarter than anybody he’d ever met.
So, Rogers bought Riepen’s scheme; what did he have to lose anyway? It wasn’t like he had some big-time radio career to worry about; the college kid at Tufts merely wanted to stay out of the army and listen to music. Certainly not a professional disc jockey like Alan Freed or Arnie Ginsburg, he had no desire to be some fast-talking AM radio jive ass. A natural talent on the air, Rogers loved to blend the many artists and styles plucked from his treasured record collection for the enjoyment of his audience. Now, barely a month later, he had gotten the phone call from Riepen about that crazy idea they’d talked about. This was actually going to happen! Gathering up the records he needed was a deliciously unhurried process as the DJ lingered in the moment, anticipating the moods he would create, and the cuts, intros, and segues he would perform. Then, hefting up the heavy crate of vinyl, Rogers headed toward Back Bay and the 171 Newbury Street studios of WBCN-FM, the flagship station of the Boston Concert Network and bastion of classical music programming in the Northeast. Tonight, 15 March 1968, there’d be some new sounds coming out of the tower, judging by the records Rogers carried: We’re Only in It for the Money by Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention; some Elmore James; Boogie with Canned Heat; Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag from James Brown; Buffalo Springfield Again; a Kweskin Jug Band disc; and Fresh Cream from recently departed Bluesbreaker Eric Clapton and his two new bandmates.
Rogers reached 171 Newbury, went in the front door, and took the battered, old elevator up to the third floor, relieved to put his heavy crate of records down. The doors opened into WBCN’S cramped office space, now darkened, as it should be this late after a long workweek. The place seemed deserted. The main air studio was up a couple levels beyond the reach of the elevator, so he lifted his burden again and hiked up the timeworn stairs to the attic. It was cramped up there: a main room barely twelve feet across with another production studio and a massive classical music library all squeezed into a tiny loft. As he crested the steps he saw some figures milling about: Riepen; a guy he recognized from the Boston Tea Party named Don Law; fellow college radio jocks Tommy Hadges and Jack Bernstein; and his engineer buddy Steve Magnell from Tufts. Rogers also saw the man he’d be relieving sitting at the control board. He smiled at him nervously, but the man grinned back. Although Ron Della Chiesa had become a veteran announcer and the program director of WBCN, he remembered the excitement of his first show at the station eight years earlier on Christmas Day, and he knew how Rogers felt.
Do you remember the front cover of the Pink Floyd album Wish You Were Here? Two men in business suits stood in a studio lot shaking hands—and one of them had burst into flames. This was that kind of moment, the two DJS standing on opposite sides of a musical chasm. Chiesa lived and breathed classical music and as a result had forged a steady upward path at the Boston Concert Network soon after graduating from Boston University. Rogers’s musical passions traveled elsewhere, in American blues and traditional folk; his enthusiasm embraced such musical outsiders as the Mothers of Invention, the Fugs, and his beloved Holy Modal Rounders. Chiesa’s smooth and debonair on-air delivery was a far cry from Rogers’s somewhat timid approach, his college-radio experience never demanding he develop any amount of polish or panache. But, the younger, scruffier DJ didn’t care much about his voice or style, just like he didn’t care so much about how he dressed. Rogers preferred to speak on the radio through his music. And so he would tonight.
Although it didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time, Joe Rogers’s first shift at WBCN became a shot heard round the world or (at least) a crate of tea tossed into Boston Harbor. Time and hindsight would be the forces that eventually heaped great significance on this moment. It was, as Ray Riepen surmised, the time of a new American revolution. The rebellions in cultural, sexual, musical, artistic, intellectual, and political freedoms that began slowly at the end of the fifties had gathered speed in the early sixties and burst into full flower by the middle of the decade. The youth of America and free Eu
rope, witnessing the daily horrors and rising body counts broadcast every night in living color from Southeast Asia, united in a bond as strong as those that had toppled totalitarian regimes in the past. All the turbulence of a new generation unsullied by convention, heedless of authority, and joyfully seeking answers had arrived on this night in a most unusual place: the control room of a classical music FM radio station. Even though Ron Della Chiesa hadn’t yet turned thirty and was quite sympathetic to the forces of change, he still represented an old guard about to be swept away.
Rogers settled into the studio chair, assuming his bluesy radio identity as “Mississippi Harold Wilson,” and then cued up a record while waiting for Chiesa’s final selection to wind down. It was almost 10:00 p.m. Time had begun to accelerate in the last few moments, like it usually did before stressful and important occasions, as Mississippi felt the excitement of leaving his ten-watt college radio world behind to sit atop a New England radio powerhouse. Mississippi calmed himself as the classical piece ended, and he flicked on one of the turntables. To WBCN’S loyal listeners, it was as if an alien mother ship had suddenly invaded their concert hall, panicking the startled dowagers out of their seats and scattering programs, purses, and fox stoles as patrons ran wildly for the exits. Hovering menacingly, Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention split the air with “Nasal Retentive Calliope Music,” a bizarre and atonal assortment of spoken words, music, and farting sounds. Was Mississippi Harold Wilson some emissary from another planet, come to prepare the populace for a coming invasion? Not likely. But in those first few seconds of airtime, he provoked a change just about as jolting as an extraterrestrial takeover (at least one that was filmed in Hollywood). This initial shock led into his next choice, the breezy blues of Cream’s “I Feel Free.” With that first complete song, WBCN’S new chapter, “The American Revolution,” one that would span nearly forty-one years and five months, had officially stepped out of its mother ship.