FM

by Richard Neer

  He shocked me with his next comment. He said that he noticed me stealing a glance at his wife’s boobs. Would I like to see them? If so, he had an apartment in Queens, and Harrison and I could join them later that evening. Just bring some hash, and we could take turns partying with his wife. I was embarrassed for her, but she said that it was cool. I begged off as gracefully as possible, using the excuse that Michael and I were both engaged, but that didn’t seem to bother either of them. Bring your women along, too.

  As I beat a path out of there, I tried to come up with a justification to get this man out of my life. He seemed more than a little unbalanced but we were still naÏvely impressed with the contacts he’d talked about. We were hoping that we could rein in his wild streak and maximize his obvious talent. He had done an interesting show the previous Sunday.

  No further incidents occurred involving his wife and he had the good sense to pretend it never happened. He still seemed defiant on the air, breaking our guidelines during every show but always apologizing profusely thereafter. To his credit, he never repeated the errors, but constantly found new ways to tweak our noses. But we were getting our music library filled, whether he had caused it to happen or not. He continued to be an erratic presence, alternately delighting with his creativity and dismaying with his blatant disregard for our rules. But he never did anything serious enough to warrant his dismissal, until he crossed Harrison.

  One morning while going over music sheets, Michael told me he’d heard some scuttlebutt about this man’s intention to overthrow us and take over as program director. Although we trusted that Reiger would give us the time we needed to accomplish our mission, any dissension within the ranks could only hinder the process. So he asked me to speak to the man confidentially, indicate that I had doubts about Harrison’s leadership, and see what developed. He was asking me to be Luca Brazzi to his Don Corleone, and ferret out a traitor. Intrigued, I complied with his request and sure enough, the guy broke free, expanding on how Harrison had no clue as to what he was doing and that I should be running the place. He would be my right-hand man of course, until I got up to speed. He already enlisted other staffers to back him up and I had only to give him the word. I felt like I was in a Robert Ludlum thriller. Any benefits the guy might have offered were thrown aside when I told Harrison my story. The knave never did another show at WLIR.

  We also had a problem keeping the place from turning into a flop house. We maintained a strict “no visitors after hours” policy. Don K. Reed, one of the straightest guys in the universe, complained that the studio reeked of marijuana many mornings and that he’d found seeds behind one of the tape decks. We traced the material to a weekend jock and brought him in for a warning: no more visitors or pot smoking on the premises. We also had a minor uproar when Reiger’s wife found a used prophylactic in the cushions of the aptly named loveseat in her office. We issued a memo in strong terms, but privately suggested that any amorous encounters after hours be conducted on the roof. The view was better there anyway.

  But our weekend guy just couldn’t accept our restrictions and one Saturday evening, we were dining out in Hempstead and realized we had forgotten some albums at the station. Harrison and I found not only our jock floating away on a marijuana trail, but several of his friends toking away in the main offices. This time, we did fire him on the spot and Michael finished the show.

  We were luckier with most of our other hires. Ken Kohl went on to a successful talk career and is now a highly placed executive for a Sacramento-based ownership group. Pete Larkin became a program director in Maryland and later worked at WNEW-FM. George Taylor Morris, also an alum, went on to run an NBC radio division and hosted mornings at WZLX in Boston. So we did help to start some careers in the right direction.

  But most surprising to us was the speed at which WLIR rose to the top of the ratings on Long Island. Within six months, we were number one in total listenership. We knew early on that it was working, but it quickly surpassed even our expectations. Record companies, who initially didn’t want to send us their releases, were falling over themselves to visit in person. We got on mailing lists for home service and artists made the station a regular stop when on press junkets. We were asked to broadcast from trade shows, and we actually drew crowds. We crafted commercials for local boutiques and their business improved overnight. People recognized us and asked for autographs.

  The zenith came when we cohosted a concert in Eisenhower Park in East Meadow with a jock from WNEW-FM who lived on the Island. He was introduced first, to scattered applause. When our names were announced on the P.A., the crowd went crazy. Had we actually toppled the great WNEW-FM in a few months? That night gave us hope. But we still revered Muni and Steele and of course Rosko, and intuitively knew that they were light-years beyond us.

  Although our confidence was growing, we wondered if we ever would get beyond small-market radio and move up to the station of our dreams. We spontaneously called Alison Steele at WNEW on the air one night for guidance. She knew all about us and was gracious enough to come out to Long Island for an interview. She later invited us to rendezvous in the city at a sleek East Side restaurant. When she excused herself during the meal to use the phone, Harrison and I burst out laughing as she walked away. Here we were, two twenty-one-year-olds, just out of college, having lunch with this accomplished, sexy woman in tight leather pants at a trendy Manhattan bistro. Alison was every college boy’s wet dream and she was our friend. We’d made it to the big time, and if it had all ended there it would have been worth it.

  The commercial log at WLIR was sold out for the first time, and rates were raised regularly to reflect its increasing pull with advertisers. Harrison and I had made a deal with Reiger to start at $110 a week apiece in our new jobs as program and operations director, respectively. As ratings and revenue grew, he promised that we could expect hefty raises. It still seemed like short money, even in 1970, but we trusted Reiger so we agreed. We’d even started making some money on the outside for in-store appearances and concert hosting. Our expenses were under control, since Harrison and I had rented an apartment together over a bakery in Oceanside for $175 a month. We weren’t exactly driving Cadillacs and living on Park Avenue, but our prospects had improved markedly in a very short time.

  While at the apartment one evening, the phone rang and a stilted voice, affecting a mid-Atlantic accent said, “Is this Dick Neer?”

  It was the program director of WHLI in Hempstead. I was a bit off balance because WLIR had catapulted over WHLI and with my newly bolstered ego, I considered them a step down. They still played stodgy easy-listening music and, frankly, I hoped we’d left that world in the dust. But I played along, curious to see what he wanted. It seemed their evening host was taking a couple of weeks off next month and they were wondering if I’d be interested in filling in.

  I told him that I wasn’t interested in filling in, but asked if he was offering a job. He hedged, continuing to act as if joining his station would be my crowning acheivement in radio. After a short time, his arrogance got to me and I reminded him that WLIR had soundly beaten him in the last ratings book. To which he replied that I had a lot of nerve asking for a job that I didn’t intend to accept, conveniently leaving out the fact that I’d applied over a year earlier.

  I hung up, more satisfied than angry. Revenge was sweet. But that winter, Michael and I were in for a chastening experience when we approached Reiger for raises. Christmas had been a bonanza for WLIR. They’d increased the rates and the spot load several times and still couldn’t handle the demand. They were raking it in, and now it was time for us to collect our rewards.

  Reiger knew that this day was coming and dreaded it. Despite the revenues surging into the station, he’d incurred such debt running the old format for so many years that he was unable to extricate himself. He candidly showed us the books and indicated that even at this pace, it would take him another year to reach solvency. He could offer us a fifty-dollar raise over the next twelve mo
nths but even that was overextending. He was looking for a partner, an investor to inject some capital into his growing business. If he could pull that off, maybe someday he could pay us what he knew we were worth.

  Michael and I dejectedly left his office and went down to the building’s coffee shop. He stared at me with his intense brown eyes, and stated the obvious. It was so damn depressing. We had set our sights on a lofty goal, and now that we seemed so close to attaining it, we found that it was fool’s gold. There was no recourse but to leave. For $250 a week, we could have lived like kings. And we ruled WLIR. We set the format, called the shots. Reiger had no desire to interfere with programming, knowing nothing about it. We had thought that someday we might even own part of WLIR, and have the cars, the house, and the boat that Reiger had. But we hadn’t known it all was mortgaged to the hilt to support his business.

  Harrison had already moved on. “All right, this afternoon I’ll call Les Turpin at CBS-FM. You try to get ahold of George Duncan at Metromedia. Let’s find out if there’s a station we could program on the West Coast.”

  I’d grown to love working on the Island, living near the Atlantic Ocean. Pulling up stakes to go west didn’t sound all that appealing. My family was nearby in New Jersey. But Michael was right, we had to make a move now while our stock was high.

  So we pounded the pavement. We arranged job interviews at CBS. Everyone there was receptive and knew of our accomplishments in Garden City. But we were still kids. George Duncan agreed to see us at Metromedia headquarters. As head of the whole radio division now, he could send us wherever he wanted. But we failed the test he gave us, when we endorsed the uncensored version of “Working Class Hero.”

  So as we stood on the roof that wintry Friday night in 1971, coats pulled tight around us against the wind, we had no prospects other than to languish at WLIR and hope for a savior to bail out Reiger. The hours we spent working decreased as we became more dispirited and more in search of an escape. As our little transistor radio played gently in the background, it was obvious that something indeed was up with Rosko. His normally silky voice was breaking like an adolescent’s and he seemed to be near tears. He reiterated that this was his last program at WNEW-FM, although he’d be on tape the following night. He played “Don’t Let the Green Grass Fool You” and sang along, although we couldn’t know at the time how closely that song paralleled what was happening in his life. He thanked all his coworkers—George Duncan, program director Scott Muni. He was leaving of his own accord and he’d been treated like a prince by everyone at Metromedia. There was no rancor in his voice, only a strange kind of joy, as if he were leaving one happy phase of his life behind for an exciting new adventure. The last record he played was Lee Michaels’s “Heighty Hi,” and he sang along with it on an open microphone. He wished us all peace and closed with his patented, “I sure do love you so.”

  Then he was gone with the wind.

  Harrison and I were thinking precisely the same thing at that moment. While sad to be losing Rosko, there was no announced successor and no logical candidate to take the great man’s place. We rushed back into the building and began editing our audition tapes. The assault on Manhattan was about to begin.

  The Lamb Lies Down

  on Broadway

  Once Harrison and I were officially hired at WNEW-FM, after the bizarre interviews with Muni and company, things seemed to move in slow motion. Our first duty was the bittersweet task of informing Reiger that we’d both be leaving. He seemed stunned by the news. He said that he had always allowed for the possibility that one of us would leave, but felt confident that the other would carry on. With both of us gone, he feared that his newfound prosperity would be short-lived.

  The fact that he didn’t try to retain us with offers of more money confirmed our beliefs that it just wasn’t there to give. But we assured him that we’d stay as long as necessary to make a smooth transition, and that we would work with Chuck Macken, our recommendation to program the station. I felt that Macken was a solid man and that it wouldn’t take long for him to get up to speed. Michael had already drilled Chuck on the importance of closing ranks and keeping outside forces from corrupting what we’d built.

  Meanwhile, our lease over the bakery was expiring and with our generous new salaries, we knew that our days of rooming together were over. I also felt the need to be in the city, although the idea of high rents and parking fees in Manhattan still put me off. A reasonable compromise seemed to be Queens, an easy commute by subway. I settled on a studio apartment in Lefrak City, eight miles from the station. Michael wound up in Lynbrook—it was a longer commute, but had more space.

  Our first shot on the New York airwaves came quickly. Zacherle needed two days off in early April. Michael filled in first, and I did my initial show the evening of April 13, 1971. But we were cautioned not to say anything on or off the air about our upcoming roles at the station, since everyone who would be affected by the moves had not been informed of them yet.

  Two weeks later, we got a succinctly worded letter in the mail:

  I am truly sorry to inform you both that there are no openings in programming any of the Metromedia stations at this time, nor do we anticipate any in the foreseeable future.

  However, I have gotten wind of the fact that there may be some changes coming at WNEW-FM in New York and that it might afford an opportunity for you both. I suggest you contact Varner Paulsen, the general manager, at your earliest convenience.

  Good Luck and Congrats,

  George Duncan

  Vice President

  Metromedia Radio

  We were so afraid of Duncan that his impish sense of humor had escaped us until that letter arrived. But the plan at WNEW-FM finally solidified: Michael would do mornings, bumping the current occupant, Pete Fornatale, to middays. Muni would continue in the afternoons, followed by Schwartz, Zacherle, and then Steele overnight. After having a taste of the daylight hours, Alison couldn’t have been too pleased. An aggressive careerist, much of her outside activity took place during regular business hours, and working all night was not conducive to her syndication deals and commercial work. It also didn’t leave time for much of a social life. But everyone else loved the new schedule, especially Fornatale. It would allow him an easy rail commute from his Port Washington home, avoiding rush-hour traffic both ways.

  Mornings were still the least important shift. Most car radios still didn’t have FM tuners, and much of morning listening is spent in the car, trying to glean information and entertainment while fuming through traffic jams. Longtime morning hosts on AM like Klavan and Finch, John Gambling, Don Imus, and Harry Harrison, as well as the all news outlets, were too powerful to be challenged by anything FM could offer. Varner Paulsen expected audience shares in the morning to lag well behind the rest of the day parts, in stark contrast to the philosophy general managers have today. The money time on FM was 6 to 10 p.m., and that was in the hands of Jonathan Schwartz.

  My first brush with Jonathan was an uneasy one. I had gone into the studio on my first day as music director to replace a worn LP when he cornered me, almost literally, exhaling garlicky breath in my face.

  “Young man, what’s your name again?”

  I told him, using the radio name I’d been stuck with.

  “Ah, Dick Neer. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it? What qualifies you to be on this radio station?”

  Jonathan wasn’t trying to be obnoxious, although I didn’t know it at the time. This was his unsubtle way of asking me about my background, getting to know me. I had heard his raging ego had only gotten worse since ascending to prime time and replacing his arch rival, Rosko. I was warned by Steele and others to steer clear of him. “He’ll eat you for breakfast,” she told me.

  “I don’t want to distract you before you go on the air,” I said to Schwartz. “We’ll talk another time when it’s more convenient for you.” I was determined to do everything in my power to ensure that that time would not come soon. With h
is unconventional radio voice, there was speculation among those who didn’t know him that Jonathan was gay. Reading between the lines of the staff’s warnings, I feared that his interest in me might not be wholly professional. I would later learn that my fears were completely unfounded, and that Jonno went through women like Muni went through scotch.

  “Don’t leave, don’t leave, young man. Have you ever heard of me?”

  This was ridiculous—any answer I might give would obviously be designed to feed his ego or reveal my own ignorance.

  “Of course I’ve heard of you, Jonathan.” I made sure to use his first name. Referring to him as “Mr. Schwartz” would have only weakened my already prostrate position.

  “Do you know that I do other things, that I’m not just a ‘jocque du disques’?” Of course, the appellation “disc jockey” would be beneath him. “Do you know, for example, that I’m a writer?”

  “Sure I do. You wrote Almost Home.” In every station tear sheet, the minibiography of Jonno contained the obligatory “celebrated author of Almost Home, a collection of short stories.” I had no idea about the rest of his background, other than that he was from Boston and his family was rich. Little did I realize that his father had penned “Cocktails for Two,” the song I was compelled to play for years while introducing WLIR’s evening program of the same name.

  Schwartz wasn’t satisfied to leave it at that. “I don’t suppose you’ve read it. No, I don’t suppose you read much at all.”

  Welcome to WNEW-FM and the big time! I was being insulted by its most powerful host, a man whom I’d just met. At the time, I wasn’t a voracious reader, but did I look like that much of a hayseed to this snob? After all, I had just graduated from college. So I lied.