1.
It was "Free Hour," which simply meant just that in literal terms. I was in my second week of a budding college career choosing to begin my continuing education path at the Long Island campus of the
New York Institute of Technology. Having no interest in leaving the comfort and security of home and even less enthused in joining a fair percentage of my graduating classmates at a nearby two-year school,
New York Tech would at the very least, mark a fresh start for me. Still feeling awkward and overwhelmed, I took a seat alone in the nondescript classroom on the lower level of a building known as
Education Hall, noting with some cynicism that a willing donor had yet to surface with enough cash in the coffer to earn the distinction of having his or her name adorn the front of the building. The decision to go to college immediately following thirteen years of regular schooling had been met with some reluctance on my part. Having gone through the unpleasant registration process, enrolling in a number of classes I really could not have given a damn about, I spent those early days simply going through the motions. Looking around the nearly filled classroom, I relegated any disparaging thoughts to the back of my mind and began to feel the first hint of excitement. I was about to take a major step, pursuing a dream that had festered within me since childhood. Undismayed by the large amount of people who had made a similar decision, I personally vowed not to get lost in the crowd, to rise above the throng of nameless, faceless others and make my mark.
I’ve been told that my fascination with radio began at an early age. In my High School Sophomore year, I orchestrated the set up of two separate stereo systems at a backyard party with the plan of mixing records and cassettes, effectively keeping a constant flow of music playing. Known as
segueing in proper radio terminology as I would later learn, it eliminates the uncomfortable silence between songs also known in
radio-ese as “Dead Air.”
Sometime during my Junior High School Years, I placed a call to New York Disc Jockey; Del Demontreau during his tenure at WNEW 1130-am. It was deep into the middle of a sleepless night for me. My brother, with whom I shared a bedroom exhibiting no signs of insomnia slept through my first fifteen minutes of fame. Del had asked listeners to call in with a favorite joke. Having recently heard a
real doozy from my Grandfather, I rose to the challenge, shocked when the man himself answered the phone on the first ring!
Ginger, our beloved mutt and another light sleeper had taken that moment to saunter upstairs and check on the commotion I was so carefully trying not to make. Nearing the punch line, I froze mid-sentence at the sound of the door quietly creaking open, convinced that I was about to find myself in deep trouble.
“Hold on a minute,” I whispered frantically to a patient Mr. Demontreau on the other end.
Hearing the unmistakable sound of her claws merrily making their way across the linoleum floor, I released the breath I had been holding.
“Sorry, it’s only my dog,” I said with great relief.
I returned to the comfort of my bed following the animated conclusion of our phone conversation, and eagerly awaited my late night public debut.
My mind began to wander, when suddenly I sat bolt upright in a panic, realizing with a doomed certainty, that come morning I would indefinitely find myself seriously grounded. Downstairs, my parent’s had gone to bed with the radio on as they always had, tuned to the very same station I had only minutes earlier hung up with.
“Don’t mention my name, don’t mention my name,” I silently pleaded.
He did.
Rather than bask in the glow of my sudden fame, I listened intently for the angry sound of footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs. I could barely hear the sound of my voice coming from the radio speaker over the incessant thudding of blood pumping in my ears, perfectly synchronized to the rapid beating of my swiftly aging heart.
The moment passed without incident. Sighing with relief, I laughed quietly, then rolled over with a mischievous smile across my face, sleep still a long way off.
During those younger years, the local radio stations of choice were 66 WNBC, and 77 WABC. There was no need in making a habit of calling on-air talent to request songs. With a music library of not much more than the current top 40, it was a good bet that whatever you had wanted to hear was not far off. Add to that the fact that the line was always busy anyhow, it was not worth the time to pick up the phone in the first place. My accidental discovery of another radio station, which came into the home not via conventional airwaves, but rather through the tiny speaker on the television set changed everything I had known about radio, which was not much. I had no idea from where
WNYT originated, but the fact that the DJ’s were easily accessible, and willing to play requests made it an instant fave. It sounded to my untrained ears like a real radio station, and I found no fault in the fact that it was only available via the local cable company's
What’s On Channel. I never grew tired of hearing my name mentioned on the air.
A few days prior to the beginning of my educational evolution, I elected to take a drive and familiarize myself with the campus layout. The college grounds at first
glance seemed to be carved right out of a deeply wooded forest, a realization I had come to as I made my way from its hub to the oddly distant buildings on the north campus. Following the posted road signs, I found myself on a picturesque winding road that would eventually terminate at
Education Hall, home of
WNYT radio. The call letters seemed to ring a bell somewhere in the back of my mind, but feeling almost inspired by the pastoral beauty of the land I had failed to comprehend the enormity of what was not just mere coincidence, but fate!
The conversational buzz in the room, now filled well beyond its capacity, quickly quieted down once the door was closed, signaling that the meeting was about to begin. I eagerly scanned the faces at the front table, trying to match them to the voices with whom I had long been familiar. Following the brief introductory summaries of the executive board members, it was time to decide in which department to begin my radio career. I had hoped to get on the fast track to sitting in the coveted pilot’s seat, broadcasting to the untold millions. Nearly ninety percent of the attendees that afternoon harbored the same aspirations. Opting for the path of least resistance I introduced myself to Music Director,
Eddie B. The radio station consisting of only three rooms was smaller than I had imagined, I considered during the brief tour I had been afforded, but my brief feelings of disappointment turned to awe when the on-air light was lit, and the DJ’s voice resonated through the house speakers.
The following afternoon, I reported for my first day of
work, where I was given a more in-depth look into the inner workings of the music department. My first official task seemed akin to something a lowly private might be expected to undertake in his earliest days at Boot Camp. I
would be re-cataloging the entire music library from A to Z, using a slightly more complex structure than that of the
Dewey Decimal System. In short, I was beginning a career in broadcasting as an unpaid stock boy. By the time I had reached the artists that began with the letter B, I had acquired an interesting skill, a small piece of knowledge that only a scant few might appreciate. I now knew the
exact corresponding number of every letter in the alphabet, something I would dazzle my family with on a nightly basis.
“Go ahead, any letter,” I would prompt my mom.
“S.”
“Nineteen,” I responded without hesitation, the letter S indeed being the nineteenth letter in the alphabet.
Twenty-seven years later, I still know all of that by heart.
Proving my dedication, I stayed with that grueling chore for weeks, and made a few new friends along the way. There was
Ron G, who had attended the same introductory meeting, declaring his allegiance to the news department,
Steve H, whose love for Jazz music had earned him the nickname “Jazzman.” He went the management route and reported to the Operations Director.
Eddie B, without exaggeration had become like a mentor to me, allowing me to sit in on production and recording sessions, making sure that staff members knew who I was and urging me to observe as many air shifts as my schedule would allow. Readily heeding his advice,
I spent a lot of time around General Manager,
Maria Milito who allowed me to sit in the air studio during many of her broadcasts. She was bright, she was entertaining, and she was never condescending. It would be an injustice not to mention other members of the senior staff who were equally as open to helping the newcomers forge ahead in shaping the radio station's future. Sports Director,
Angelo S, News Director,
Tracey M, and Operations Director
Bruce W all come immediately to mind. I learned a lot from behind the scenes, but the daunting site of the control board was still a little intimidating.
I remember the first day of my
Radio 101 course, held in a group of rooms just across the hall from the radio station. Sitting in Studio A, we listened to
Liz and
Paula, the instructors who would be taking us through the fundamentals of basic radio production. The control board was old enough that we had to wait for the tubes inside to warm up before it was usable. I kept thinking to myself, there’s no way I’m going to be able to do this, but when my turn finally came and I sat in the big chair, cued up my first record, hit the start button, and brought up the volume all in one fluid motion, I felt both the rush of excitement and the calm of relief sweep over me.
I could do it.
I would do it.
And there was no stopping me!
2.
“Learn production,” Eddie would repeatedly prompt me. Looking around at the vast array of equipment and complicated patch bays that dominated the radio station’s production studio, my confidence level wavered. Sure, I was starting to get used to the lab equipment just across the hall, but
that side is made for mistakes, I surmised. This side is the real world! I continued at my
own pace, working hard enough in more mundane tasks to remain a viable member of the radio station staff. There were the unlikable trips to the campus copy room where I would collate, staple, and stuff numerous copies of the
WNYT playlist, a weekly accounting of the music and artists that were part of the daily on-air rotation, followed by multiple post office runs. Located several miles from the campus, it would often result in the search for a nearly non-existent parking spot upon my return. Probably the least favorite of my freshman tasks, I dutifully performed it week after week for the sake of the cause.
MTV was still in its infancy during those days, music videos still a novelty and WNYT’s
Video Rock Night, a long-standing tradition had always served as one of the most popular events on campus. The video compilations were often donated by the very record companies who had been the recipients of the hastily mailed playlists. The big hit of the evening however, had been a student film version of an old
Flash ‘n the Pan tune called
Media Man, expertly produced by a small group of WNYT staff members. I’m surprised that in this age of technology, that not one of them has had the foresight to put it up on
Youtube. Maybe my opinion is skewed somewhat, but to me it was a masterpiece.
Now beginning to feel some degree of acceptance, I attended the
New York Tech homecoming dance at a nearby catering hall with a number of senior staff members, having been asked to join them there as part of the group. The highlight of that first semester however, came on a cold November Friday night, in a parking lot behind the old Northstage Theater in Glen Cove where I boldly parked my 1970 VW bug in front of the backstage door. A lifelong Beach Boys fan, funds
were tight in those days, and sadly I had not possessed enough cash to purchase a ticket to lead singer Mike Love’s performance in support of his newly released solo record,
Looking Back With Love. Dressed in my black satin WNYT staff jacket, I slyly coerced an unsuspecting roadie who was probably as impressed with my self-important college radio status as I was, into letting me inside. Miraculously, when my childhood idol walked into his dressing room several minutes later to find me nervously standing there, he was both cordial and accommodating, agreeing to participate in a telephone interview the following afternoon. I had yet to figure out a way to pull off this feat, but was too excited to worry about it.
The next morning, a very groggy sounding
Eddie B answered the phone and selflessly agreed to meet me at the station later. Now all I had to figure out was how to conduct a rock and roll interview. The next several hours were spent busily writing down the questions and then practicing them aloud word for word. I breathlessly arrived at the station at 2pm sharp to find Eddie with everything set to go. Going over my notes one last time, I nodded from my microphone in the adjoining room. Tape was rolling when I picked up the phone and dialed up the lead singer of the legendary Beach Boys. He was undeniably patient while I irrefutably demonstrated my inexperience.
“The best thing I like about this album is that it sounds just like the Beach Boys,” I began proudly.
It was a ridiculous statement.
How was I supposed to know that solo albums are created as an extension of something beyond what the artist is generally known for?
It would not be the last time that I would show my naïveté. Several months later, asked to
conduct a phone interview with Danny Elfman of
Oingo Boingo to cover the release of their second album, I reluctantly agreed.
“What’s your favorite track,” he cloyingly baited me?
“To tell you the truth, I really don’t know anything about you guys yet,” I lamely replied.
I could hear the resonant groaning from both the other end of the phone and the other end of the radio station.
Charlie Midnight, a new artist on the Columbia records label unexpectedly dropped by the studio one afternoon and once again I was in the right place at completely the wrong time. He was a big, tough looking brute who came from a shady past. By this time, I was getting better at sticking to the simple questions, “What were your influences, tell me about this track, tell me about that cut.” It was following the end of one such tune when he began relaying the tale of a working girl during his days as a bouncer in a bordello. I looked at him blankly, having no idea what he was talking about.
What can I say?
It was a learning process.
Hosting skills aside, I had finally become proficient enough in the area of production to present these interviews for air on WNYT’s
The Rock Rap, where they came off only semi-flawed, yet succinctly believable. I was becoming comfortable now, and while the road ahead would undoubtedly be paved with the occasional missteps and mishaps, my dedication had not gone unnoticed. Accompanying Assistant Music Director Ana C to a press conference at
the midtown Manhattan offices of Elektra records provided clear proof that I was now a recognized (and to some degree), respected staff member. Sixties legend Del Shannon, in town to promote his newly released comeback LP would be meeting with members of both the mainstream and college radio communities. Unfamiliar with his contribution to the music world, I carefully studied the label-produced bio and mentally prepared a few insightful questions should the opportunity present itself. The excitement of feeling like I was actually
on the inside overshadowed the whole event. An Elektra representative took us through the protocols of how the conference would be handled. Leaving the room, he gave us time to
gather some thoughts, as we eagerly awaited the arrival of this 1960’s icon of whom I still knew little about. The rest is a blur, yet the interview in its fully produced capacity still lives on cassette tape somewhere within the cluttered confines of my apartment.
Subsequent press conferences included Patrick Simmons of Doobie Brothers fame, Greg Kihn, and Lou Ann Barton; a blues singer whose debut record had been produced by ex-eagle member and soon to be solo artist in his own right, Glenn Frey. Still relatively clueless, I referred to him as Glenn
Fr ‘A’ y on the final production of that aired interview.
I never took my eyes off of the big prize however, and nearing the end of the spring semester turned my thoughts towards becoming an air
personality. The first step would be to record an air check (
radio-ese for demo tape). Not a lot of attention was paid to classes that week as I prepared for my first step towards super-stardom. An important part of the air check was not only the vocal prowess of the individual, but production techniques as well. There was more to it than just successful segues. Learning to talk over music at the proper level sounds simple enough until you hear yourself in a pair of headphones. Getting used to the sound of your voice on tape is an even more difficult task. While the radio station was not governed by the FCC due to its lack of FM frequency, we followed closely many of the FCC rules and regulations, one of the most important being the
Legal I.D.; the identification of the station call letters and broadcast location at the top of every hour. There are those who sing in the shower. I’m pretty convinced that I spent several hours in mine, practicing the all-important delivery of the
legal I.D.“Rocking The Island. WNYT, Old Westbury.”
Hmmm, I would think. Let me try it more Harry Harrison, WCBS.
“Rocking The Island. WNYT, Old Westbury.”
The natural echo of the shower was great for CBS-FM style impersonations. What came out on the air check however was pure Morty, or pure
Mawty before I corrected the regional New York accent. Two days later, my mailbox (another sure sign that I had now reached full staff acceptance) contained my returned air check reel with a note affixed that simply read, "
O.K. for air."
The dream had now been realized.
It would be a while yet before I would have my own time slot. Newbie’s were generally
relegated to fill-in status until something became available. Nearly a week had gone by before an opportunity arose for me to do an hour on General Manager Maria Milito’s show.
My hands were shaking and my heart was racing when I sat down upon the hard cold stool in front of a microphone that seemed suddenly menacing.
Music fading, I hit the start button on my first record. The Cars;
Shake it Up began to play for few seconds before I very unconfidently brought the audio level down, turned up the mic and began to speak.
“Rocking the Island, WNYT, Old Westbury,” I shakily began, sounding as if the floor beneath me was trembling violently.
The hour went faster than it should have been allowed to. By the end of my unmemorable debut, I was a bit more at ease. When a fill-in shift opened the following afternoon for an entire four hours, I skipped the first of many classes to do it. By the time summer had rolled around, I was comfortably embedded in a slot of my own, and continued to cover fill-in’s whenever possible. There was late night Saturdays spent with
The Battle of the Towns crew, Al Richards, Scotty H, and “The Thing,” followed by a
later night trip to the diner with my freshman counterparts Ron G and Steve “Jazzman.” When September came, we were excited to be a fully recognized part of the team, attending the radio station's introductory
Open House now as seasoned veterans. I like to believe that we treated the new freshmen with the same respect that we had been given. We were also becoming much more attuned to the radio industry and as a result, the three of us decided to take it a step further and attend the Intercollegiate Broadcasting System's (IBS) convention in Washington D.C. Had it not been for Steve’s insistence that this was a great idea, I probably would never have gone. Not a seasoned traveler by any means, the idea of going to D.C. seemed preposterous, yet on a cool March morning in darkness, I climbed into my trusty VW and drove to the Farmingdale residence of the
Jazzman. The journey to our nation’s capitol in Steve’s far trustier, yet only slightly roomier vehicle took roughly five hours. Camden, New Jersey; a town we knew nothing about had shone like a beacon in our quest to reach D.C., only because of the numerous signage touting the mileage in which it would be reached. We sailed past the exit, continuing south with much exaggerated fanfare. Most of the conversation revolved around radio, Steve pondering the idea that most frequencies should remain within the same format, thus if listening to a New York jazz station at 101.9, it would make sense that when coming into range of a new station at the same frequency, the music should remain unchanged. We were know it all college kids, together on the road for the first time. As D.C. loomed closer, the excitement mounted, but in the back of my mind, there also lurked a sense of foreboding.
From my earliest days of childhood, I had developed a phobia for elevators. My mom claims it started from the days of a stroller, recalling an incident in a department store where the operator closed the doors and I immediately became frantic. I distinctly recall an event in later years, taking a trip into the city on a Saturday morning with my dad. Arriving in the darkened lobby of the small building, we stepped into the elevator and began to ascend. Reaching our destination, the doors refused to open. I panicked, while my dad tried to explain the car would return to the lobby where we would unlock the floor and try again. The site of the imposing steel door on the other side of the now open elevator doors once we’d arrived the second time was almost too much for me to bear. I could successfully count the times between then and the current moment in my life that I had since entered an elevator. Now, with hotel reservations at the Capitol Hilton, I prayed that we would be on a lower floor. My preoccupation with these thoughts precludes my earliest memories of seeing the historical buildings that dotted the landscape. My first impression upon crossing the border from Virginia was, wow, this place is a dump, an opinion that was completely alleviated once the capitol district came into view. The sight of the White
House and the Washington Monument from the lobby entrance was inspiring. Receiving our room assignment from the reservations desk eliminated that happy thought however, as I stoically approached the bank of elevators, destination, ninth floor. I didn’t breathe when the doors closed and we were suddenly whisked upwards. Unused to the feel of that type of movement, it tickled my stomach a bit, quickly allaying my fear. Safely arriving upstairs, I had reached a personal milestone, conquering the phobia I had nursed for so long. It had been my love for college radio that had come to my aid that day. I suppose experts might negate that, calling it
Peer Pressure instead.
Our days had been spent attending a number of different presentations, our nights in the hotel
ballrooms where we had been treated to a number of free concerts by up and coming bands including
The Accelerators, and
The Philistines, neither of whom progressed much further in the industry, and
REM, who did okay. We carried a tape recorder and microphone with us, trying to amass as many artist I.D.’s for the radio station as possible. Basically, it entailed stopping by the record company booths, and allowing their people to say, “Hi, I’m so and so. You’re listening to the
Island Rocker,
WNYT. Steve, a major David Letterman fan in those days had been on a personal mission to take the artist identification one-step further, intending to bait someone into saying the words “It’s just plain big.” I had never seen the piece that inspired this bit of whimsy, but the game dominated the entire conference.
In our free time, which was voluntarily plentiful, we toured the mall area, visiting the top of the Washington Monument, another monumental step in my elevator recovery program. Obsessed with a Beach Boys concert that had taken place on those very grounds only a year ago and having seen the resulting HBO special on several occasions, I tried in vain to place where the stage had been, probably missing some of the finer nuances of this historic piece of real estate. Upon my return home I had garnered a new obsession; watching the news, always with the hope of catching a glimpse of my now beloved Washington D.C. My love for the movie
D.C. Cab, an admitted guilty pleasure, was a direct result of that trip as well.
3.
Changes were taking place both within the radio station and the very industry as well. New faces included Scott A, a heavy metal fan whose primary obsession was
Rush, Lisa S, a transfer student from the nearby community college I had forsaken over a year ago, Mike M, whose devotion to new music quickly landed him in the music director’s position. Donna V, a neighborhood friend of the Jazzman made her niche in the news department, and Marianne S, the biggest Greg Kihn fan I have ever known was welcomed aboard. I, for one remained primarily a hit-radio man, my mind still not as open to the prospect of new music as it should have been. I vehemently abhorred the terms
New Wave and
New 
Music. Moving up the corporate ladder, I ascended to the position of Production Director. Steve and Ron followed as well, with Ron becoming News Director, and Steve taking the top spot as General Manger. We weren’t above going to the post office however, which at times had become rather enjoyable.
P.O. box 429 was always crammed with packages, most of them being new record offerings from their respective labels. I
specifically remember Steve and myself returning to the station one day to pore through the latest acquisitions. We couldn’t wait to give the new
Hall and Oates tune a spin, the two of us awestruck as "Say It Isn't So reached its conclusion. I would bet that Steve’s opinion in these later years might read a bit differently, if he remembers that moment at all. I don’t know why I do, but simply chalk it up to the inane talent I’ve come to realize for remembering some of the most inconsequential details of my life.
The Production studio was also the scene of one of the most poignant moments in my college radio years. On May 10 1982, a large group of staffers gathered around, spilling into the hallway. Radio history was about to be made with the official sign-off of Musicradio WABC.
From
Wikipedia:
…the day WABC stopped playing music, is sometimes called "The Day The Music Died". WABC ended its 22-year run as a music station with a 9 a.m.-noon farewell show hosted by longtime WABC disc jockeys Dan Ingram and Ron Lundy. The last song played on WABC before the format change was "Imagine" by John Lennon, followed by the familiar WABC "Chime Time" jingle, then a moment of silence before the debut of the new talk format.
WNYT observed the moment of silence with near reverence. Scotty H, a big fan of the Top 40 format was especially moved, nearly to the point of tears. In the coming weeks, he would institute his own Top 40 format, something that was entirely unheard of in the realm of college radio, another benefit of not being governed by the FCC. A fan of the genre myself, I signed on to do one of the new weekend shifts. Following a different programming clock, seemed an easy enough undertaking, but it wound up being surprisingly challenging. Most of the tunes were considerably shorter than the typical music the station played during the week, which meant a lot of quick thinking, and breathlessly running around the studio looking for additional songs to fill time. Scotty also had me obsessing over a well-known DJ technique called Hitt
ing the Post, wherein the jock talks over the introduction of the song, right to the moment when the vocals kick in. It takes a good degree of finesse to get it down. I still find myself mentally doing it today whenever a song begins playing.
4.New York Tech played host to a small number of rural legends. Heading north on the often lightly traveled road to
Ed Hall, one couldn’t help but to notice the imposing structure of an old building nestled deep within the woods. A refuge for professor’s and staff, the
French Chateau was reputed to be haunted. Offices inhabited the first two levels of the edifice. Off limits, the third floor, often darkened even during the daylight hours was reserved for
apparitions only.
Another pseudo-legend claimed that it was possible to reach the buildings of the central campus from its distant northern terminus via the
deep, dark woods. A small number of ‘NYT staff members sated on wine and giddy with Spring Fever dispelled that myth one early May afternoon. Two bottles down and a third one just opened, the idea sprung out of nowhere. With a sense of bravado and foolhardiness, we set off into the forest
Blair Witch style, long before the
Blair Witch Project creative team had even come into existence. With no form of communications to keep us connected to the outside world, we could very well have succumbed to whatever evil resided in those woods. After all, we would be circumnavigating at what we hoped would be a safe distance, the rear grounds of the fabled
French Chateau. No one knew where spirits disappeared to during the daylight hours. We were more concerned with the final bottle of spirits disappearing before our very eyes. Taking advantage of the false sense of daring and overall silliness, the often-reserved Jazzman turned to Scott A, his heavy metal nemesis and uttered words that I shall not long forget:
“Scott, I know it’s just the wine talking, and you’re a really great guy and all, but I have to tell you, man. I think Rush really sucks.”
The ensuing laughter carried across Long Island’s north shore acreage, from the nearby mansions to the far-off destination of the central campus, the rumor/legend downgraded to fact upon our greatly celebrated safe arrival.
My favorite tale of Tech lore comes from that of
WNYT itself, the little station that could, would or did, at a time when I believe it may have been broadcast on the AM radio band, before finding a new home on
Cablevision. Rumor had it that certain members of the late 70’s staff had taken it upon themselves to boost their coverage over a more widespread area, with the notion of tapping into the power of one of the campus streetlamps. The signal surged like a rapidly advancing storm front, crossing the Long Island sound to Connecticut where listeners of 660 AM
WNBC were suddenly treated to a new sound,
The Island Rocker, WNYT. The broadcast coup did not last long, once the authorities became involved. Punishment was swift, the station ordered to cease and desist, Their FCC license revoked. Is there any truth to all of it? I don’t know, but it was always an entertaining yarn.
During my tenure there, we did come into an AM transmitter for a short period, compliments of
Scotty H, who in his determination was adamant towards getting
WNYT on the air and Top 40 back on the dial. We wasted no time in turning it on one Friday afternoon. Chief Engineer, Johnny C and I climbed into his red Chevy Nova, driving away from the building to assess the extent of our new signal coverage, only to find disappointment before reaching civilization at the other end of campus. John, displaying his extensive engineering expertise, chose to attach a long metal wire to the unit, and string it out the window where Scotty, exercising his then unknown talent scaled the nearest tree, faux antenna clenched tightly between his teeth.
I wanted to tap into one of the fabled streetlamps.
“We’ve got some real height now,” he yelled, his body lost in the maze of leaves and limbs.
Returning to the car, we were ecstatic to find that the signal reached several miles further, well beyond the reach of the New York Tech property line. History however, chose to repeat itself in the form of a phone call from the
Westbury Drive-in, one of the last theaters of its kind on Long Island. Rather than the traditional speaker to hang on the inside of the car window, the theater used a small number of low wattage AM transmitters to broadcast the audio for each of their movie screens. One of the transmitters suffered the sad misfortune of broadcasting on the very same frequency that we were. Ghostbuster’s patrons lodged complaints that it was tough to hear the movie over the competing sounds of
The Island Rocker.
Thwarted again.
The disappointment minimal at most did not last long.
FM TOP 40 HITS NEW YORK. The message scrawled proudly across the hallway blackboard in Scotty’s unmistakable handwriting referred to the long-awaited debut of Z-100 (WHTZ). With the birth of Scott Shannon’s
Z-Morning Zoo, WNYT responded with the
Steve and Scotty Show, a short-lived college version of a top 40-morning show. Many of us had become instant
Z-100 fans. Proudly showing our approval, we submitted a sixty-second commercial for a contest touting the Zoo’s favorite alcoholic refreshment,
Hiney wine. In horrific karaoke fashion, we butchered The Beatles Twist and Shout, Jazzman providing a blistering lead vocal, backed up by the inept yet somewhat in tune, Morty, Johnny C, and News Director Donna V. WNYT did not win the grand prize, but the afternoon spent putting that small piece together served as another magical moment which will live in our hearts and minds forever.
Following the demise of the
Steve and Scotty Show, due mostly to the ailment known as graduation, Johnny C and I, with Steve’s blessing, took the reins and began doing The
Morty/Johnny C. Show. By this time, the radio station had also signed on with Suffolk County cable, now reaching an astounding
quarter of a million homes, a figure essentially unattainable for any college station airing in the traditional FM style. To further promote both our own show, and the radio station as a whole, John and I began an innovative campaign we called the High School Salute, wherein we would devote an entire show to a participating school based on mail-in requests. It had been an amazing success, and at the small number of institutions where we had actually made an appearance, we were treated like superstars. My radio dreams had far exceeded any expectations. Catering to my inflating ego a bit, I placed a call for the second time in my life to real radio station, introducing myself to Scott Shannon as Morty of the world renowned (in my own mind)
Morty/Johnny C. Show. Lightning struck again, when my call was
aired, heard this time by a considerably greater amount of listeners. John and I also paid a visit to Howard Stern one afternoon at a local
WNBC-AM remote broadcast. Inspired, the two of us were always in search of new ways to keep the show fresh. We took our show to the great outdoors one Wednesday night, setting up just outside the air studio where we placed a harried phone call to the office of
Public Safety; the campus security team.
“I don’t want to raise any alarms here,” John frantically whispered, but I just saw a couple of guys taking equipment out of the radio station.”
We started the stopwatch precisely at the call’s conclusion, clocking the response time. Had that been an actual emergency, my story would have ended there. Thieves would have had ample time to take the furniture and blackboard as well.
Discipline charges were never filed.
A return to Washington D.C with over thirty
WNYT staff members had been a big highlight in
1984. During the week of the IBS convention, one was hard pressed not to run into someone wearing a
WNYT satin jacket. John and I submitted a one-hour pre-recorded show for the newly formed WIBS radio, a closed circuit broadcast that would be running twenty-four hours a day via the hotel’s information channel. Bringing further attention to both the station and the show, the two of us incurred the expense of having several T-shirts made up, highlighting the
WNYT call letters on the front. The back of each shirt read either,
I’m Not Morty, or
I’m not Johnny C. I often wonder if I may have missed a calling in the field of promotions. I felt then as I still do today that we should have won an award from the Inter-Collegiate Broadcasting Systems committee. I put to use my creative flair, coming up with a dramatic scenario and utilizing the talents of additional air staff members.
John and I are detained at the D.C. airport by FCC agents for executing a certain number of on-air indiscretions.Through the use of flashbacks via low budget sound effects records, we presented what was essentially a greatest hits compilation of some of the best Morty/Johnny C comedy bits. Sadly, any recordings or tapes of that one hour of fame have long since disappeared. I’ve expended a lot of energy over the last several decades trying to recoup pieces of my past in the form of books and music, but nothing tops my list more than finding a copy of this long lost nugget.
An on-air enigma in my mind, I never lost touch with the basics during that period. I spent a good deal of time training new staff members in production basics to help get them started on their chosen path in the field, while simultaneously producing a weekly on-air interview show similar to the
Rock Rap.
Out on the Streets centered on the music of local artists, most of whom were overjoyed at the fact that someone other than fans and family members would be privy to their music. I had pretty well mastered the art of the interview by that point and had the distinct pleasure of interviewing the short-lived keyboard player of the
Marshall Tucker Band, for a
Rock Rap exclusive.
I put to use my still emerging talent in the field of promotions coordinating
a WNYT night in the New York Tech pub featuring
Vōg, an incredible group of local musicians who had achieved some success in the European market and were hoping to accomplish the same on home soil. Standing in traffic atop campus speed bumps, we handed out flyers, mostly to drivers whose cars had already received them by way of our aggressive parking lot campaign. The night had proved a resounding success similar in scope to the long defunct
WNYT Vide
o Rock nights.
5.
The end was nearing, and not due to graduation. Somewhere along the way, Cablevision of Nassau had pulled the plug on the radio station choosing to go the canned music route in lieu of a bunch of unseasoned college kids. Shortly thereafter, Suffolk County followed suit, offering us a new home on their newly instituted
Cable FM frequency. I didn’t know the first thing about
Cable FM, nor did any of their subscribers. "Off the air and we don’t care", had become our new slogan, uttered primarily by a disgruntled John and myself. The first show we did on our new frequency failed miserably. The phone, which had always rung consistently without a moment’s respite remained silent. The rest of the station had been affected as well, the overall pulse, excitement and morale now nearly non-existent. I half-heartedly ran for Progr
am Director, my first shot at moving up to the
Executive Board. I lost that promotion to a relative newcomer and was bitter at their decision, a choice that in hindsight made perfect sense. My mind, still not fully opened to accepting new music had made me a lousy candidate. The IBS convention that year was held
in New York City, another downer. John and I, in an effort to relive the glory days had come up with a scandalous plan to launch an alternate radio station. WBRU,
The Brew, would air on 640 AM by way of the old transmitter, which had lain in a storage closet since its brief heyday. The theory was to use the bathroom showerhead as an antenna, the metal of the interconnected hotel plumbing easily dispersing the signal throughout the building. We would plaster, walls, doors, and bathroom stalls with flyer’s announcing the existence of the pirate radio station, unveiling our identities only at the end of the long weekend. We created taped shows in advance, which were to play throughout the day and allow us the opportunity to partake in conference events. We worked towards that common goal with the fire and fervor of the old days.
It was a masterful plan.
It didn’t work.
Maybe plumbing was not a great conductor after all.
Symbolically, the end of WBRU, spelled the end of my radio career and aspirations. I have no recollections of those last days spent at
WNYT. I dropped out of
New York Tech, taking a full time Audio Visual position at
Hofstra University; my first
real job in the real world.
Three years later, John and I had the opportunity to work together again, this time at a professional radio station, where he was comfortably entrenched in the position of Chief-Engineer. My time spent there, as morning-show producer to WDRE’s
Larry the Duck is a tale for another time.
WNYT continues to broadcast today, in a far greater capacity via the Internet. The potential of homes that the station is reaching worldwide is staggering. In 2005, I had the great pleasure of attending an ‘NYT reunion, spending an hour on the air with John, whom I had loosely kept in touch with over the years and old pal Ron G, whom I literally had not seen in decades. Our chance meeting in the parking lot before going inside was heartwarming. We vowed to remain in contact, and have kept that promise. Shortly following that far too brief afternoon, Ron had e-mailed me, commenting on how much smaller the place had seemed. It had been the first thing I noticed when we walked in the door. Jokingly, I had written back saying, "maybe it’s because we were all a little smaller back then."
Several hours later, I wrote him back again.
"Maybe because back then, it was all larger than life."
Morty,
October 9, 2008
December 6th will officially mark the second year that this site has been up and running. Regretfully and as expected, there have been some lapses in posting with any degree of regularity. The creative burst I had over the summer was encouraging, though creative is pretty far from what it could actually be considered. I am writing about my life after all. Recently, I seem to have hit yet another dry spell, possibly due to my new obsession with the alternate site I have up and running at unknown80s.blogspot.com. The recent reprint I posted here from the magazine I am contributing to, marked my first true spurt of creativity in decades, lending truth to the idea that great things happen when you least expect it. As a result, I now keep in my possession at all times a small memo book to jot down ideas that randomly pop into my head. Usually days after such an event, I will turn to these pages in an attempt to decipher my God-awful handwriting, which by the way afforded me my first and only trip to the Principal's office, but that story will have to wait. If I'm not busy trying to decipher the aforementioned chicken scratch, I find myself scratching my head in complete confusion, wondering what any of it means. I don't know if it's in some sort of secret code or a newly developed Morty version of shorthand, but I find that I lose more great ideas that way. A theologist, philosopher, or my long departed grandmother would simply say, "if it's meant to be, it's meant to be."
pages of a simple composition notebook. You can imagine what it must be like trying to transcribe those words when I can barely read the handwriting that placed them there in the first place. If I were actually typing upon the invention that typewriting was meant for, I would have to take out a small bank loan to cover the amount of White-Out I would need. It's amazing, but once this stuff is posted, it looks pristine (sans typo's of course). I still cringe every time I go back to an earlier posting and catch a mistake I missed during one of the many return trips to my blogging past.
pages of a simple composition notebook. You can imagine what it must be like trying to transcribe those words when I can barely read the handwriting that placed them there in the first place. If I were actually typing upon the invention that typewriting was meant for, I would have to take out a small bank loan to cover the amount of White-Out I would need. It's amazing, but once this stuff is posted, it looks pristine (sans typo's of course). I still cringe every time I go back to an earlier posting and catch a mistake I missed during one of the many return trips to my blogging past.
learning how to prepare a press release for their annual Toys For Tots Run. While the end result didn't garner as much attention as I had hoped, I was still happy with the way in which it was presented. I'm now considering a press release to all of the local papers to advertise my return to writing via the world wide web. Hey, why stop there? It is world wide after all. Why not a press release to publications everywhere?
learning how to prepare a press release for their annual Toys For Tots Run. While the end result didn't garner as much attention as I had hoped, I was still happy with the way in which it was presented. I'm now considering a press release to all of the local papers to advertise my return to writing via the world wide web. Hey, why stop there? It is world wide after all. Why not a press release to publications everywhere?
of the recent back issues there was a great article on struggling with titles. Basically the premise was, you've finally completed your masterpiece, now what are you going to call it? Apparently, one of the biggest roadblocks writers have to face is coming up with a catchy title. I'm happy to report that titles seem to represent the least of my writing problems. In fact, I'm patting myself on the back right now as I type this (not an easy task for someone who can't really type to begin with). Go on and take a look at some of the past titles. Don't worry, I'll be here when you get back.
of the recent back issues there was a great article on struggling with titles. Basically the premise was, you've finally completed your masterpiece, now what are you going to call it? Apparently, one of the biggest roadblocks writers have to face is coming up with a catchy title. I'm happy to report that titles seem to represent the least of my writing problems. In fact, I'm patting myself on the back right now as I type this (not an easy task for someone who can't really type to begin with). Go on and take a look at some of the past titles. Don't worry, I'll be here when you get back.
addendum's for now. Had this been a real typewriter, I would have well been on my way to a third jar of White-Out. Instead, I inwardly groan in Carpal Tunnel agony, probably as a result of improper hand placement upon the keys, or the abuse and overuse of the PC based "Control Z" undo function.
addendum's for now. Had this been a real typewriter, I would have well been on my way to a third jar of White-Out. Instead, I inwardly groan in Carpal Tunnel agony, probably as a result of improper hand placement upon the keys, or the abuse and overuse of the PC based "Control Z" undo function.
