When We Was Fab
As celebrated as John Lennon and Paul McCartney were, the “quiet” Beatle, George Harrison, had surprised many with his popular success. George had released a triple-record set called
All Things Must Pass,
produced by Phil Spector, that had sold far better than any solo Beatle effort to date. It featured several hit singles, including “My Sweet Lord” (for which Harrison was later sued because it sounded like the Chiffons’ “He’s So Fine”). But as George continued his solo career, including his
Concert for Bangladesh
in 1971, the critics began to sour on him. Although Harrison’s solo material was solid, he was dismissed as a lightweight, and Lennon remained the media’s darling.
Dave Herman had always enjoyed George’s work, and eagerly accepted an invitation from a friend named Rich Totoian to catch Harrison’s show at Madison Square Garden in 1975. The concert was transcendent, one of the finest the now established morning man Herman had ever seen. He was outraged at the savage treatment the press had accorded George and told his friend that he’d like to meet Harrison and tell him personally that many in the media sincerely enjoyed his work. In fact, Dave wanted to interview the former Beatle for his wake-up show.
Dave’s friend Totoian was a national promoter for A&M Records, which distributed Harrison’s Dark Horse label, and he got word to George that Dave was interested in an interview. Dave wrote an impassioned letter, expressing his feelings on how shabbily George’s work had been treated. Shortly thereafter, he received word that the media-shy artist consented. He was to fly out to L.A. the following weekend and interview Harrison at his home. Herman immediately booked his trip, which included a red-eye flight Sunday night so that he could return for his Monday morning show.
Upon arriving at Harrison’s Los Angeles digs, he was escorted back to the pool area to meet the Beatle. After their introduction, he began to set up his tape deck and microphones, but Harrison looked disappointed.
“I thought we’d talk and get to know each other a bit before we started work. Is that all right?”
Dave agreed, and George’s soon-to-be wife, Olivia, brought out a bottle of wine, and they chatted like old friends, striking up an instant rapport. After a few minutes, though, Dave said, “George, maybe we should do our taping now before we get too deeply into this wine. You’re telling me some great stories and I want to share them with our audience.”
They rolled tape, and for the next two hours Dave was enchanted by this man’s views on life and stories of the years when he was fab. He had more than enough material to fill two shows. As he thanked his host, George again looked troubled, as if his play date was over and he had to return to school.
“Aren’t you going to stay for a while? I’ve got more of this excellent wine, and we have a guest room if you’d like to stay over.”
On the red-eye back to New York, Herman was angry at himself for being so rigid. He’d really blown it. Upon being offered a chance to spend the night in the company of a man he’d admired for years, the call of duty was too strong for him to ignore. He cursed his decision and felt that he’d wasted an opportunity to bond with an artist.
Contrary to public perceptions, most disc jockeys don’t hang out with rock-star friends. Like many of my colleagues, I’ve been fortunate enough to meet just about every rock star who ever lived. But I can count the number of friendships I’ve made in single digits. Rarely are home phone numbers exchanged, and even if you feel like you enjoy a relationship with an artist, you generally have to go through the same entourage of managers and agents to make contact. When they have records or tours to promote, you can be sure of getting a call, unless they feel their fame has surpassed yours and they need a larger forum to publicize their endeavor. The sad truth is that you never know if your entreaties are being spurned by the artist or are being short-circuited by intermediaries trying to protect their pampered star from grubby disc jockeys.
In his four decades of broadcasting, Dave Herman would count only three musicians as true friends. Therefore when he had a chance to form a bond with Harrison and walked away, he immediately regretted the decision.
What a schmuck I was,
he thought. Through Totoian, he got word that Harrison thought the interview had gone well and wanted the chance to hear it. Dave sent him a copy of the completed program, along with a brief note containing his home phone number if he had any questions.
A few weeks later, Dave, who had just separated from his wife and moved out of his house, got a phone call from his ten-year-old daughter. “Dad, some guy with a British accent just called. He said his name was George.”
“Jenny, do you know who that was? That was George Harrison.”
Now Dave’s daughter felt foolish. “Oh my God, Daddy! He left a number.”
Dave calmed her down and returned the call. Indeed, George Harrison himself answered the phone. “Dave, I just want to tell you. I feel all these years that I’ve been misunderstood by the press. That program you sent me captured my feelings perfectly. I really appreciate it. It’s the best interview I’ve ever heard. Where can I reach you when I’m in New York next?”
A stunned Dave gave Harrison his new number and after a few more pleasantries, rang off. He held out little hope that Harrison would ever call, but felt good about the compliment. And after broadcasting the interview on his morning show, the good vibes continued as he received a call from a syndicator.
The
King Biscuit Flower Hour
was a syndicated concert series produced by Bob Meyrowitz and Peter Kauff with their company DIR (Dig It Radio). The program ran weekly, generally on Sunday evenings, four times a month. The four months of the year that contained a fifth Sunday presented a problem, but upon hearing Dave interview Harrison, Meyrowitz had a solution. Why not have Herman host an interview program highlighting a major rock star on those odd Sundays? Surely, between Meyrowitz’s leverage as a syndicator and Herman’s influence at WNEW-FM, they could put together four programs a year with artists that all the syndicated stations would clear. Thus,
Dave Herman’s Conversations
was born.
Several months later, Dave’s soon-to-be new wife, Drea, received a frantic call from Olivia Harrison. “I need your help urgently,” she said. “George has been suddenly called into New York to testify in this trial over ‘My Sweet Lord.’ I’ve been calling for two whole days and we can’t find an empty hotel room in the entire city.”
“I’m not surprised,” Drea replied. “The Democratic National Convention is in town and there hasn’t been an opening here for months.”
“We have three options,” Olivia continued. “One, blow off the court date. Two, stay at John and Yoko’s, or three, ask if you have a spare room.” George, for whatever reason, clearly favored the third.
Dave explained that their guest room was in the basement of a brownstone and had no windows, but the Harrisons gratefully accepted the accommodation and stayed with the Hermans for four days. Dave was even called upon to be a character witness at the trial, which ended with a settlement being paid for Harrison’s “unconscious” plagiarism. While in New York, George played tracks from his forthcoming album for Dave and Drea, and even treated them to a session with his acupuncturist.
Dave mentioned that they were planning a trip to Europe to visit Drea’s sister in Paris and Harrison insisted that they stay at his country house while they were in the area. So arrangements were made to see Paris for a couple of days, and spend the remainder of the week with their newfound friends in England.
But when George’s brother Harry picked them up at the airport, he made effusive apologies that George and Olivia were due back in L.A. almost at once. Dave felt naÏve to have tailored his vacation around a man he barely knew, and he was now being blown off and left to his own devices in a foreign country. When they reached the elegant estate, the Harrisons were just awakening. They came down for coffee and explained that the new album
33
1
⁄
3
was past due, and that George had to complete the mix in L.A. and turn it over to the record company. They were able to chat for only a few minutes, and as George and Olivia went upstairs to pack, Dave and Drea sat alone in the kitchen weighing their options. Go back to Paris? Try to find a hotel in London? Go home prematurely?
When George reemerged, Dave was about to ask about getting a ride back to Heathrow when Harrison handed him a set of keys. “This one is for the green BMW. This one is for the side door of the house. Help yoùùùùlf to anything you like. Stay as long as you want. My brother’s in the guest house. Call him if you need anything at all. We’ll call you from Los Angeles. We’re really sorry about this but we’ll make it up to you. ’Bye.”
With that, they were off and Dave and his wife had the mansion to themselves for five days. This was awkward for them, because they felt they really didn’t know their hosts well enough to feel at ease in this opulent house with its priceless appointments. They marveled at the authentic Tiffany glass, the Persian carpets, and George’s Grammy award, carelessly displayed on the mantel. But a discovery Dave made while rummaging in a drawer for a kitchen knife impressed them more than anything.
“Drea! Come here!” he shouted.
Buried in the drawer was a set of snapshots of the Beatles, in their very early days, cavorting around in goofy poses.
“Do you realize, if we were the dishonest type, what we could get for these?” Dave asked. “Thousands! These belong in a vault.”
“Dave,” she said solemnly, “we’re in the vault.”
Dave and George have gotten together on many occasions since then, remaining friends to this day. Several years back, while Dave and George were dining in Los Angeles as the Traveling Wilburys tour was in progress, Dave recounted the story of “the vault” to Harrison. “George, I’ve always wondered, whatever possessed you to leave us, relative strangers, alone in your home?”
Harrison smiled. “If you had done anything you shouldn’t have, we wouldn’t be sharing this marvelous dinner tonight, would we?”
“But that’s not the point.”
“What
is
the point? That you’d take some pictures from me and sell them? Do you think you’d be the first person to rip me off and screw me while I wasn’t looking?”
With that, they both shrugged and went back to their wine.
Magic Man
In the spring of 1975, a scatologically worded memo was issued from the offices of George Duncan. It stated, in Duncan’s typically irreverent fashion, that Varner Paulsen had decided to step down as general manager at WNEW-FM, and that his replacement would be a salesman from AM named Mel Karmazin. Little did any of us know that twenty-five years later, this same man would be the most powerful individual in broadcasting.
Karmazin wasn’t impressive upon first sight. He had none of Paulsen’s intimidating Nordic presence; he seemed to be an average-looking salesman who would be equally at home hawking refrigerators at Sears or used cars in his native Queens. With his black curly hair clipped short, active intense brown eyes, medium height and build, he seemed like just a regular guy. But after one spends a few minutes in his company, it becomes obvious that Mel is no ordinary salesman. In fact, Karmazin might just be the best salesman who ever lived. His total focus is on making money. He never takes his eye off the ball in that regard; his concentration and dedication to that end are formidable.
Dave Herman recalls first meeting Karmazin the day he was appointed general manager. Mel walked gingerly into the studio where Dave was doing his morning show, bearing a gift: a six-pack of Dole grapefruit juice. When Dave looked at his new boss quizzically upon presentation of the juice, Mel replied that while listening the preceding week, he’d heard Herman comment that whenever his voice felt furry or when he lacked energy, he chugged a six-pack of this particular juice and it revitalized him. He said that he’d like to take Dave out to breakfast soon—would today be too early?
Herman was immediately taken with the new young general manager. He never had the feeling that Paulsen enjoyed listening to the station, or had any connection with the staff on any level beyond business. But Karmazin’s gift indicated several things to him. First, that he paid attention to detail. After all, he hadn’t brought just any kind of juice, but the type that Herman specifically had mentioned. Second, even though the gift was an inexpensive token, it was a gesture that indicated he cared about the health and happiness of a key employee. And finally, he had chosen to have his first meeting with Herman. It was a sign to Dave that his opinions would be increasingly influential as mornings grew in importance on FM.
That morning’s breakfast brought further revelations into the man’s character. Across the table, Mel admitted something to Herman that had been an unstated belief among the jocks but had never been verbalized by management.
“Dave, let me be honest with you. This station seems to have a special place in radio history. Listeners talk about it with a reverence and respect. The numbers are just not there. Frankly, I don’t get it. The revenue far exceeds what it should be, based on your ratings. I’m at a loss. Explain it to me.”
That clinched the deal. The fact that a new general manager, trying to earn the respect of his crew, could have enough confidence in his own abilities to admit that he didn’t understand how the place functioned was a breath of fresh air. Subsequent bosses would come in and pretend they knew everything about WNEW-FM, when all they actually had seen was a compilation of its ratings over time. They then decided on their own what was wrong and set about to change it before understanding why things were the way they were. Herman had also seen it happen at other stations, but was floored by Karmazin’s honest admission that he had a lot to learn. (A postscript to this story occurred over two decades later, when Dave was doing a show for his twenty-fifth anniversary at WNEW-FM. On his way to negotiations for his ascension to CEO of CBS, Mel stopped by the studio and dropped off a six-pack of Dole grapefruit juice. Dave had to be reminded of its significance.)
Mel might have known little about WNEW-FM when he got the job, but he learned fast. Upon joining Metromedia, Mel went straight to the top and took lessons from owner John Kluge. He continued some of Kluge’s company traditions, like supplying turkeys to the staff of all his stations at Thanksgiving. Again, it was a small token, but it sent a much larger message. Like Kluge, Karmazin never seeks personal publicity, although he is intensely aware of everything written about him. You never see items in the gossip columns about his relationships, his living quarters, lavish parties, or what kind of car he drives. His personal life is intentionally cloaked in mystery. Any time his name does appear in the papers, it is in correlation with a company objective. In many ways, he is the antithesis of Donald Trump. Mel’s business relationship with Kluge ended in 1981, when Karmazin wasn’t given the job of general manager at Metromedia’s WNEW-TV. He then became a partner in Infinity Radio, the machinations of which will be covered later. But Kluge still believes in his protégé, to the extent that he purchased a large block of CBS stock when Karmazin took over as CEO.
A CEO can’t know everything in his domain, but Mel tries to learn and manage every detail. From that initial breakfast with Herman to his last days at WNEW-FM as general manager, he never stopped asking questions. He admittedly didn’t know the music when he first came aboard, but he listened constantly and soon was conversant enough to know what was appropriate and what wasn’t. Many years later, when he ruled not only CBS radio but television as well, he was listening to a New York Giants pregame show I was hosting on WFAN. The second to last segment was a scoreboard of NFL games in progress, several of which were in their waning moments. As we signed off, he noticed that we hadn’t updated the final scores of those close games. The next morning he was at the station and pointed out the flaw to the program director. By the following weekend, the scoreboard segment had been moved to the end of the program.
From the very beginning, he would not brook no for an answer. Early in his tenure as general manager, the Rolling Stones sent notice that they were going to announce their upcoming tour from a flatbed truck on Fifth Avenue in front of the restaurant Feathers. “How are we going to cover this?” he wanted to know.
When told that we’d probably just send a reporter from WNEW-AM down to the event who would send in a phone report, Mel said that wasn’t good enough. He insisted we install feed lines to the location and broadcast the event live. The engineers objected, giving him a hundred technical reasons why it wouldn’t be possible. “I don’t want to hear excuses,” he replied, “just do it.” Needless to say, it got done and resulted in an exclusive event for the station.
Karmazin was very good at winnowing out the right brains to pick, people whose perception of reality was not skewed by their hubris or ignorance. Polite but cool to those he considered fools, he efficiently managed his time in the counsel of those who could broaden his knowledge. He was also a fair man who would vigorously defend his position, but when proven wrong, he would quickly admit his error and move forward. An example of this is the first time (of many) he almost fired me.
The station had gotten involved with doing live concert broadcasts from remote locations like the Bottom Line in Greenwich Village, the Capitol Theater in New Jersey, or the Academy of Music on Fourteenth Street in lower Manhattan. These were indoor locations with fixed sound systems that were easily adapted for radio. But many larger acts were playing outdoors under more challenging conditions. Pat Dawson was a weekend personality at the station then (he’s since become a major reporter at NBC television). He and I decided to form a company to produce these larger concerts for radio. We’d arrange for a sound mixer and set up a system so that these notoriously unreliable rock shows would start on time and run smoothly. Our price varied, depending on the complexity of the task, but most often we would pocket a hundred and fifty dollars each, after expenses. Generally the record company covered the production costs. It reached the point where Pat and I would approach the station with the complete package, just needing Mel’s approval.
Muni, through his friends at Atlantic Records, had set up a live broadcast of Yes from the now defunct Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City. This was a major coup and the record company took the position that the station should pay for the technical arrangements. They reasoned that a band of Yes’s stature assenting to a live broadcast constituted doing the station a favor. We spoke to Mel about producing the show and he immediately balked. Since we already worked for WNEW-FM, why should we be paid extra to produce a station event?
The answer was that it required days of preparation time and that this task had nothing to do with our jobs as disc jockeys. We’d have to lease a truck, set up lines to the stage, pay our technical whiz David Vanderheyden to mix the show, et cetera. It was a big undertaking, and we weren’t getting rich by doing it.
Mel didn’t see the need to have a separate mix for radio. Why didn’t we just take a feed off the mixing board? That was possible, we said, but highly unreliable since what may be acceptable audio for a thirty-thousand-seat stadium wouldn’t necessarily work on a stereo broadcast. Plus we’d be at the mercy of the mixing engineer’s skill level.
Mel wasn’t buying it. He decided that we’d just take a feed off the board. What about the production? we asked. Coordinating stage cues for radio? Not necessary, he ruled. You guys will be there as hosts anyway. I’m sure you can handle it on the fly. We offered a third way. We said that for $125, we’d oversee the whole operation so that the show would run crisply, but not take responsibility for the mix, which was out of our control. He said no, and that ended our discussion. We decided to merely act as announcers for the event—and let the chips fall where they may on the production end.
The night of the concert was a disaster. The station’s chief engineer brought a couple of microphones out for radio introductions and set them up in the huge infield area behind the stage. We had no means to communicate with the stage manager, so we had no idea when the band would be ready to begin. We made several false starts. The lights went down and we came on, described the scene, and told our listeners the concert would start momentarily. After a few minutes killing time with banter about the group, the lights went up again and we threw it back to the station. Muni was angry.
“Why is this so poorly organized? What’s going on with you two?”
“Scott,” I said, “we’re not in charge here. Mel decided not to hire us to produce, so we’re just here to help you host.”
“Why didn’t he hire you to produce?”
I then uttered what could have been fatal words. “Because he’s a cheap bastard who doesn’t care what this sounds like. He’s just trying to save a couple of bucks, and we’re the ones who look bad.”
Pat added, “Yeah, we tried to talk some sense into him but the hard-headed bastard wouldn’t listen.”
Unbeknownst to us, Karmazin was back at the station, supervising the broadcast from that end. While we were talking to Muni, holding the microphones at our side, the overmatched engineer had kept them active. A live feed of everything we said was beaming back directly to the station, where Mel listened on the cue channel.
We finally got the show on, and the mix, although not up to our standards, wasn’t bad. During intermission, we got word that Mel had heard our conversation and wanted to see us the next morning, ostensibly to fire us.
Scott said that he’d handle it and indeed he did. He later told us that Karmazin was furious and wanted our heads, but had to admit that we were right and that he should have used us to produce the concert. And from that point onward, any live broadcasts we did were under control and came off flawlessly.
Mel wasn’t completely against his people making a little money on the side, especially when it didn’t come directly out of the station’s pocket. When Dave Herman did his first George Harrison interview, he’d flown across the country at the station’s expense. When DIR asked him to do a syndicated program, Herman knew that his contract clearly stated that it would belong to Metromedia. He asked Mel for permission to farm it out.
“You know we own the rights. But are there a few extra bucks in it for you?” Mel asked, and Dave nodded. “Go ahead, take it.”
The straightforward approach works best with him because it’s impossible to bullshit Karmazin. If you marshal the facts on your side, he’ll listen to any argument with an open mind and rule accordingly, but if you try to finesse him to your own advantage he’ll ferret you out in a minute.
Although no one would confuse Mel for a Knute Rockne type, he did know how to motivate in more ways than just by intimidation. One day after another ratings loss to WPLJ, Dave Herman emerged from his morning show downcast. As he passed Karmazin’s spacious corner office, he merely waved instead of exchanging pleasantries as he traditionally did. Mel rose and followed his morning man down the hall.
“Hey Dave, stop in for a minute.” Herman hung a U-turn and joined Mel in the office.
“What’s wrong? You look down,” Karmazin began.
“I just don’t understand what it takes to win anymore. We’ve done a great show, with great music and information. We’ve done great contests and promotions. I’ve listened to tapes of the competition. I know we’re better than they are. I just don’t know what it takes to beat them and I’m bummed out about it.”
Karmazin picked up the phone and called the business office. “Herb,” he said, “I’m coming down in a minute. Have the books for the last three months ready.” He hung up and turned to Dave. “Walk down the hall with me.”
Dave followed his boss to where the accountants kept records. There were no computers then, so everything was organized in large ledgers, in which clerks painstakingly recorded profit and loss. Mel opened one of the heavy books and flipped pages until he found the one he was seeking.
“Now Dave, the numbers you’re aware of are ratings. PLJ has a 3.5 and you have a 2.8. But the real numbers that count are these.” His finger scrolled down the column to the monthly bottom line, a steadily rising figure. “And here is last year at this time.” He pointed to another number, substantially lower than the previous entry.