by Richard Neer
The End of the Innocence
With the demise of WPLJ as a free-form station in late 1971, Dave Herman and Vin Scelsa were out of work. With nothing in their pocket but the support of a small but loyal following, they pondered their next move.
Scelsa had his wife’s income to fall back on. He also knew that he had writing talent but had never really harnessed it to make money. There was a vague chance that some radio station would come calling, but Vin had been burned twice already, at WFMU and at WPLJ, and wasn’t eager to get fooled again. He’d wait it out until the right opportunity beckoned.
Dave was not so fortunate. He’d accumulated enough to live on for a few months, but he had a wife and children who were dependent on him. He weighed going back to Philadelphia, but his prospects were suddenly enlivened by a call from Scott Muni. Would Herman be interested in having lunch with him and Paulsen? Why not? Scottso had approached Herman once before, years earlier. But at that time Dave was making double what Muni could pay him because his taped show also ran on the ABC-FM network.
At lunch, both sides expressed their reservations. Dave had worked for Metromedia at WMMR, and Muni wanted him back in the fold. His concern was whether Herman could lighten up on the politics. For his part, since Dave had always viewed WNEW as competition, he wondered if he’d be welcomed onto the staff or viewed as an interloper. Knowing the discord already present at the station, Muni had little worry on that account. Some would like him, some wouldn’t—just like any new recruit. Schwartz would feel threatened, as he always did. After all, Dave had been on opposite him at night, and when Jonno had tuned in to PLJ one Monday evening while his own show was on tape, he’d heard Herman say, “It’s a stormy Monday in New York, and it’s good for nothing but the blues.” He then launched into the Allman Brothers’ lengthy rendition of “Stormy Monday,” and Schwartz thought, this guy’s good. It was just the way he said blues. He sounded like he believed it.
Leave it to Jonno to pick up on an inconsequential opening that Herman didn’t even remember the next day. But there was something to what he observed. Dave sounded in tune with his music and, in his short time at WPLJ, had met and become friendly with a number of musicians. PLJ had started a live concert series at a nearby recording studio and the station’s hip reputation attracted a number of top artists. The most famous of these concerts became an album whose title merely noted the date of the performance: 11-17-70. Muni was particularly incensed that PLJ had scored this broadcast because it involved a musician whom Scott had personally thrown his support behind—Elton John. But Dave’s politics remained the main sticking point.
Herman convinced his two suitors that his days of heavy politicking were over. He still would support the antiwar effort, but it would be in subtler fashion than WPLJ, where they would air a Nixon speech and follow it with “Liar, Liar” by the Castaways, or punctuate the address with rude noises like toilets flushing. Economic reality trumped idealism—Herman realized that if he was to remain in New York, WNEW was his only real choice. He might catch on as a staff announcer at some boring easy-listening outlet, but his three years in progressive radio had made that an unsavory alternative.
Schwartz was scheduled to vacation in Palm Springs for his annual two-week stay that fall, so Paulsen dreamed up an ad campaign to introduce Herman as his substitute. Using his trade space to take out a full-page ad in The Village Voice and various college newspapers, he composed a terse note, supposedly in Schwartz’s hand, asking:
Dave Herman, where are you? I’m going on vacation and I’d like you to fill in.
—Jonathan Schwartz
It took a lot of reassurances from Duncan, Muni, and Paulsen to convince the insecure Jonno that he wasn’t being set up to be replaced permanently. Herman passed the test with flying colors, breezing through the two-week stint to glowing reviews. Under the more professional atmosphere at WNEW, his strengths—a mellow delivery and vast musical knowledge—shone through. He filled in for Alison when she vacationed and did some weekend work in the ensuing months.
This presented management with a problem. They wanted Dave on the air full-time in the worst way. But where would they put him? Nights seemed the logical place, but head to head, Schwartz had scored higher ratings than Dave had while at WPLJ. Alison was settling into a nice groove at 10 p.m. and Herman would be wasted in the overnights. Muni wasn’t about to budge from afternoons, and Fornatale was now a three-year veteran with credibility of his own in middays. Did mornings make sense?
Although Harrison had been doing the show only a year, his numbers increased in every book. He’d helped Muni set up a series of free concerts in the city’s parks the previous summer. Michael had become friendly with important record promoters and gotten to be pals with Lou Reed and David Clayton-Thomas of Blood, Sweat and Tears. He had visited countless area colleges, and had been praised in local newspapers and magazines. He’d done a good job and his reputation was spreading.
His show reflected what we did at WLIR. He had a theme song: “Pick Up in the Morning,” by the New York Rock and Roll Ensemble. He essentially did an FM version of what John Gambling was doing on WOR-AM. He played a lot of three-minute FM hits, did frequent time and temperature, and was a friendly, upbeat presence. Sounds like a perfect morning host, no?
But some didn’t consider him “heavy” enough for the morning. His breezy attitude was intentional, because he felt that most people didn’t need to be pounded over the head with major issues upon waking. They merely wanted to know the time, weather, and key stories of the day, mixed in with their favorite familiar tunes. Michael repeated songs more often than most using this philosophy, and it was getting results with his growing numbers. But free-form purists at the station thought this was too formulaic, and wondered if Harrison had the breadth of music knowledge to range wider.
He was also low man in terms of seniority (other than myself), and was deemed the most expendable after a year’s experience. So one Friday morning after his show, he was called into Paulsen’s office and informed that he was being replaced by Dave Herman, effective May 22, 1972. Paulsen praised his efforts and emphasized that this was not to be taken as a negative reflection on his work, but that Herman represented an upgrade, having been in prime time in New York for two years. Paulsen offered Michael a strong letter of recommendation for future employment within or outside the company.
Harrison was crushed. He’d just gotten married, and thought that his two-year contract provided him with a measure of security. However, like most radio contracts, his money was not guaranteed, so after a small severance was paid out, his income from the station abruptly halted. He had done everything asked of him and boosted morning ratings higher than they’d ever been, and now he was being replaced by someone who had worked at a failed competitor.
It was a huge blow to a twenty-three-year-old who had achieved his dream, thrived on it, and then had it taken away capriciously. When he told me about it, he tried to put a brave face on things, but I could tell he was deeply hurt by the experience. I also knew that with his intellect and ambition he’d land on his feet and achieve even greater success somewhere. But it all seemed unfair. What did he want me to do? Should I quit in sympathy?
He told me that Muni and Paulsen were afraid of that happening but were prepared to deal with it. He didn’t see that my resignation would serve any purpose other than to put both of us out of work. And having a friend on the inside couldn’t hurt if things were to change, as they often did. So when I was called in to the inevitable meeting, I bit my lip and told them that I could continue on with a positive attitude and that I understood their position.
Vin Scelsa was hired a few months later to do weekends and fill-ins. On his Sunday morning show, he created a series of humorous essays entitled “Me and Razoo Kelly,” which found their way into book form years later. The premise was that Vin would find these letters awaiting him upon his arrival at the station, so he’d read them on the air. They were also a clever way f
or the always rebellious Scelsa to cast his cynical eye on the rock scene and say things that he couldn’t in his role as disc jockey.
One of the most curious stories about his weekend gig was how he got the world premiere of Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town album. A listener had purchased the new Barbra Streisand album and in its sleeve found Darkness, the result of an obvious mistake at the pressing plant. He called Scelsa on the air, who offered him an entire box of rock albums if he would meet and slip him the Boss’s latest offering. The listener complied, and WNEW-FM had a week’s jump on the competition, as Columbia scrambled to rush-release it. Nobody believed Scelsa’s story then, thinking that his Jersey connections somehow fed him an early release of the album, but he swears the story is true to this day.
Vin hadn’t changed his act much from the WFMU days. He still had eclectic tastes, and would play anything and everything, except music that he considered “corporate” rock. He hated bands like Foreigner, Journey, and Kansas, and shied away from prefab supergroups like Asia.
He formed an alter ego named “Bayonne Butch” and while in character, he refused to acknowledge anyone who called him Vin. In some ways, the Butch character was more reflective of his real thoughts and attitudes, and might have been created to protect the real Scelsa from retribution when the corporate villains disapproved of his rap. He was self-conscious about appearing onstage at times and, to cover up that fear, invented “The Bayonne Bear,” a boisterous figure in a bear costume who would dance to rock music at concerts while emceeing shows.
At the time, we were all charmed and amused by Vin’s planned schizophrenia, but later it would prove problematic to the station and his own career.
I Am the Walrus
With the changes happening fast and furious at WNEW-FM, Dennis Elsas became music director in early 1972, after less than a year of part-time air work. Dennis was only a couple of years older than I and a devoted Beatles fan. A graduate of Queens College, he’d had a lifelong ambition to be a disc jockey in New York. He especially admired WNEW-FM, which afforded him the chance to work with men like Scott Muni and Bob Lewis, his heroes from an earlier era when they were stars on WABC. Lewis, whose real last name was Schwartzmann, had grown up in Dennis’s neighborhood in Queens and his mom still lived in the same house. Lewis used to talk on the air about his Corvette, and so every time Dennis walked down the mother’s block, he checked her driveway to see if the car was there, hoping that Bobaloo would be visiting.
One night, when he was sixteen, he and a friend noticed the Corvette parked in front. His buddy insisted they ring the doorbell, and Dennis reluctantly tagged along. When Mrs. Schwartzmann came to the door, they explained that they were huge fans and would love to meet Bob. She invited them in for lemonade on the sweltering July night, and they sat at the kitchen table grilling Lewis about WABC. He patiently answered all their questions, although he was probably peeved at his mother for allowing these two strangers into her home. Years later, when Dennis followed Lewis on the air at WNEW, the older jock winced when told of the incident that had made such a thrilling impression on the younger man. Nobody likes to be told that someone grew up listening to them.
Elsas had almost done his career a worse disservice in his initial job interview with Muni. In an effort to ingratiate himself, he told Scottso that his mother was a big fan, almost more so than he himself was. Muni was prepared to let the innocent flattery pass for just that, but Elsas repeated it several times during the conversation. Finally, Muni had had enough.
“I didn’t want to bring this up, Dennis, but how old is your mother?”
Elsas answered and Muni continued, “And how old do you think I am?”
Dennis replied with an age very near that of his mom. “Well,” Muni rejoined, “I hate to tell you this, but I knew your mother . . . very well.”
Dennis blanched when he considered the possibility that his mother and Muni not only were acquainted, but implied in Muni’s tone were issues he wanted no part of. Scott enjoyed the retribution he had exacted, and Elsas never discussed his mother’s fandom again.
Elsas revered the Beatles as a result of Muni, Lewis, Morrow, and all the jocks on W-A-Beatle-C and could cite chapter and verse every phase of their career. Interviewing one of the Beatles became Elsas’s Holy Grail, and from his position at the radio station, he was uniquely situated to attain his goal. Record labels respected Elsas and the power he had over their fare. Much like food companies vie for shelf position in supermarkets today, promo men would bend his ear to gain a coveted spot in the rack. And if Elsas deigned to scrawl a positive comment or two on the album jacket, like “really rocks” or “sold out MSG in two hours,” well then, heavy airplay was almost assured. The rest of the staff generally accepted the sincerity of Dennis’s selections, and trusted that he was not susceptible to bribery or hype, heavy promotion on a record that failed where it counted the most, “in the grooves.”
That didn’t mean the man was immune to persuasion. Promo men dealt with Elsas as they would a prince, and Dennis didn’t balk at the royal treatment. In fact, few disc jockeys resisted much. To get them to see an artist perform in a dingy club late at night, hypesters felt it their responsibility to treat the jocks to a sumptuous dinner at the Palm, Chandler’s, or the Assembly Steak House. Many lobsters and Angus steers sacrificed their lives for radio exposure.
It was all legal, of course, at least at WNEW. Metromedia spelled out strict guidelines as to what could and could not be accepted. Christmas gifts were limited in value, and an evening’s entertainment could not exceed a certain level or it was considered payola. WNEW-FM stayed remarkably clean of that during the seventies. In an industry rife with stories of drugs and hookers, Muni and Elsas were incorruptible when it came to accepting improper favors. But the one favor Elsas wanted more than the lavish dinners or limousine rides to concerts was an interview with a Beatle, and John Lennon lived and worked in New York.
But the record companies weren’t able to help him in his quest to interview Lennon, so he worked it on his own. A friend of his was producing a rookie band at the Record Plant, a legendary recording studio where many great sides were cut. Knowing of Elsas’s desire to meet Lennon, his friend tipped him off that the great man himself was remixing what later was to become the album Walls and Bridges in an adjacent room. He invited the young music director to sit in on a session with his band, knowing that Lennon would often peek in while on a break.
On a Tuesday night in late September, Elsas snuck in and sure enough, big as life, there was John Lennon, working diligently on his latest release. Silently, Elsas watched his hero through the glass like a boy watching model trains in a store window before Christmas. After what seemed like hours, Lennon stopped in for a brief, stumbling introduction before quickly retreating back to his mixing console. After the flurry, Elsas noticed a pretty Asian woman in the hallway, also reverently watching the ex-Beatle at work. She introduced herself as May Pang, whom he knew was Lennon’s assistant and rumored mistress. Of course she’d heard of WNEW-FM and knew of his work, but what stunned the normally unflappable Elsas was her offhand assertion that John was aware of him as well. Emboldened by the rush of adrenaline at the idea that his hero actually knew of his existence, Dennis ventured the unthinkable. He asked May if John wanted to see the station sometime, or maybe wanted to hang out with him on the air. She gave a perfunctory nod, took his name and number, and said she’d run it by John.
Dennis floated out of the Record Plant on that cool but glorious night, dizzy with the dream that John Lennon might even consider appearing on his radio show. As he sat in his office the following day, the gleam had still not worn off. He told everyone he talked to about meeting his idol, but held off explaining about the interview invitation. As the hours wore on, he realized that May Pang was probably just being nice and that Lennon, who’d rarely if ever sat down for radio interviews, would undoubtedly not give it a second thought, if indeed May had even brought it up.
Two days later, still buoyed by the experience but realistic about his chances, he was screening albums in the music library when his extension rang.
“Dennis Elsas?” asked a small, accented voice on the other end.
“Yes.”
“This is May Pang. I spoke to John and he told me he would love to be with you on the radio. When would be a good time?”
Elsas waited a beat. This couldn’t be a practical joke, although this was just the sort of thing Muni or Schwartz would do. But neither Jonathan nor anyone else could have gotten wind of his invitation. He hadn’t even told Pete Fornatale, his closest friend on the staff, about the possibility of an interview. It had to be the real May Pang.
“Well, May, I’m on Saturday from two to six and Sunday from noon to four this weekend. Do either of those times work for you?” His voice trembled a bit and was slightly higher than normal.
She said that she’d check with John and call him right back. The room spun on him for several minutes but she was as good as her word, returning the call to specify Saturday at four and could John bring in a few R&B tracks he’d like to play on the air? Elsas stammered that it would be perfectly fine. She asked if there was anything else she could bring. He thought for a second of saying a cheesecake would be nice but wasn’t sure she’d appreciate the attempt at humor. He’d settle for the biggest rock artist in the world. She asked the address and how they could get into the building and Dennis gave her instructions before ringing off.
He still couldn’t tell anyone. What a laughingstock he’d be if Lennon developed a headache or was in a cross mood or something else struck his fancy that afternoon and he didn’t show. So, fairly bursting at the seams with his secret, Elsas tried to patiently wait two more days, hoping a meteor wouldn’t strike the Earth before then and spoil his dream. Even coming on the air at two on Saturday, he would only hint that he had a big surprise awaiting his listeners later in the show as he counted the excruciating 120 minutes until 4 p.m. arrived.