Although Michael had hoped that the talk would be spellbinding, this wasn’t what he had in mind. He sadly filed the tape in his archives where it has gathered dust for the last quarter century. Although he has recently agreed to do interviews, the most notice Stevens (now Yusuf Islam) has received was when he explained why Islamic law declared that Salman Rushdie must die. His statements were misunderstood by the media to mean that Stevens supported slaying the novelist, when in fact he advocated no such thing. As punishment, many radio stations publicly burned his albums and banned them from the scant airplay they were receiving.
Not all his experiences with major rock stars ended so badly. Dark Horse Records had asked him to produce a special for George Harrison’s
33
1
⁄
3
(a double entendre based on the speed at which an album revolves and Harrison’s age while recording it). Much like Dave Herman during the same period, he was invited to meet Harrison at his home in the Hollywood Hills. George was then spending a lot of time with Monty Python’s Eric Idle, both in friendship and as executive producer of the Python films. The plan was for Michael to spend a few days in get-acquainted sessions with the ex-Beatle at his abode, and then conduct the interview in a relaxed, trusting atmosphere. The twenty-seven-year-old broadcaster drove alone into the hills, knocked on the massive door, and was amazed when George himself answered, barefoot and clad in blue jeans and a T-shirt. He gave Michael a tour of the property and made small talk about their shared surname. As their initial conversation wound down, he suddenly exclaimed, “I’ve something to show you, if you have the time.”
Unlike Herman, Michael had no flight to catch and readily agreed to stay as long as his company was welcome. George led him to a guest bedroom, dominated by a large-screen television. He popped a cassette into the VCR and explained, “This is something new. Have you heard my song ‘Crackerbox Palace’?” Michael had done his homework and was familiar with the entire album, so he nodded.
“Good,” Harrison continued. “My friend Eric Idle and I put this together. It’s the first of its kind . . . a little movie about a song. We’re calling it a ‘rock video’ and it’ll run on
Saturday Night Live
next week. Tell me what you think.”
Michael was blown away, sitting on the edge of a bed with George watching the tape. He was agog with the idea that just years before, he was a teenager idolizing the Beatles. Now, here he was hanging out with George Harrison and chatting like old friends. His head swirled as he mused that he was seeing a firsthand preview of something that could revolutionize the music world. Later, he realized that the Beatles movies could actually be viewed as full-length rock videos on film, adding to the band’s rich legacy. George fully understood that this new genre would be a major force in exposing music, as it was to become some five years later when MTV debuted.
As with Cat Stevens, he could only offer praise for the extraordinary footage he had just witnessed. The actual interview for the project was done at the MCA studios in front of a small audience. Most thought the show was tremendous, although critics suggested that he was too soft on George. Remember, this was a time when the quiet Beatle was being dismissed by the media as a lightweight, but Michael had far too much respect for this gentle, cerebral man to ambush him with confrontational questions.
Harrison was doing well with his syndication but the cozy consulting arrangement between him and Sam Bellamy at KMET began to chafe. Bellamy resented Harrison’s authority over her, and petitioned Moorhead for more autonomy. He gradually weaned her off Michael’s tutelage. She had proven a good student, and with her quick mind and full-time concentration, she took the station to heights beyond what it had reached when Michael called the shots. For his part, he was happy to relinquish control since he was involved in so many other activities. He would meet with Moorhead and Bloom a couple of times a month for general strategy sessions, but as time rolled on, it was clearly Sam Bellamy’s station. Ratings reached the six-share level and KMET was making John Kluge a lot of money.
Meanwhile, Harrison and Bob Wilson were having their problems. They were constantly arguing over philosophy and direction for
Radio and Records
until their once tight relationship was breached beyond repair. Harrison splintered off to form his own company, Goodphone Communications, which published a tip sheet aimed at AOR stations. He worked with Norm Pattiz and Westwood One Radio Network to develop more syndicated programs, while continuing his Saturday morning involvement with KMET, which was now garnering monster ratings. It proved so popular that the mayor of Los Angeles was moved to proclaim a Michael Harrison Day in his honor.
But as the sun began to set on the seventies, hubris caused KMET to lose its way again. Intoxicated by their success, the jocks were demanding more musical freedom and Bellamy was giving it to them. KLOS remained a steady AOR presence, and KROQ had signed on to champion the new-wave and punk-rock movement. KMET was now outflanked—one station was steering down the middle of the road, picking up casual listeners who were turned off by KMET’s eclecticism, and the younger listeners seeking new music were flocking to KROQ.
By 1979, KMET had become totally free form again, with all the wonderful creativity that offered. But the station was also subject to the maddening musical inconsistency that undisciplined progressive jocks fall prey to. In a highly competitive market, ratings were sagging with the onslaught of the two other stations, not to mention the emerging popularity of Rick Dees and his revitalized Top Forty concept on KIIS. Los Angeles was the market where Bill Drake’s BOSS radio was fostered, proving that a well-executed Top Forty station could always be a potent force in the market. KMET needed help, and Moorhead was lost in a morass of personal problems. He’d been unable to bring Bellamy back to the formula that had given the station its initial success. He was fired, and longtime sales manager Howard Bloom was elevated to the general manager’s post to stanch the bleeding. It seemed that free-form radio in Los Angeles was doomed once again.
I Didn’t Expect the
Spanish Inquisition
In the late seventies, overnights weren’t subject to Arbitron, not that ratings seemed to matter much anyway. Between 2 and 6 a.m., I was able to play and say whatever I wanted. Management rarely was up that late, and I felt I could push the envelope with impunity. One night I met a woman who happened to be a jazz fan. She didn’t like WNEW-FM—she felt it was too sterile because we didn’t play enough jazz. In reality, I played almost none, only the Mahavishnu Orchestra and an occasional Chick Corea or Herbie Hancock fusion piece. But that night, I told her to listen and she might be surprised.
I dug out every jazz album in the library and devoted two thirds of my show to it. It worked and she was demonstratively impressed, but I later felt that I had cheated my audience to satisfy my libido. I never sank to that level again, but it was an early lesson in the power we all had to affect people simply by playing a song or mentioning their name on the radio.
But there was a price to pay for working in the relative obscurity of the overnights. It was safe in terms of job security but you would never be a star or even a major player. If you did well for an extended period, you could attract a loyal following. Most listeners to the station would know your name but would rarely actually listen. You could draw fans at colleges, where students stayed up late studying or partying, and fellow late-shift workers, but the average nine-to-fiver would never know what you did. Management tended to forget you. This could be good and bad. They never would hassle you for doing something that might get you into trouble in another day part. But when it came time to advance, you were rarely considered.
So I endeavored to expand my role past overnights almost as soon as I started doing them. Within the first two years, I had managed to land the Saturday 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. slot, and a Sunday evening program to go along with three all-night shows. For some unexplained reason, the Saturday midday shift was the highest rated on the station. I kept the music very up-tempo and familiar, limited my raps, and boosted my own energy level from the laid-back style I employed overnight. Sunday nights became my time for interviews and I closed the show with a classical piece, usually something accessible like the
1812 Overture
or “Jupiter” from
The Planets.
It was on this show that I did the first American interview with Monty Python. I discovered them strictly by chance. While sorting through albums one day in my Lefrak City apartment, I came upon this strange-looking record that I couldn’t make heads or tails of. But since WNEW-FM believed that it was our continuing responsibility to break new artists, I dropped a needle on it. At first, I couldn’t understand what I was hearing. Something about the Spanish Inquisition. The liner notes were some prattle about the Swedish prime minister, so I found nothing there to enlighten me about this group, if in fact they were a group. Maybe it was just one man named Monty Python. By the time the first side was over, I was pounding the floor in laughter. I couldn’t wait to play some of their bits on the air to expose this bizarre brand of humor to our audience. Since WNEW and its listeners were predisposed to like anything British, I figured this would be a home run.
I played cuts from the album on the overnights and got little reaction from anyone. But when I played some of their stuff during the Sunday show, the phones went crazy. The following week, I was contacted by their record company. Did I think that this could make it here in the States? They had planned to release the record with very little publicity and see if it found an audience before they would commit to any major promotional campaign. I gave it an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and before long, other jocks turned on to their antics. The record began to sell, and they were brought over to America to do press. I wasn’t sure if they were nervous, jet-lagged, or what, but the interview was peculiarly serious and not very funny. It was a disappointment but subsequent visits went much better and their success was almost unparalleled in the annals of British comedy.
But that’s just one example of the influence we all had to make something happen. Since most of the major record labels were based in New York, the support of WNEW could mean more to an artist than that of a station with higher ratings in another market. Most of the big record executives listened to WNEW all day, to check their own airplay and to monitor what competitive labels were promoting. But it took more than the advocacy of one jock to make a record successful. If the support ended with one individual, nothing much would develop. But everyone on the air listened to everyone else’s show (stationality), and therefore Dave Herman, who always appreciated and played good comedy, adopted Python, as did Alison and Muni somewhat later. With that kind of support, a record company is encouraged to throw its weight behind a project and you might have a smash.
It’s no wonder, then, that the record promoters took us all seriously, even the lowly overnight man. It was important to get DJs to listen to new product by any means possible. There were a few standard ways to do this, the most basic being a listening party.
For a small investment, the record company would rent a restaurant on a night when they might normally be closed, provide a sumptuous meal, and invite key DJs from all the important stations. Sometimes, they’d do this in every major market, and sometimes they’d hold one in New York and one in Los Angeles and fly in programmers from other cities. Rarely will any member of the media decline free food and entertainment. The artists themselves were generally present, to perform live or just circulate while their record played in the background.
A variation on listening parties were receptions held after performances. Dinner at six, show at eight, party at eleven. Generally, a team of promotion men would divide up responsibilities. Sometimes, when there were heated rivalries with competing stations, one man would squire the WNEW jocks while another would handle WPLJ. At other less warlike times, a group of people from several stations would be taken to dinner collectively, whisked to a concert, and then brought to a postperformance bash.
Monty Python had one of these in the Time-Life Building on Sixth Avenue after a performance at City Center. In addition to DJs, key celebs were also invited so that newspapers would pick up on gossip and further publicize the group. At the Python party, Dennis Elsas and I were talking shop in a corner of the spacious room when a flamboyant-looking man with a shock of distinguished gray hair approached us.
“And who might you be, you handsome young fellow?” the man asked Dennis, swirling his long black cape. He’d obviously had a bit too much to drink, but there was something familiar about him.
“I’m Dennis Elsas, sir. It’s an honor to meet you.” Dennis is a polite fellow, but I never saw him be this deferential to a stranger. The short man in the cape and tuxedo beamed at him, and proceeded to flirt mischievously.
Elsas looked a bit uncomfortable, but said, “My mother is such a big fan of yours. Wait until I tell her we’ve met.”
The man mumbled something as he realized that Dennis was not interested in anything more than conversation. He gracefully whirled away from us and glided across the room to chat up another group.
“My God, Dennis. Was that Leonard Bernstein?”
“It was. I never knew he was so short.”
At these parties, you could meet anyone—from the mayor to famous athletes to performers in all fields of entertainment. Schwartz and Fornatale weren’t into that scene. Dave Herman lived in Connecticut at that time and had to be in early, so you rarely saw him. You might encounter jocks from PLJ, but as their power to program their own music diminished, their invitations dwindled proportionately. It was all legal, as long as you kept the entertainment below the financial limit imposed by Metromedia as protection against payola. And we all had to sign a disclosure form on a yearly basis that affirmed we hadn’t received special favors for airplay.
Lunches with artists were another means of promotion. Usually, the performer was scheduled for an interview with Muni in the afternoon. The entourage would arrive at noon, and Scottso and the music director or any other jock who happened to be around would be taken to lunch at the Palm or “21” or any prestigious restaurant within walking distance. The artist and Muni would get to know each other over the meal if they hadn’t been previously associated.
I’ll never forget my first experience with this. José Feliciano had made a record that his label believed could be played on rock stations and they were bringing him around to promote it. He was a major star on the easy-listening stations and the subject of some controversy for his rendition of the national anthem at the World Series in 1968. We sat in a fancy restaurant with his German shepherd guide dog lying at his feet. Many of the other patrons, not recognizing Feliciano, complained to management about the well-behaved dog’s presence until it was explained to them. They nodded and proceeded to gawk at José for the remainder of the meal.
It always amazed me how shy most artists are when not performing. At a similar lunch with Roy Orbison, he was monosyllabic. It wasn’t that he was standoffish or unfriendly, but he was uncomfortable putting words to his feelings with strangers unless it was in song. So many other musicians were the same way. The exceptions were folks like Elton John and Pete Townshend, who were hams at heart and loved pressing the flesh with the media, although often fortified with alcohol while doing so. Elsas once interviewed Townshend about a solo release, but soon found him talking about the Who with such reverence and respect that it became obvious that Pete was the biggest fan the band could have. Townshend knew and appreciated what his group meant to the public, and always made himself available to radio people. He once excoriated WNEW producer Marty Martinez for wearing headphones. “They’ll make you deaf, they will,” he expounded. “Wore ’em meself onstage for years, now I’m deaf as a post.”
“What?” Martinez replied.
Muni interviewed Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin one afternoon and was stunned when the colorful guitarist collapsed onto the floor in mid-sentence. Scott quickly put a record on and rushed to the musician’s aid. No harm was done—Page had been out partying for days on end and had merely fallen asleep while talking with Scottso. They placed the guest microphone on the floor, and Page did the remainder of the interview from a supine position.
One of the most enjoyable nights I ever had was in the company of Rick Springfield, who had several hits and was a huge soap-opera star but had little credibility with AOR stations, which saw him as just a pop star. Springfield, local A&M promoter Rick Stone, and I went to a small Indian restaurant, where we got rip-roaring drunk and spent most of the night re-creating Monty Python routines. Springfield, for all his fame at the time, was a down-to-earth fellow with a lively wit and a lot of talent who happened to be cursed/blessed with a teen-idol face. Like a buxom blond actress who no one takes seriously, his skills were underestimated by AOR stations swayed by his pretty-boy appearance.
There were many times when you’d be wined and dined by record promoters when no artist was around, or taken to a sporting event when there was nothing specifically to hype. I went to the 1973 World Series games at Shea Stadium with Herb Alpert of A&M, just to create goodwill toward the label. And that was important. During the early seventies, there might be ten albums a week that were ticketed for rock airplay. Even with our liberal policies, scattering airplay among that many records did no one any good.
During that era we might play a song or two an hour by totally new artists. There might be thirty-six slots a day when a nonestablished performer might get airplay. With forty records a month, if everyone got equal spins, each artist might get exposed once a day, not nearly enough to mean anything. Six plays a day at minimum were needed to make any kind of impact. At a progressive station, that meant at least four jocks solidly behind the record—no easy task, given their diverse tastes. So a record company had to hope they’d created enough credibility with the jocks so that a promoter could ask that his offering be considered above the others.
This put us in a tough spot sometimes. When promoters became your “friends” they would ask for favors, like playing a record you didn’t like in order to “help them out.” You’d hear entreaties like “My job’s at stake, man,” and you’d want to be sympathetic. But ultimately, playing a bad record helped no one. The listeners would turn you off, or at least question your taste. And if the record was truly bad, no amount of airplay would cause it to sell, so the promoter didn’t benefit much. And you hurt other artists who deserved the play more. So most of us took our responsibilities seriously and tried to judge what we played impartially, without succumbing to pressure from the labels. We all had moments of weakness, though, where we tried to help out friends when the decisions weren’t so clear-cut.
Imagine auditioning all that new music and trying to decide what was good enough for attention and what wasn’t, often based on one listen. And how did the mood you were in affect how you responded? A soft, sensitive ballad could speak volumes to you when you’re feeling low, but might get dismissed as sentimental pap if you’re in the mood to rock.
You also had to separate your personal feelings toward an artist from your aesthetic judgment. Over the years, you do become friendly with a handful of performers, and sometimes they don’t make records that your station can support.
A good example was Styx. James Young of that Detroit band became a buddy of mine for a period in the early eighties. He was interested in drag racing and took me to Englishtown, New Jersey, on several occasions to hang with Shirley Muldowney, a friend of his and a truly extraordinary woman. But Styx never really got the kind of airplay at WNEW that they had in the rest of the country, where they were considered the biggest band of the seventies. Most of our jocks dismissed them as hopelessly corporate.