by Richard Neer
“Why is this so poorly organized? What’s going on with you two?”
“Scott,” I said, “we’re not in charge here. Mel decided not to hire us to produce, so we’re just here to help you host.”
“Why didn’t he hire you to produce?”
I then uttered what could have been fatal words. “Because he’s a cheap bastard who doesn’t care what this sounds like. He’s just trying to save a couple of bucks, and we’re the ones who look bad.”
Pat added, “Yeah, we tried to talk some sense into him but the hard-headed bastard wouldn’t listen.”
Unbeknownst to us, Karmazin was back at the station, supervising the broadcast from that end. While we were talking to Muni, holding the microphones at our side, the overmatched engineer had kept them active. A live feed of everything we said was beaming back directly to the station, where Mel listened on the cue channel.
We finally got the show on, and the mix, although not up to our standards, wasn’t bad. During intermission, we got word that Mel had heard our conversation and wanted to see us the next morning, ostensibly to fire us.
Scott said that he’d handle it and indeed he did. He later told us that Karmazin was furious and wanted our heads, but had to admit that we were right and that he should have used us to produce the concert. And from that point onward, any live broadcasts we did were under control and came off flawlessly.
Mel wasn’t completely against his people making a little money on the side, especially when it didn’t come directly out of the station’s pocket. When Dave Herman did his first George Harrison interview, he’d flown across the country at the station’s expense. When DIR asked him to do a syndicated program, Herman knew that his contract clearly stated that it would belong to Metromedia. He asked Mel for permission to farm it out.
“You know we own the rights. But are there a few extra bucks in it for you?” Mel asked, and Dave nodded. “Go ahead, take it.”
The straightforward approach works best with him because it’s impossible to bullshit Karmazin. If you marshal the facts on your side, he’ll listen to any argument with an open mind and rule accordingly, but if you try to finesse him to your own advantage he’ll ferret you out in a minute.
Although no one would confuse Mel for a Knute Rockne type, he did know how to motivate in more ways than just by intimidation. One day after another ratings loss to WPLJ, Dave Herman emerged from his morning show downcast. As he passed Karmazin’s spacious corner office, he merely waved instead of exchanging pleasantries as he traditionally did. Mel rose and followed his morning man down the hall.
“Hey Dave, stop in for a minute.” Herman hung a U-turn and joined Mel in the office.
“What’s wrong? You look down,” Karmazin began.
“I just don’t understand what it takes to win anymore. We’ve done a great show, with great music and information. We’ve done great contests and promotions. I’ve listened to tapes of the competition. I know we’re better than they are. I just don’t know what it takes to beat them and I’m bummed out about it.”
Karmazin picked up the phone and called the business office. “Herb,” he said, “I’m coming down in a minute. Have the books for the last three months ready.” He hung up and turned to Dave. “Walk down the hall with me.”
Dave followed his boss to where the accountants kept records. There were no computers then, so everything was organized in large ledgers, in which clerks painstakingly recorded profit and loss. Mel opened one of the heavy books and flipped pages until he found the one he was seeking.
“Now Dave, the numbers you’re aware of are ratings. PLJ has a 3.5 and you have a 2.8. But the real numbers that count are these.” His finger scrolled down the column to the monthly bottom line, a steadily rising figure. “And here is last year at this time.” He pointed to another number, substantially lower than the previous entry.
“These are the only numbers that count. The hell with Arbitron ratings. Don’t you worry about that. You just do the best show you know how. But if these numbers ever change, then believe me, you’ll hear from me right away. Then you can worry.”
Dave walked away, his spirits lifted. The next time the ratings came out, they showed improvement, and Karmazin heartily congratulated Herman. He’d found a clever way to raise Dave’s confidence and yet let him know the criteria against which he’d be judged.
Herman’s relationship with Mel underscored another tenet that has made Karmazin the giant he is today. He is able to identify the stars—the chief moneymakers—and he treats them like kings. They are accorded generous contracts, complete with perks that most companies would never extend to talent. If a Don Imus or Howard Stern gets in trouble, he’ll back them to the hilt. But he also is hard-nosed when it comes to union contracts or pay scales to those he deems replaceable. There is never fat in a Karmazin-run enterprise, dating back to his time at WNEW. When I was his operations manager, there originally was no music director. That fell under my domain until much later when I proved to him I needed assistance in that area. There was no promotions director, and only a part-time production manager. Now, radio stations have whole departments employing several people in each of those areas. But Mel wouldn’t expand the staff unless you could absolutely convince him that it would improve the station’s revenue picture. Likewise, he pares away jobs he sees as superfluous. One of his least popular but effective moves was to eliminate salaries for salesmen, making the position a “commission only” situation. By doing this, he drove away the timid and kept only those willing to hustle. Perhaps this dates back to his early days in radio sales at WCBS when he turned a $17,500 salary into $70,000 in yearly commissions.
As I said, I was almost fired by Mel a number of times: One of my most vivid recollections concerned a conversation in which he accused me of not working hard enough. He didn’t have the feeling that I was willing to go that extra mile for the company. I equated my attitude to that of a baseball player, who played hard but wouldn’t risk injury diving for the ball. I felt that my talent would make up for that.
He replied, “A lot of people have talent. I guess I need somebody that’ll dive for the ball.”
At that point, WNEW-FM had never cracked a three share in the ratings. We were then at a 2.7 and seemed to be bumping against a glass ceiling. But after that talk, I worked harder than I ever had, giving up evenings and weekends in a single-minded pursuit of that three share. When the numbers came out, we’d bounced up to a 3.1, and Mel took us all to our favorite watering hole to celebrate. Before we left the station, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I want you to know that more than anyone else, I hold you responsible for our breaking a three share. I’ve never seen anybody work as hard at this station. See what happens when you dive for the ball?” That was probably the best compliment I’ve gotten in four decades of radio.
I had very few problems with Mel after that. He’s extremely loyal to his people once they prove themselves, and he expects that loyalty to be returned.
A story told by Charles Laquidara illustrates that point. When Mel’s Infinity Radio bought WBCN, Charles was in contract talks and things weren’t going well. Karmazin flew to Boston and drove to Laquidara’s home to handle negotiations personally. The longtime morning man was surprised at how easily Mel agreed to his terms, and the two went out to dinner afterward, becoming fast friends. Karmazin even included stock options in the deal, something he said he’d never done before.
Subsequent contracts went smoothly as Charles dominated Boston’s ratings in AM drive time. But he noticed over time that his dinners with Mel were becoming more infrequent, and that whenever Karmazin came up to the station, Charles barely merited a quick hello.
Laquidara championed BCN’s workers when they had disputes with management and lent his voice to political groups that supported gun control, environmental issues, and generally liberal causes. His need for approval included Mel and he felt that their personal friendship extended beyond a typical employee-employer
relationship. So when his boss next visited WBCN and ensconced himself in the general manager’s office, Charles wrote him a note.
“Dear Mel,” it read, “I know that since I met you the first time, you’ve succeeded in business far beyond anyone’s imagination. You are a very busy man. I realize that your time is valuable. I estimate it to be worth a thousand dollars a minute. So enclosed please find a personal check for three thousand dollars. I humbly request three minutes of your time before you leave today.” He asked an intern to deliver it.
The kid returned a moment later. “He said, ‘Fine.’ Should you meet in the office he’s in now, or in yours?”
Laquidara, always one to tweak authority said, “Tell him that since I’m paying, he should come here.”
Moments later Karmazin appeared, closed the office door, clicked the stem of his watch and said, “Clock’s ticking.”
Charles proceeded to outline his case: He’d been hurt by Mel’s indifference and he wanted to know what he’d done to deserve such disregard.
“Charles, when I bought this station, I didn’t treat you like an employee. I treated you like a partner and a friend. I gave you stock options. I pay you ten times over scale. I never tell you how to run your show. And yet, anytime there’s a labor issue here, you’re always against me. The people here have unions, they have a mechanism to fight their battles for them. They don’t need you. You should be on the company’s side. You’re invested in the company, part of management. And yet every time something comes up, you’re on the other side. Also, it’s eleven-thirty now and you’re packing up to leave. Do you know that Howard Stern almost never leaves the station until three? He’s always listening to tapes and trying to improve his show. Do you think you’re better than him? Time’s up.” With that, he left. Charles had to admit that the words had resonance, yet he felt a moral responsibility to the support staff to use his leverage to better their lot. His contact with Mel has been limited since.
Two months after the three-minute encounter, Laquidara’s accountant called. It seemed Charles was missing a check that hadn’t yet been cashed. After retracing his transactions, he realized that the missing check was the one that he’d written Karmazin.
“Oh, forget about it,” he told his man. “He’ll never cash it.”
Shortly afterward, Laquidara received a letter embossed in gold ink from the White House. It was an invitation to meet President Bush, who wanted to personally thank him for the generous contribution to his reelection campaign. Also included in that day’s mail was a form letter from Wayne LaPierre, then president of the National Rifle Association, thanking him for the largest donation they’d received from a private citizen that week.
Good-bye Yellow Brick Road
Jonathan Schwartz was tired.
The grind of working seven days a week had become too much for him. He was entangled in a romantic situation that was strangling him, and he always had taken such attachments very seriously. One of them had landed him in a mental ward two weeks before he was supposed to start at WNEW-FM in 1967. This time, it was a young coworker, and Schwartz was feeling trapped.
His quest for love in many of the wrong places could be traced back to his childhood in Beverly Hills. His famous father wasn’t around much and his mother was often bedridden, so he spent his early years largely unattended by family. It was here where he developed his radio skills, closing himself inside a closet and practicing play-by-play for his beloved baseball. As he grew older, he began to break into houses in his neighborhood, where many people left their doors unlocked. He would rifle through his neighbors’ personal items, perhaps in search of some kind of human connection. (He once rummaged through a house he later discovered was Gene Kelly’s.) He always left everything as it was, but he admits to stealing a few 78s.
He was also tired of rock and roll. Like anything new and uncharted, the gradual revelation of its mysteries had been fascinating at first. Schwartz probed and experimented, exploring its limitations and taboos further and further. He defined rock as “jazz, under pressure.” But he was rooted in Sinatra and the standards of his father’s era and eventually found playing the Doors wanting. The music rarely spoke to him anymore—it was time to move on.
He’d come to the realization in the spring of 1975 that his radio work was interfering with his writing. It was all too easy to put in a full evening behind a hot microphone, have a late supper and stay up until nearly dawn, sleep away the day, and then get up and do it again, without ever putting pen to paper. He was earning a nice living between the two stations, AM and FM, and was revered by the fans of each.
But the old gang wasn’t around much anymore: Paulsen was gone, Duncan was on the road a lot; he even missed fighting with his old nemesis, Rosko. His new boss, Mel Karmazin, wasn’t enthralled by his habit of dialing up the radio station that carried the Boston Red Sox games and listening in while doing his show. But it was that and the alcohol that kept him going. His relationship with Alison Steele had never been good—he’d never had much use for her other than as a target for derisive flirtation. His appreciation for Scott Muni was only as a comrade in arms, a fellow drinker; but he was disdainful of what he saw as Muni’s substandard intellect.
Muni regarded him as a spoiled eccentric with peculiar tastes in everything but scotch. One of the characteristics Scottso found most disquieting was Jonathan’s habit of eating food from garbage cans. Other jocks would be appalled when Schwartz would steal into the newsroom, spy a pizza box crammed into a waste bin, and help himself to a half-eaten slice. One of Muni’s apocryphal tales, retold so many times that it is accepted as true, regards one such incident. Schwartz vehemently denies the veracity of the following:
Early in Jonno’s tenure at WNEW-FM, the station employed a young woman at minimum wage to answer phones at night and keep track of requests. One evening while leaving work, Muni found the woman sobbing softly. As father-confessor to everyone at the station, he tried to comfort her and see if there was anything he could do to alleviate her distress.
“Mr. Muni,” she wept. “You know I don’t make a lot of money here. I’m going to school during the day and I can’t afford to order out for food. So I make a sandwich every day and put it in the refrigerator here at the station. I bring in a can of soda, too. Well, today, when I went to get my sandwich and soda, they were gone. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten all day. I’m short of money and don’t have enough to order out.”
Muni empathized and gave the woman some money. He then headed back to the studio, where he saw an empty soda can and crumpled paper bag in the area where Schwartz had been sitting before going on the air that evening.
Muni decided to get some vigilante justice. The next morning, he prepared a treat for Jonathan—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a special added ingredient: a crushed slab of chocolate-flavored Ex-Lax, a powerful laxative. He wrapped it in wax paper and stuffed it into a brown bag, much like one the receptionist had used. He surreptitiously placed it in the small refrigerator the station provided for its employees’ convenience and waited for Schwartz’s arrival.
It was a Friday evening and when Muni finished his show and got ready to depart for the weekend, he checked the refrigerator and the bag was missing. Schwartz, who claims in thirty-five years of radio never to have missed a show due to illness or to have even been late, dragged himself into the studio the following Monday.
“Bad weekend, Fats?” Muni asked him. “You look a little green around the gills.”
“Horrible case of diarrhea,” Schwartz said. “Must have been something I ate.”
Muni never let on the source of his malady. He was gleeful in his revenge, but the incident didn’t curb Jonno from devouring anything that wasn’t nailed down.
Despite his boyish mischief, Schwartz was feeling out of sorts playing rock music for kids. He told Karmazin that he didn’t want to leave the station in the lurch, so he was handing him a year’s notice. May 1, 1976, would be the date of his final s
how on WNEW-FM. Mel tried several times to dissuade him, but his mind was made up and he never looked back. He was financially secure and free to write what and when he wanted. He kept his part-time gig at WNEW-AM, where he could play only what he wanted. He could flit in and out of exotic women’s lives without having to face them at work. But he would miss the free food.
Thunder Road
Just after the fourth of July in 1974, an obscure musician from New Jersey played the Bottom Line, an intimate but prestigious music club on West Fourth Street in Greenwich Village. On his second album, he’d written a song about the holiday and his manager thought it would be a good idea to book him to play New York near the Fourth. Unfortunately, although it sounded good on paper, it turned out to be a bad idea, since many city dwellers flee for the shore or mountains to escape the heat at every opportunity. The house was half full, but despite the lackluster gate, the club’s owners, Allan Pepper and Stanley Snadowsky, saw something during those shows that made them believe that someday Bruce Springsteen would revolutionize rock and roll.
I developed a friendship with Bruce through an odd series of coincidences. I was a big Rangers hockey fan and I attended most of their home games on Wednesday nights with the rep for Columbia Records, Matty Matthews. It seemed that after every game, there would be an artist Matty had to pay his respects to, and since I wasn’t on the air until 2 a.m., I generally accompanied him.
I must have seen Springsteen play Max’s Kansas City a dozen times. I really wasn’t too impressed with those early shows. Bruce had presence and the band had a lot of raw energy, but it was too much for such a small club. Whenever we went back to his dressing room to say hello, he treated each introduction as if I was meeting him for the first time. A bad memory or drugs, I thought, not knowing at the time that he didn’t indulge. Maybe he had met so many DJs in the course of his touring that he didn’t remember me. Or maybe he was just shy or simply didn’t care.
