Radio Daze
I wanted to be one of the voices that came out of the speaker.
Wow!
All kinds of people were hiding in the wooden cloth-covered cabinet with the lighted dial. People told funny stories, sang songs, reported something called “The News.” To a kid, it was a magic world available at the twist of a dial.
Our teachers at a Chicago suburban grammar school knew something about the use of this magic. There was a noontime show on WLS, Chicago that specialized in historical dramas, produced live in front of a live audience. Three of our classes at Jackson School would get on a bus and go see the show.
About a hundred of us crammed into a large studio where actors, announcers, and sound effects specialists were getting ready for a show devoted to Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. The wonder started with live music from a piano, and the announcer explaining that President Lincoln was taking time out to talk with a few young kids. The young kids were played by two middle-aged adults who sure sounded like kids.
When the show was over, someone announced “clear,” and we were invited to talk with the actors and the other people who put on the show. The most popular was the guy who did all the sound effects. He was happy to let a few of us clop horse hooves on a block of wood.
The experience stuck with me. This radio stuff was magic. I wanted more. I wanted in. But it would take years of listening before I got to the broadcasting side of Radio.
My first break came when my college radio station put out a notice that they were looking for experienced talent to take an afternoon shift. I discussed this with a friend over a couple beers.
“We have a lot of experience,” Johnny said. “Hell, we’ve been listening for years.”
“Yeah, but they want us to be on the air experienced,” I said. “We could make up a story…”
“Yeah, like we’ve been working in Houston,” Johnny said. “No one will check that. If they do, we’ll say it was somewhere else. What do we have to lose. It’s not like they’re going to pay us for the privilege of yacking about the Beatles.”
The management of WRBC, Chicago said “Okay” to the “John and Ray Show.”
There were a few drawbacks, however. We had one microphone, one working turntable, and a collection of about five obscure LPs. To say the station was threadbare would be to give it an upgrade.
We went to work. A few records from our own collections helped. Finding a way to quickly move one LP off a turntable and putting another on while one of us spoke was an exercise in contortion. Everything was live.
We did perfect the art of getting benefits from our non-paying gig.
”We’ll be happy to put anyone on our show as a guest if they bring coffee or something similar,” we announced. And people showed up with goodies, some of them smokeable.
Our guests included people bitching about Viet Nam, Chicago weather, Chicago cops, and Chicago politicians.
Other guests praised the Chicago Symphony, the Chicago Fire Department, and the Chicago Cubs.
We were a hit.
But then the term ended. It was time for summer jobs that paid real money.
We never got back to the “John and Ray Show.”
John went off to New York to pursue a career in music. I hung on in the Windy City for a few years working for politicians I could barely stand the sight of.
My radio involvement came in the form of guessing trivia questions on WGN, Chicago’s Wally Phillips Show. Minor fame came to me through answering the question of the day, live on the air. The reward was a case of beer, frisbees, Cubs shirts, and dinner out at some great restaurants. My run lasted over a year, but it wasn’t enough.
One day, my mate sat me down and announced that I wasn’t happy. There was something I wanted to do that I wasn’t doing.
Radio, I said.
“Let’s do it,” she said.
I took a course leading to an FCC First Class License. We borrowed an expensive reel to reel tape deck and started making audition tapes.
As the course ended, one of the instructors asked me if I wanted limited work at CBS outlet WBBM-FM.
“Me?” I asked.
“There’s a strike on,” he said. “The union has agreed to let freelancers stay to identify the station on the hour. Your job will be to say ‘WBBM-FM, Chicago.’”
And that’s what I did for three hours, expanding my part with abandon: “This is WBBM-FM, Chicago. It’s 7 am.”
I had all the experience I needed— WLS, WRBC, WGN, and WBBM-FM. It wouldn’t be hard to move to South Florida Radio.
Or so I thought.