FM

by Richard Neer

  Martinez’s friend had gotten another job the day before his scheduled interview with Gordon, but rather than cancel the appointment, he sent Marty in his place. Gordon wasn’t sure that his qualifications fit what WNEW-AM was looking for, but FM had broken away from the AM news operation by hiring Ed Brown and Robin Sagon, and they also needed some help. Gordon sent him down the hall to talk to a man he simply referred to as Scott. Although Martinez was a big fan of the station, it didn’t occur to him that the “Scott” in question was Scott Muni. Upon entering his office, it wasn’t until the older man spoke that Marty realized whose presence he was in.

  But in typical Scottso fashion, Muni’s rambling stories dominated the discourse until he suddenly held up a hand to silence Martinez as the younger man attempted to get a word in edgewise. Muni slowly reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a pistol. Marty recoiled in fear but quickly regained his balance when he realized that Muni now pointed a water gun toward the open door, arms extended in a classic firing position.

  “You bug-eyed motherfuc—” A corpulent older black man sprung from behind the doorway and fired off a couple of rounds, but Muni was prepared and doused the intruder with a steady spray from his larger and more powerful weapon. The man beat a hasty retreat down the hallway, yelling racial epithets behind him with Scott in close pursuit, drenching his foe down to his socks.

  When Muni returned several minutes later, he was panting from the exertion but wearing a smile. “Robinson, you tired old sack of shit,” he yelled out the doorway. “You’re too fat and old to sneak up on anybody. Go back and cry to your mother Tammy.” He then proceeded to extract several squirt guns of all shapes and sizes from the drawers of his notoriously cluttered desk.

  “You gotta be prepared around here, Fats,” he said to a still bewildered Martinez. “You seem okay, kid. Go down and talk to Gordon.”

  When Jim Gordon asked him how it had gone with Muni, he replied, “Good. I guess I got the job.” With that, he filled out some forms and started his long, strange trip working for WNEW, a journey that would last twenty years and see him go from newsman to jock to producer to morning sidekick and back to producer. After his bizarre initiation, he was later to find that Robinson was Chuck Robinson, an elderly black man who had worked in the WNEW mailroom for decades and an ally of Tom Tracy’s against Muni in their many water gun battles. Marty could see that this was going to be no ordinary job.

  Blessed with a roguish personality that everyone at the station loved, he was quickly made part of the Butch and the Brick Show with Scelsa and Morrera. Marty liked to say that he was “invited to every party to make sure there was a party, if you catch my meaning.” I always assumed that his bark was worse than his bite when it came to his stories of late-night drug-induced revelry at the station, but I was later to discover that the wild accounts were understated.

  But on this winter’s night toward the end of 1980, Marty had broken through from being an outlaw on the outskirts of the station, who technically serviced the newsroom, to a full-fledged staff member. Muni had personally invited him to the party that night. It was WNEW’s annual Christmas concert, and the party afterward would be held backstage at the prestigious Avery Fisher Hall in Lincoln Center. When Muni had seen Martinez in the hallway the previous week, he’d casually asked, “Going to the party Monday, Fats?”

  Upon being told that he was on duty that night, Muni replied, “I think we can arrange for you to take off a few hours. Party doesn’t start ’til eleven or so. Stop by then.”

  He handed him an invitation, and it was the first time that the young desk assistant felt that he actually belonged. The Christmas shows were part of a rich tradition at the station, starting in 1971, when for sixteen thousand dollars the band Genesis was imported to do their first U.S. concert. There was a grand party at Tavern on the Green afterward, and every year since, WNEW hosted a major concert at venues like Madison Square Garden, the Beacon Theater, the Westchester Premiere Theater, the Academy of Music, or Philharmonic Hall. Over the years, we had artists like Melissa Etheridge, Renaissance, Hall and Oates, the Kinks, Yes, and Meatloaf perform for no charge, save expenses. Net proceeds went to United Cerebral Palsy, and Scott would dress up like Santa Claus and bring out a couple of the UCP kids to sing carols between acts. Before the concert, the staff would gather around a large tree in the lobby and accept gifts for needy children. It was a warm and fulfilling experience, and it gave the staff a chance to get together for a classy affair at an elegant location.

  Muni had gotten on board with charity early on as a result of a singular experience that had caused an epiphany in his life. He had been asked to accompany Geraldo Rivera to Willowbrook, the infamous Staten Island mental facility whose exposure catapulted Rivera into national prominence. Muni realized that the cerebral palsy children, who had been carelessly thrown in with the mental patients, responded to his voice and some of the older ones knew him from the WABC days. Rather than regard them as wards of the state who couldn’t be helped and merely had to be cared for, he believed that with research these unfortunates could have more meaningful lives. So when WNEW initiated the Christmas concerts, or Bikeathons, or a station calendar, he found a willing partner in United Cerebral Palsy. He discovered that most of the executives were retired or semiretired business or professional people who drew no salary, so the money raised all went to where it could help the most, rather than to administrative fees. Unlike most radio stations that used such events to enrich their coffers, WNEW made sure that the net proceeds from all of its nonradio activities went entirely to charity, including the revenues from the softball games that reached out to communities each summer.

  Martinez was working at the station until a concert with the Marshall Tucker Band ended, and then planned to go to the party. He probably could have skipped work entirely, but he didn’t want to desert Vin Scelsa, who often needed hand-holding to help him make it through the night. Depending on his mood, Scelsa would come in, sequester himself in the studio, do a four-hour show, and resent any intrusions, or he might arrive full of piss and vinegar and invite Marty into his inner sanctum to rail against the station’s oppressive management. Martinez’s upbeat personality would often soothe the undirected anger residing in Scelsa and convince him that he still had one of the best jobs in the world. But Vin was becoming increasingly bitter about the music business, which he saw as a bunch of corporate exploiters bent on making a profit over the broken backs of poor artists. He hated most record promoters, rejected their company, and despised the ornate parties that they threw. He easily could have taken the night off and attended the show, but preferred being on the air to celebrating with a bunch of hacks whom he felt were destroying the music that he loved. This attitude made it increasingly hard to work at a station that was feeling the economic pressure from Metromedia. But other than noncommercial radio, there was nowhere else where Scelsa could still play whatever he wanted with only occasional brushes with management.

  Marty was sorry that his friend couldn’t share his excitement about going to the party. Warner Bros., which was footing the bill for the festivities, boasted many of his favorite artists, so he didn’t feel he was betraying any of Vin’s principles by attending. As he spiffed up at his desk, he heard the distinctive warning bells of the police scanner proclaim a bulletin coming.

  He pulled the story off the wire and shrugged it off, making only a mental note that the incident reported was near Avery Fisher Hall and that he might have to tell his cabby to use Broadway instead of Central Park West. A man had been shot on West Seventy-second Street, near the park. Shootings were not an uncommon occurrence on the night shift in the city, so Martinez merely left the page for the AM news anchor. There were no details, other than that several shots were fired.

  Monday Night Football was softly providing the background din, but since no one on the premises was a sports fan, they paid it little mind. But as he was on his way to the studio to say good night to Vin, Marty heard Howard
Cosell say something about John Lennon being shot. The AP and police-scanner alarms went off, almost simultaneously, confirming that the former Beatle had been the victim. Scelsa came bursting into the newsroom—a listener had called after hearing Cosell make the announcement at the football game. He had just put Springsteen’s “Jungleland” on the turntable, and he agonized over what to do. “I can’t tell people that John Lennon is dead. I just can’t do it.” Both men went back to the studio, unsure of how to treat the situation on the air.

  As “Jungleland” reached a quiet passage, Marty finally said, “Either you tell them or I’ll have to tell them, Vin.”

  Scelsa faded down the record and for the first time in his career was at a loss for words. As Martinez stood behind him, he reported that Lennon had been shot and that details were sketchy. Both of them found tears welling up in their eyes as their throats grew thick with emotion. Martinez went back to the wire room where the grisly story was being confirmed—not only had Lennon been shot but he had died on the way to the hospital. He brought the news to Scelsa, and the disoriented disc jockey called Muni at Avery Fisher Hall for counsel.

  The show had just ended and Scott and I were just walking back into the room for the postconcert celebration when Vin’s call came through. The news went through the small gathering like a windblown shroud of fog, spreading from one group to the next. I’ve never seen a room empty so quickly. Robin Sagon and Andy Fischer, our FM news people at that time, were dispatched to gather details and confirm the story through other sources. Everyone quietly filed out, at a loss for what to do, say, or where to go. There would be no party and the tables laden with gourmet delights went untouched. The food would later be distributed to the homeless.

  I knew that my place was back at the station, and without prompting, every jock reacted the same way. When I got back to the studio, Scelsa was playing only Lennon’s work, pausing to recapitulate the tragedy tersely before breaking down in tears again. Dennis Elsas sought out a copy of his famous interview with the former Beatle. He also recalled the time that he had filled in for Muni on the Friday after Thanksgiving in 1975. Elton John had been a guest on the program, during which he told him of a bet he had made with Lennon. Elton had recorded “Whatever Gets You Through the Night” earlier that year with Lennon on backup vocals. Lennon considered the song a throwaway B-side, but Elton insisted it was a number one record. The ex-Beatle swore that if it ever reached that vaunted chart position, he’d sing it onstage the next time Elton played the city. The previous night at Madison Square Garden, Lennon had kept his promise. That would be the last live performance that John would ever give before an audience in New York.

  Muni was completely shaken. Although he’d met all the Beatles when the band first came to America in 1964 while Muni was still at WABC, he felt a special kinship with John. Several months after the Elsas interview, Lennon released Rock ’n’ Roll, and came to the station to debut the album on Scott’s show. But their bond went deeper than that. When Muni was anxiously awaiting the birth of his daughter Tiffany, he found another expectant father in the same hospital. Yoko Ono was about to give birth to Sean and it was not an easy delivery. Lennon and he sat together for hours, drinking coffee and sharing stories of fatherhood. John had become a full-fledged New Yorker by then, often seen strolling through the city’s streets during his battle with immigration authorities. He loved Manhattan and wanted to live in the city, fighting the government as it sued for his deportation due to prior marijuana convictions in England. Muni chose to honor his departed friend by starting his show with the Beatles every day thereafter.

  The night of December 8, 1980, was the single most important in the history of the station. Still free form, we were able to react instantly to every nuance of the story. We had long talk segments with each jock and their personal reminiscences of Lennon. We took phone calls from grieving listeners, and played nothing but John’s music for the next twenty-four hours. WNEW-FM became the heart of the story, a sanctuary for a generation stunned beyond belief that such a beloved musician, that any musician, could be assassinated. Raw emotions overflowed as we reflected on the unfairness of it all, how this single violent act could strike down a titan. As the man himself had sung in “God,” “The dream is over . . . What can I say?”

  It marked the end of so much. Beatle babies who prayed for a reunion realized that it could never happen now. Those of us he had touched were outraged at the waste of it all, that a man with so much yet to give was cut down, just as he was starting to get his life on track again. The bitterness of the split with McCartney was dissipating, and his music was taking on a more optimistic tone. He’d reconciled with Yoko and was revisiting the joys of parenthood with a boy he absolutely adored. Just as his life and art were about to enter a happier phase, his mortal being was cashiered in a pool of blood outside his Dakota apartment.

  Newsmen for local television stations came to WNEW to cover the story. Some, like CBS’s Tony Guida, came to express their sorrow on our airwaves. He was elegantly turned out in a stylish trench coat and suit, but he sat on the floor of the studio next to Martinez, listening and preparing to read a poem he thought might help to ameliorate the grief. Time seemed to move in slow motion and although we were mouthing the words on the air, we couldn’t accept the reality that John Lennon was dead.

  The shooting cast a pall on the entire holiday season. There was no joy, no peace on earth. The following Sunday, the station went off the air for a moment of silence, followed by a specially commissioned live performance by a former E Street Band keyboardist, David Sancious, in a beautifully played outpouring of melancholy, a variation on “Across the Universe.” As the last note reverberated over the spare stage of the Capitol Theater, we told ourselves it was time to put away our grief and celebrate the man’s life and all the happiness he’d brought us, but we were unable to do so for many months thereafter. The senseless killing left a scar on our souls that still invokes pangs of anguish today whenever we relive the events of that cold winter’s night.

  I Love L.A.

  By 1980, things were changing at upper management at Metromedia. Owner John Kluge was sold on the idea that cellular telecommunications was going to be the cash cow of the future, and to that end took the company private so that he could have the freedom to maneuver his assets in that direction. As one of his right-hand men, George Duncan was shifted from radio to Metromedia Telecommunications, the newly formed division created to acquire cellular properties. Former WNEW news director and KRLD general manager Carl Brazell took over the radio division, along with Vicky Callahan, who’d worked under Duncan at corporate. Brazell soon made the move that Duncan had resisted for so many years—he hired a consultant. Lee Abrams was brought in to advise the entire group.

  Sam Bellamy’s loose hold on KMET had allowed the station to sink into the nether regions—under a two share. The punk-rocker KROQ, run by Rick Carroll, and Tommy Hadges’s AOR outlet, KLOS, were beating it handily. Howard Bloom had ascended to the general manager’s chair at KMET replacing L. David Moorhead. He immediately sought to put his own stamp on the station.

  Bloom had dark hair and intense green eyes, and was a touchy-feely sort. He wanted to be deeply involved in the psyche of all his players and worked very hard, the first to arrive and the last to leave every day. The short, slightly overweight Bloom believed strongly in group dynamics and spent hours locked in his office conferring with the jocks and salespeople. He’d always gotten along well with Michael Harrison, and quickly came to the conclusion that the station enjoyed its best days when Harrison had an active hand in programming.

  Michael’s participation at KMET had pretty much dwindled to his hosting Harrison’s Mike on Saturday mornings. Although he still consulted, his advice was seldom heeded. His own life was going through some changes. His acrimonious breakup with partner Bob Wilson in 1978 had led him to exit Radio and Records and form his own tip sheet called Goodphone Weekly, as in “you give good phone.” Goodphone
differed from the trade papers of the day in the way it charted album tracks. A traditional chart would list the top albums, but not address the priority each cut was given. Harrison charted the tracks as if they were singles, before they were released as such by the labels. Therefore, you might have three songs from Exile on Main Street in the top ten, even though only one was the actual Top-Forty hit single. He also came up with the term “JAZZZ,” or triple-Z jazz. This heralded the coming of Kenny G, Grover Washington, Enya, and the next phase of the melodic cool-jazz wave that the new-age crowd savors.

  For his part, Wilson invented the term “CHR” to replace Top Forty. Contemporary hit radio more accurately reflected the genre—it had been decades since any station actually played forty current records. A cold war existed between Wilson and Harrison, as the two former friends became the bitterest of rivals. Wilson even fought Harrison over ownership of the term “AOR.”

  By 1980, Harrison had sold Goodphone Weekly to Billboard, along with its systems and conventions. He gave that trade magazine a blueprint on restructuring for the eighties and consulted for several radio stations on the side. Harrison also hosted The Great American Radio Show, a countdown of AOR hits, one of Westwood One’s first syndicated programs. But the workaholic in him was not used to this somewhat lighter load, so when Bloom approached him to take over programming at KMET, he couldn’t resist one last shot at restoring the “Mighty MET” to its former glory. He didn’t relish working with a consultant—but he had no personal animosity toward Abrams, and their philosophies didn’t seem that far apart.

  Their plans for KMET were in direct opposition, however. Harrison believed that new wave, heavy metal, and traditional AOR bands could all work on the same station. He was alone in this belief, since the consultants posited that each one of these subgenres had distinctly different fans. They believed that by mixing them together at one station, no one would be served. Harrison won out with Bloom on this point, but his neck was definitely in the guillotine if his instincts proved to be wrong. He needed results and he needed them fast. He assembled a staff, hiring his right-hand woman from Goodphone, Christine Brodie, as his assistant. He elevated Cynthia Fox, a beautiful blond protégée, to do mornings with hippie newsman Pat “Paraquat” Kelley. Jeff Gonzer hosted afternoons and Jim Ladd was on at night. They were all encouraged to be wacky and outrageous and play only the songs Harrison placed at their command.