FM

by Richard Neer

  “Dangerous-looking” was right. The man wore an expensive custom-tailored suit, Italian loafers, silk shirt, and with his slicked-back black hair appeared to be the very image of a stereotypical mobster. The black Mercedes he drove completed the image.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Martinez asked meekly.

  “I want to see Alison. I’m a good friend.”

  “Can I ask who is calling?”

  “Here.” The man pulled out an elegant pen and scratched out a note, which he folded and gave to Martinez. “Take this to her.”

  As Marty turned to go, the man said, “Wait a minute, kid. Take this.” He extracted some bills from a wallet and pressed them into his hand. Martinez was insulted at being treated like a bellhop, but since he wasn’t sure who he was dealing with, he merely thanked the dark stranger and tucked the cash into his pants pocket. He brought the note to Steele, and as she read it, she burst out laughing.

  “Oh, damn. Bring him up, Marty. It’s my friend Gene.”

  Martinez looked at her quizzically, and then she whispered, “He doesn’t like people to know who he is without his makeup. It’s Gene Simmons from Kiss.”

  Not being a fan of the band he was unimpressed, and further bothered that a rock and roller would treat him like a servant. It wasn’t until later, when he reached into his pocket to get some cash to pay for a sandwich, that he unfurled the wad Simmons had given him—three hundred-dollar bills. Martinez was less offended.

  Steele had a way of breaking the ice with her rock-star interviews by posing questions that no man would ever ask. In 1978, Columbia Records finally convinced Bob Dylan, during a very cold phase of his career, to extend himself to radio in hopes that his latest venture might get some airplay. He reluctantly agreed to grant an audience surrounding his shows at Nassau Coliseum. Several WNEW jocks were driven out to the arena and ushered backstage, where they were seated in a semicircle around the diminutive legend. Dylan was clearly uncomfortable with the attention, and some of the jocks felt sorry for him, that this icon had to be subjected to relentless fawning from his admirers. This clearly wasn’t the time to ask who “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” was about. But Alison complimented him on his boots, and got him into a discussion about the best shops in the Village to get exotic footwear. Although some of her colleagues rolled their eyes, the exchange loosened Dylan up. He became much more comfortable in the setting, and actually seemed to enjoy himself as the dialogue continued.

  Later, other women came into the market to challenge her title. Unlike Carol Miller, Meg Griffin was able to work at the station contemporaneously with Steele and to my knowledge there were never any problems between them. Maxanne Sartori, Carol, and Pam Merly all followed Alison, and Mary Turner made noise on a national level, but they all represented the next generation of women, who didn’t have to overcome quite the same obstacles, largely because of the pioneering work done by Steele. She made it de rigueur to have at least one prominent time period reserved for a woman. That may sound like tokenism today, but in her time it was an accomplishment. And whereas she did fend off challenges from other women early on, she fought hard for her sister broadcasters later in her career, offering advice and encouragement to all who asked. None of her successors at the station achieved the legendary status that Alison did.

  All in all, she deserves a huge amount of credit for paving the way for women to be taken seriously in broadcasting. Sadly, some of the beneficiaries of her struggle now only see the superficial trappings—the leather outfits and such—and are unable to understand the context of the times. There may have been other paths, but Alison Steele got there first.

  L.A. Woman

  In 1975, metromedia’s KMET in Los Angeles was ready to make a move. The station was completely free form, with jocks like B. Mitchell Reed, Raechel Donahue, and Tom O’Hare leading the way. The celebrated Shadoe Stevens had once been its program director but now ratings languished in the 1.2 range, although they were still marginally profitable. ABC’s Rock in Stereo entry, KLOS, was dominating the market by a4–1 margin. The time had come for a change, meaning its free-form days were over, at least temporarily.

  L. David Moorhead was the general manager of KMET, and his appearance was similar to that of comedian Mike Myers’s character Austin Powers. A man of sizable intellect, he wore thick glasses and his brown hair fashionably long. Unlike Powers, he favored modest business suits rather than psychedelia, but he shared Powers’s propensity for being a bit on the chubby side. His personal life was also the subject of delicious rumor—divorces, drugs, scandal—but no one knew for sure. In some purely business ways, he was similar to his counterpart at WNEW, Mel Karmazin, in that he was a brilliant, ambitious man with an underperforming station.

  When Michael Harrison left San Diego and landed in Los Angeles to work with Bob Wilson on the trade journal Radio and Records, the very real possibility loomed that his direct involvement with radio was over. But the first call that greeted his arrival was from L. David Moorhead.

  “So you’re out of radio, Michael?” he teased. “Do you miss it?”

  Harrison was intrigued by Moorhead’s question enough to join him for lunch the following day. Although he’d enjoyed success at KPRI and his WNEW morning ratings had not been forgotten by Metromedia, Michael had found his niche in publishing. Bob Wilson had become an intimate friend, and the two men and their wives spent the majority of their waking hours together. Radio and Records was providing a service specialized for radio’s specific needs, not as a music business publication that treated radio as a sidelight. Although Harrison wasn’t involved directly with any one station now, he was working with a host of stations on a number of levels. Managers, upon reading his work in the magazine, constantly called him for counsel, and many extended this to a formal arrangement where Harrison would consult their stations. He provided research, designed formats, tweaked marketing plans, and gave pep talks to their sales staffs.

  But ever since he’d left WNEW, his sights were set on one job—programming KMET. His time in San Diego had convinced him that he could guide the sleeping giant to new heights if given the opportunity. Indeed, years before, Varner Paulsen had recommended him for the position, but at that time Moorhead had eschewed structuring the station, preferring to stay free form. At their lunch, he offered Harrison the job.

  It was tempting, but his relationship with, and commitment to, Wilson prevented him from accepting. He felt he was building a lifelong business with Radio and Records, and program directors tended to last only a few years. But Harrison desperately wanted to involve himself with the struggling station, and he appreciated Moorhead as a visionary who saw radio in much the same terms he did. So he formulated a unique proposal—he would consult KMET in a confidential manner, in an arrangement that would only be known to Moorhead, sales manager Howard Bloom, and Moorhead’s assistant, Samantha Bellamy.

  Bellamy was involved in running the programming already, along with Raechel Donahue and, until recently, Tom O’Hare. They made an odd troika. Raechel was estranged from her legendary husband, who was to pass on at the age of forty-six in April of that year. She was still a vital woman, but radio didn’t seem to consume her life anymore. She enjoyed the freedom a show on KMET afforded her, but wasn’t really interested in becoming a radio executive. O’Hare was a large, intimidating-looking man, with a droopy mustache and long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, usually underneath a ten-gallon cowboy hat. He looked almost like a Cossack, with a brooding persona that belied the gentle man inside. He was a child of free form and had left in 1974 to program WQIV in New York. But much like Scott Muni at WNEW, programming a progressive station was a largely ceremonial position that involved hiring the right staff, gaining favor with the record labels, and developing ties with the local purveyors of culture. Very little attention was given to actually directing the jocks or the music.

  But Sam Bellamy had ambition. She was a businesswoman who had little radio background, but was a quick study
and was willing to do what it took to achieve success. She was selected to be Harrison’s alter ego at KMET—she would act as program director and execute his plan.

  And what was that plan? Much as he had done in San Diego, he first conducted some market research. To Harrison, research is best done informally, seeking the big picture rather than easily quantifiable details that don’t help to achieve the objective. A common tool of scientific researchers is the focus group. Quite simply, a focus group is a select body of eight to twelve average people. They are gathered into a room, placed in front of a two-way mirror, and asked questions about the product being investigated. Politicians use them to gauge public opinion and corporations use them to market their products. Safeguards are taken to ensure that the answers given are honest and not influenced by outside forces. Most groups are not told of the sponsoring organization, although smart members can guess within minutes if the leader of the discussion doesn’t carefully mask his intentions. They are paid a small fee, and walk away feeling that their opinions count.

  The problem with focus groups is that they put their subjects in an artificial environment that is influenced by a group dynamic no matter how carefully they try to avoid it. An outspoken member can lead the others in directions they might not go on their own. People also tend to respond the way they are expected to, as opposed to revealing what they really think. Focus groups can be costly, so few stations can afford to do enough of them to reveal much of what they don’t already know. But they look good on paper—an official-looking document that draws conclusions on people’s opinions of a given product, in this case, a radio station.

  One of Harrison’s gifts is his universal taste, and by this I don’t mean anything cosmic. It’s his ability to think like Everyman when it comes to popular culture. He genuinely likes what’s popular without passing judgment on it. His taste generally mirrors that of his audience because he is the audience. He could essentially program to please himself and be right a large percentage of the time. Michael could listen to an album and select the proper tracks for airplay instantly. He knew what people liked because he knew what he liked. But rather than rest on those laurels, especially in markets that were unknown to him, he’d perform his own brand of research. He’d walk through malls, hang out in clubs and bars, and talk to people in record stores. He wouldn’t announce that he was Michael Harrison of KMET, but just engage everyday people in conversation to see what they liked and didn’t like. It could be as simple a foray as, “Hey, I’m new in town. What’s a cool rock station to listen to? Oh yeah? Why is that?”

  More scientific types would dismiss this as anecdotal, but radio stations win or lose on intangibles that can’t be easily quantified by formal research. After a few days of this informal polling and compiling the results in his head, he could get a handle on what people wanted. Combined with creativity, Harrison could then forge a radio station that would appeal to the masses, without condescending, because he liked what he was hearing as well.

  To further gauge what was happening in Los Angeles, he asked Moorhead to give him a show on the station—a talk show. But L. David Moorhead did his own listener feedback show at KMET, “Mangle the Manager,” which aired 10 p.m. to midnight Sundays following the popular Dr. Demento. He offered Harrison the Saturday morning, six to noon shift—6 to 9 a.m. being a talk show, and nine to noon, a music show. He was also free to do fill-ins whenever called upon. The talk show soon became known by the catchy moniker Harrison’s Mike.

  With Sam Bellamy programming under Harrison’s governance, the station grew and within two years eclipsed KLOS in the ratings. Michael met with Moorhead on a regular basis, and would sneak into the station at night and mark tracks to play, organize the library, and refine the formatics. The staff suspected that Harrison’s involvement was more than that of a part-time jock but he had no other official title. He was content to let Bellamy take credit for the station’s rise, happy to accept the remuneration and inner satisfaction of knowing that he retained control. There was a system to direct the music, but the jocks were encouraged to develop their own wacky personalities. Promotions and tie-ins with local concerts and sporting events abounded. In many ways, Harrison was refining Rick Sklar’s formula for success at WABC a decade earlier for a new generation of FM listeners.

  Harrison had some bizarre experiences while living in Los Angeles. Through Radio and Records, he began a series of artist interview programs that would be syndicated to stations across the country. The first was done in 1976 with a reunited Jefferson Starship, looking to make a comeback with their Red Octopus album. He traveled to KSAN territory, to the famous Starship house in Haight-Ashbury, to interview each member separately. An old Victorian manse with dozens of rooms, it accommodated the band’s business offices and studios, additionally serving as a crash pad for the group and their entourage. Grace Slick insisted on being interviewed while in bed, with Harrison sitting alongside. Therefore he can always brag about how he went to bed with Grace Slick.

  But he took a few useful lessons away from the encounter. First, it taught him how splintered a successful rock band can become—how petty jealousies and slights are magnified until they collapse the band’s structure from within. Democracy rarely works in rock; too many talented leaders generally pull in different directions until the whole is shattered. The group dynamic is like a corporation—everyone tries to take credit for success and likewise distance themselves from failure.

  The second thing he learned was how easily two hundred stations could be signed on to take the program nationally. Unlike the situation today with consolidation, stations who didn’t take a special program back then risked losing it to their competition. An ambitious entrepreneur could hustle for exclusive interviews and be heard across the country. Now, since large groups control multiple stations in each market, there is no incentive to take premium programming from outside sources. Competition is squelched and quality can suffer as a result.

  By far, the strangest journey he took involved the mysterious Cat Stevens. He was commissioned to put together a special program, highlighting the final album the reclusive singer was to make before becoming an Islamic minister. He was warned that Steve (his real name being Steven Georgiou) could be difficult, and that Michael might not get much out of him during the interview. But Harrison was a huge fan of the man’s music, and was prepared to write off any eccentricities as the vagaries of artistic temperament. He’d seen such behavior a hundred times before, with friends like Lou Reed and David Clayton-Thomas of Blood, Sweat and Tears.

  He was flown to Minneapolis, where Stevens was mixing the final tracks in a stately old mansion on the outskirts of town. His flight arrived at midnight, and he was met at the airport by a chauffeur in an antique Rolls-Royce. As he traveled forty minutes through the snow-covered Minnesota hills, he felt like a modern Renfield on his way to visit Count Dracula. The whole nighttime journey took on a foreboding nature as the Rolls pulled up to the majestic gated residence. He was led down to a cavernous studio where Stevens sat behind a prodigious mixing console, tinkering with the single “Remember the Days (of the Old Schoolyard).” The handsome artist greeted Harrison warmly, and bade him to sit while he put the finishing touches on the track.

  Michael watched in awe and wonderment as the black-bearded Rasputin attended the details of the final mix. Stevens paused several times to ask for Michael’s opinion, but the young broadcaster would only issue encouragement, feeling it was inappropriate to criticize a sensitive performer who made such meticulously crafted records.

  Finally, at around 3 a.m., the song was finished and the two men retreated to another room to set up for the interview, with comfortable leather chairs and a bottle of whiskey, two glasses and two expensive cigars carefully set out on an oak table. As they fired up the cigars and sipped their drinks, Michael asked questions. Stevens responded freely and openly, discussing his childhood, romances, and music. As they spoke, Harrison was puzzled how anyone could consider his
subject to be difficult, since it was the most candid dialogue that he’d ever had in a professional situation. The conversation rambled on for nearly two hours, and when it concluded, both men seemed enraptured with the outcome.

  Harrison was chauffeured back to a hotel, and plans were made for him and Stevens to be picked up later that morning for flights to their separate destinations. Stevens’s flight departed first, and Harrison helped him carry his guitar cases and kept him company until takeoff. As they said their farewells, Michael sensed that he’d formed a lifelong bond with an artist he held in high esteem.

  Back in Los Angeles several days later, he received the raw tape for editing and was impressed again with the quality of the interview and the kindness of his new friend. He also knew that he had a winner of a radio program, and hoped that his efforts would help boost the career of the artist he genuinely admired.

  The next day, he was very surprised to receive a stern call from Stevens’s management. The interview was never to see the light of day, he was told. He would be sued if any part of it aired anywhere in the country. He was denied permission to mention anything he’d been told, and was asked to immediately return or destroy the tape. When he protested that the interview would only do favorable things for the artist, astonishing news was delivered. Stevens was maintaining that Harrison had hypnotized him without his consent during the interview, and that he’d forced him to say things that were either untrue or too personal to be revealed.

  Although Michael had hoped that the talk would be spellbinding, this wasn’t what he had in mind. He sadly filed the tape in his archives where it has gathered dust for the last quarter century. Although he has recently agreed to do interviews, the most notice Stevens (now Yusuf Islam) has received was when he explained why Islamic law declared that Salman Rushdie must die. His statements were misunderstood by the media to mean that Stevens supported slaying the novelist, when in fact he advocated no such thing. As punishment, many radio stations publicly burned his albums and banned them from the scant airplay they were receiving.