Just as they were getting down and dirty, his voice came over the speakers, announcing that he was about to play the Beatles. The unmistakable percussive beginning of the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” stopped him mid-stroke. A triple dose of Viagra couldn’t ameliorate the physical reaction it had on him, as he screamed, “Goddamn it, Lewinski!”
The women, wondering if he was invoking the name of an ex-lover and thinking they had uncovered another dimension to Jonno’s kinkiness, just played along.
The moment still amuses him whenever he replays the videotape.
Helter Skelter
Dave Herman was WPLJ’s best and most famous disc jockey. Dave’s career had gone the route of so many free-form pioneers: He had started out doing mornings for a tiny station in Asbury Park, New Jersey, playing standards by Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Tony Bennett along with the typical Mantovani and 101 Strings. He had a small family, and was carving out a respectable middle-class living, one that sustained him for ten years. He never dreamed that major-market radio would come calling. But in 1967, he tried LSD and experienced an epiphany that transformed his entire being. He became a hippie, in appearance, lifestyle, and attitude. He decided that he had something to say, and he felt that he could bring something to radio that he wasn’t presently hearing, much like Tom Donahue did in San Francisco. He became a fan of WNEW-FM, and fell in love with the music they were playing, music that spoke to him in a way that Percy Faith never had.
So he trundled off to Philadelphia and pitched Gary Stevens at WMMR, another Metromedia station, on the concept of doing a free-form program. The station was basically an automated music service, existing only to placate the FCC by not duplicating its AM sister, WIP. Herman gave management a fanciful presentation that showed how progressive radio was catching on in other markets, most notably in New York at WNEW-FM and KMPX in San Francisco. They remained skeptical, since Philadelphia considered itself the home of Top Forty radio with Dick Clark’s
American Bandstand
and WIBG, where Donahue once worked as Big Daddy. But with little to lose, Dave’s persistence convinced them to give him a one-year contract to take over the evening hours at WMMR.
Dave had to give himself a crash course in rock and roll when he was hired. His early days in Philadelphia were spent learning, listening to album after album of the rock that he never played in Asbury Park. In 1968, this was not so daunting a task because there wasn’t that much underground music. There might have been two hundred albums that were important to be conversant with, and by listening and reading up on the artists in
Rolling Stone
and the nascent music press, he educated himself enough to get by while developing his own tastes. And he’d learned interviewing techniques in New Jersey, talking to local politicos to assemble newscasts for his morning show.
Within months, Herman’s show,
The Marconi Experiment,
was the toast of the town. He was supported by clubs, concert promoters, record labels, counterculture newspapers, boutiques—in short, all the emerging businesses that appealed to the youth market. WMMR was pleased with the buzz it created and sought other jocks to fill the rest of the day.
Herman had become a political animal, holding strongly stated positions against the war and government in general. Revolution was a concept that he supported, and he harbored fantasies of an overthrow of the federal government and its replacement with one more responsive to the people’s wishes. Dave spoke at an alternative-radio seminar in Vermont sponsored by Larry Yurdin, which seemed to be more about overturning the system than creating great radio.
The Marconi Experiment
interviewed the radical thinkers of the day, underscoring their words with appropriate music. Dave was keenly intelligent if admittedly somewhat misguided, but never came off as a wild-eyed young radical. He was older than most of his fellow travelers and his professional baritone impacted even conservative listeners who didn’t share his politics but were soothed by his measured presentation.
His success caught the ear of Alan Shaw, who was assembling a revamped ABC-FM network. Shaw offered Herman the chance to be heard nationally at a greatly increased salary, but since ABC had no affiliate in Philadelphia, Dave would have to move to New York and broadcast from corporate headquarters. It represented a tough decision and he sought counsel in two areas. First he spoke to his father, a rabbi, who asked Dave the fundamental question: Why did he want to be in radio? Was it for the money? Fame? Politics? Dave said that although he would appreciate higher pay, his main reason for doing what he did was that he thought he had something to say that could change the world in a positive way. His dad replied that if that was the case, he should seek the biggest forum he could find, and that fifteen hours a week on the ABC network and twenty hours live in New York topped doing a local show in Philadelphia.
Although his father’s advice made sense, Dave still was torn. Barely a year out of Asbury Park, he was an enormous cultural figure in Philly, and was making more money and having more impact than he’d ever dreamed of. He traveled to the Jersey shore and asked a Gypsy fortune-teller what he should do. She supported his father’s counsel. Not without misgivings, he accepted Shaw’s offer.
As difficult as it was to make sense of what WPLJ was doing musically, its politics were consistent—radical left. Alex Bennett did a morning show that was mostly talk. Alex had established himself as a weekend talk show host at WMCA as it drifted away from Top Forty before becoming all talk. Michael Cuscuna, the jazz maven, did middays, followed by Mike Turner, Herman, and Vin Scelsa. It became a mecca for the likes of Jerry Rubin and his cohorts in the Chicago Seven. John Lennon had even filled in there when Bennett went on vacation. The language they used was unabashedly revolutionary stuff, and was often coarsely stated. Lawyers were constantly buzzing around the studios in the ABC Building on Sixth Avenue, trying to stem potential libel suits and FCC sanctions.
The transformation of WABC-FM to WPLJ extended to the decor, and was analogous to the clash of the two cultures. ABC had a strict policy of bare walls, stating that no art could be hung without management approval. It was the epitome of a sterile corporate environment, with strict rules about the way the office was to be kept not only free of clutter but also about unauthorized personnel, i.e., female visitors and radical hangers-on. But once the offices closed for the day, posters of Che Guevara went up, tapestries were hung, and hash pipes broken out. Lava lamps and other psychedelia decorated the place, with friends loitering around “doing their thing.” The air studio took on the appearance of a murky drug den: dimly lit, smoky, and smelling of incense. Spiritually, it resembled WFMU, a little college community of like-minded hippies bent on changing the world.
There was a palpable disregard for authority; indeed, the inmates were running the asylum. Once Michael Turner was asked by general manager Lou Severin to speak to him on a matter of some importance. Turner replied to his boss that he had to take a crap, so why didn’t Severin follow him into the stall and discuss his issues with him there? Orders were ignored as memos from the top went up in smoke, literally and figuratively. Any attempt by management to bring some balance to the operation was met with sneering disregard and acts of defiance that became bolder and more outrageous.
Shaw tried to remain a buffer, shielding his charges from higher management on the premise that they needed this work environment to weave their magic on the airwaves. He tried to school his people on how to express their radical sentiments without incurring legal action. But it had gone too far, and any attempt at direction only alienated Shaw from the staff, who lived in constant wariness of selling out to the corporation. The “suits” wanted to see ratings and revenue, but WNEW-FM was winning those wars handily, and it was becoming harder to justify what management viewed as a repugnant culture when the financial rewards failed to be forthcoming.
At WNEW-FM, John Zacherle liked what he was hearing across town in the spring of 1971. Zach would get off the air at 2 a.m. and, still energized from his show, drive around Central Park for hours with the top down on his VW bug convertible, the radio turned up loud. His contract was expiring, and although he was free to play whatever he wanted, the respective atmospheres at the two stations reflected a stark contrast in the open expression of their political leanings. Upon Rosko’s leaving, there was precious little political talk on the station, and most of that was nonspecific. For example, Fornatale reacted with horror to the Kent State shootings, and later he played “Ohio,” which was rush-released by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young a month later, four times in a row. Opposition to the war was a given—by attitude and the music played. Most jocks were in sympathy with the protesters and supported them on their own time. Schwartz and Muni were independent thinkers, allying themselves neither with conservatives nor liberals by rote but reacting to every issue on its own merits. No one seriously thought that overthrowing the government was the answer, basically jibing with John Lennon’s line in the Beatles’ “Revolution”: “We’re doing what we can.”
Drug use was also something that separated the two stations. Muni was a fan of scotch, as was Schwartz. If either used marijuana, it was strictly to be convivial when someone passed a joint around. In the twenty-five years I’d known her, I never saw Alison Steele intoxicated by anything more than a New York Rangers victory, and Harrison and Fornatale mostly abstained. Zach always seemed to be on something, but I think it was more a case of his flighty personality than any substance abuse.
Zacherle also was at odds with his colleagues’ more extravagant lifestyles. He was never a conspicuous consumer; he owned a VW Beetle and lived in a rent-controlled apartment with his elderly mother, whom he supported. He was surrounded by Schwartz, who had a perpetual tan from his Palm Springs retreat and “beautiful people” friends among the literati of New York and Hollywood, and Steele, who spent thousands on exotic clothing and her luxurious Manhattan rental. Even Muni, who didn’t flaunt his wealth, owned a boat and a beautiful lagoon house in an affluent community on the Jersey shore.
Zach’s coworkers at WNEW-FM were more polished in their manner on the air as well. He was more simpatico with the unvarnished presentation at WPLJ, the lack of showmanship and structure. Indeed, he’d agreed with Rosko on the use of the rack. It was Rosko’s viewpoint that the music director not even touch the rack, but that records would find their own way into airplay or oblivion. It was a nice but hopelessly naÏve thought, just in terms of maintaining order. When a song is reaching its conclusion and one is casting about for a perfect segue, you’re never afforded the time to rummage around through unsorted piles of albums to locate the one you need. But Zach didn’t worry about that, he just knew that he had found kindred spirits at WPLJ and that when his contract expired, he’d try to join them.
Muni was aware of Zach’s dilemma, but was also pragmatic enough to know that ABC, for whom he’d worked years earlier, would not tolerate what was going on at WPLJ much longer. His entreaties fell on deaf ears. Zach had told him that he’d never held any job much more than a year, so it was time for him to move on. Unlike many jocks, John Zacherle wasn’t making the standard power play to better himself. He was a true believer who loved his audience and wanted to remain true both to it and himself by working in an environment more suited to his nature. There were jealousies and rivalries galore at WNEW-FM that he sensed weren’t present in the more communal atmosphere at WPLJ.
A little insight into the man: When he did the morning show, he sometimes felt isolated from his audience. So one day he told the listeners to gather outside his window at 230 Park Avenue and that there would be a nice surprise awaiting them. As a small crowd bunched up minutes later, eyes to the sky and his thirteenth-floor window, they gasped in amazement as dollar bills began floating down toward them, from Zach’s own wallet. Upon being introduced at rock shows, as he took the stage, he pulled off his wristwatch and flung it into the crowd for some lucky concertgoer to keep. He later admitted that it was becoming too costly a habit, and that he switched to an inexpensive Timex when a public appearance loomed. One of his quirks while on the air was to activate the turntables with his toes instead of fingers. The studio ceiling was pocked with tiny black holes where he’d engaged Schwartz in a competition to hurl sharpened pencils upward like darts, trying to stick their points into the soft acoustic tile.
Zach dressed in jeans and work shirts but wasn’t a “limousine liberal,” as were many of his peers. In fact, one jock who professed to be a man of the people took limos to concerts whenever possible, but asked to be dropped a block away so that he wouldn’t be seen by his fans. Not Zacherle—what you saw was what you got. He either walked, took the subway, or came puttering up in his Volkswagen.
So in June of 1971, he bade WNEW-FM good-bye and went to work for the competition. WPLJ was thrilled to have him, and gloated not unlike Americans welcoming a prominent communist from behind the Iron Curtain. Perhaps the tide was changing—the more commercially successful WNEW-FM was losing defectors to the revolutionary cause.
For Alison Steele, Zacherle’s move meant a sea change in the course of her career. Although she’d gained a small cachet from her overnight exploits, other than night workers and cramming college students, few had actually heard her, save for the occasions when she filled in during the day, when her Nightbird routine seemed out of place. But now that the coveted 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. shift was hers, she could play to a far wider audience while still working after sunset. It was in this time slot that her legend was born.
This also meant a change for me. As music director, I’d asked Paulsen and Muni if I could come in with Harrison at 6 a.m. This would serve several purposes. Since both of us were frugal with our newfound wealth, we could save money commuting. We could also enjoy each other’s company and bounce ideas around on the ride in. And I had the advantage of being able to audition records in peace and quiet for three hours before the phones began to ring, thus freeing me to make more decisions independent of the pressures of record promoters. I’d leave by three, sometimes with, sometimes without, Harrison. I could also assist Michael in putting his show together: fetching albums from the library, offering opinions on new material I’d heard, or helping to sort out commercials. Muni had no problem with the hours, as long as the work got done.