by Richard Neer
Actually, he planned to wreak havoc well before he started. Although the Legacy takeover wouldn’t actually take place until after the first of the year in 1989, Coughlin called Chernoff and asked him to brunch before the holidays. At the meal, he made it clear to the young programmer that WNEW’s current ratings were unacceptable, despite the fact they were at an all-time high. Chernoff gently tried to tell him that New York City wasn’t Rochester and that rock stations could never aspire to double-digit numbers. Coughlin took this as defeatist talk. He then proceeded to tell Chernoff that every jock on the station was either too old or too weak to continue, and that he wanted to replace the entire air staff. The music needed extensive pruning as well. And if Mark was unwilling to go along with his directives, he’d be looking for a job along with the rest of the staff.
The brunch had a dampening effect on the holiday season for Chernoff. There was no way he would be able to work with this man in the long run, but he held out the slight hope that someone higher up at the new company would see Coughlin’s agenda as destructive. But at around that time, Legacy co-owner Carl Hirsch visited the station and it fell to Mark to show him around. While touring the offices, Hirsch asked Chernoff about how he felt about dealing with consultants. Treading lightly with his soon-to-be boss, he said that the program director should be the ultimate authority for what went over the air, but that a consultant’s input could be helpful in certain areas. Hirsch then asked about specific people and Chernoff was either mildly critical or noncommittal. Then the name Jeff Pollack came up.
“There’s a guy who’s really out of touch,” Chernoff began, and then detailed his negative feelings about Pollack’s history of slash-and-burn tactics at stations he had consulted.
“That’s too bad,” replied Hirsch, who then went on to tell Mark how close he was with Pollack, how they’d been neighbors in California.
It soon became clear who was pulling the strings. Coughlin had been Pollack’s recommendation—a weak man he could manipulate. All of Coughlin’s critical comments about the air staff and the music were the same ones he’d heard from Pollack in one form or another over the years. Trouble ahead, trouble behind.
Muni was an obvious target. Approaching sixty, he didn’t fit the stereotype of the young, hip AOR jock. His health had improved since he’d given up drinking, and his voice was still the most distinctive New York had ever heard.
A quick story about the power of Muni’s pipes. I had built a house on the shore in Toms River, New Jersey, and invited Scott over to watch some football. I’d adopted a golden retriever named Lindsay several months before, but although she was generally well behaved, she had one vexing habit—she wouldn’t come when called. She had broken loose from her leash several times, and finding her was an annoying hour-long exercise of cat and mouse until we could trick her into coming close enough to be captured. Dog treats, cajoling, stern warnings—nothing seemed to work when she wanted to play her games. She once got free and swam out to chase some ducks, almost drowning when she realized that she was too far out in the bay for her exhausted legs to power her back ashore. Luckily, a friend and I borrowed a paddle boat and rescued her before she went under.
During halftime of one of the football games, Muni excused himself to go out for a smoke, the one vice he continues to cosset. He asked if he could take the dog with him as he strolled along the shore. As they began their walk, Lindsay saw a squirrel and tugged at the leash, easily breaking Muni’s light grasp. She took off in hot pursuit, but Scottso immediately yelled, “Dog! Stop!”
The disobedient and startled Lindsay halted in her tracks and waited, shoulders bowed, until Muni reattached the leash. We’ve tried the same approach many times thereafter, but it doesn’t work, even when we imitate Scott’s throaty growl.
Muni’s numbers were solid, but afternoon AOR jocks in other markets had stronger ones. Plus, Muni was still the most powerful man at the station and a potential roadblock to any changes Legacy wished to make.
The apparent disregard for Muni highlights a problem that managers have made for decades and continue to make. When coming into a station, it is common for a new program director or general manager to listen to the current air staff and evaluate them based strictly on what they sound like at that given moment. But so much of a jock’s popularity is based on a vast reservoir of goodwill built up over years. In Muni’s case, some listeners went back with him to WABC in the early sixties. His Beatles connections still held a warm place in their hearts. Those who knew him only from WNEW recalled his classic interviews with Elton John, the Who, the Grateful Dead, et cetera. Most saw him as an avuncular presence who had experienced musical times considered almost mythological. Muni had attained larger-than-life status and reverence. His name was instantly recognizable and identifiable with the station, To many, he was WNEW-FM.
Objectively, were there other jocks who did better interviews? Almost everyone did, but most didn’t have the respect of the rock community that Muni garnered, so he could still score exclusives where others couldn’t. His long-term relationship with artists allowed him a kinship with many of them that no one else had. While they were both still drinking, Muni conducted his most notorious interview with Elton John. Elton liked to play DJ and, with his encyclopedic musical knowledge and keen sense of humor, probably would have been a good one. Scott would let him take over the show on occasion and, this time, John was reading a live commercial for the Pink Pussycat Boutique, a shop that sold sexual paraphernalia. WNEW’s sales department had a difficult time convincing the emporium’s owners that it was possible to craft a commercial that could sell their products and yet remain appropriate for airing at a time when the FCC’s restrictions on salacious material were much more vigorously enforced than they are today. The carefully worded live copy intimated much about the sensual pleasures awaiting the customers of the Greenwich Village shop, but was couched in vague terms with harmless double entendres to please the station’s legal division. In bold letters on the top of the page was a clear instruction: “Read exactly as written, NO AD-LIBBING!!!!”
This presented a challenge for Elton John, who was riding a crest of popularity, with record sales in the millions and sold-out concerts throughout America. If he had thought at all about the worst-case scenario, what could happen? Would his old friend Scott Muni ban him from the station? Refuse to play his records? Certainly such a penalty might affect his sales to a minimal degree, but the ensuing publicity could only enhance his naughty reputation. John had recently declared his bisexuality in a Rolling Stone interview, so what did he have to lose?
“Do you like to rim your boyfriend?”
Pete Larkin, WNEW-FM’s production director at the time, immediately stopped leafing through a pile of discarded albums in the music library and bolted for the on-air studio, incredulous at what he’d heard through his radio speakers. Through the double layer of soundproof glass, he saw Elton John, obviously feeling no pain from the effects of his champagne of choice, Dom Pérignon. He’d toted three magnums with him on his annual visit to the Scott Muni show, and was now deeply denting the second bottle as he spoke into the guest mic.
“Or do you just like to eat pussy?”
Larkin sprinted to the professional model TEAC reel-to-reel tape machine that was chronicling the events of the day’s broadcast. He tore off a sliver of paper to insert into the ten-inch rolling reels to mark the spot of the infraction, knowing that he’d be called upon many times to document what Elton had said.
“So if you’re the world’s biggest faggot, or you just like to, you know, fuck, visit the Pink Pussycat Boutique. And now here’s my latest record.”
Muni had turned purple at this point, restraining the impulse to burst out laughing. WNEW-FM’s license survived the incident.
The annual Elton John visits changed in tone after Muni gave up drinking. Elton confided that he had gone through a twelve-step program as well and now whenever they meet, John whispers into Muni’s ear, “Sober f
or ten years now, Scott. One day at a time.” When Elton told him that he was getting married, Muni exclaimed, “C’mon, Elton. You? We both know you’re not serious.”
No smiles were exchanged as Elton told him that his mother had insisted that he marry to have a child and continue the family name. “In that case, I’ll have to explain some things to you,” Muni replied. “That thing you do doesn’t produce kids. Do you want me to tell you how it’s done?” With that, the former Reg Dwight burst into laughter. How many other jocks in the world could deal with Elton John in that manner?
He had also forged a deep and lasting friendship with Bill Graham, probably the foremost concert promoter in the history of rock. In addition, he managed bands like the Grateful Dead, Van Morrison, Santana, Jefferson Airplane, and countless others. His loyalty and respect for Muni resulted in the station garnering many exclusives on artists he represented or shows he promoted. At one time, when the local promoter’s share of the WNEW Christmas concert threatened to slash the money that UCP would receive to almost nothing, Muni called Graham on the West Coast. Bill offered to fly in and promote the show for free, and even tried to talk the artist into a smaller expense allowance. Tragically, Bill Graham’s life was cut short in a helicopter accident a few weeks later.
Although from completely different backgrounds, Muni and Graham shared a no-nonsense sensibility when it came to dealing with artistic temperaments. Once, when Van Morrison played the Bottom Line, Muni went backstage minutes before the scheduled live broadcast. He arrived to see Graham emerge from Morrison’s dressing room, disheveled and bloodied. “The little bastard threw a chair at me and we went at it,” said Graham. “He’ll do your broadcast, but it’ll have to start a few minutes late.” Morrison proceeded to do a flawless set, showcasing his virtuoso skills on sax and vocals. Three nights later on that same tour, Morrison walked off the stage at the Academy of Music after playing only a few numbers and canceled the rest of the remaining dates.
Graham could be equally forceful with his audiences if the situation warranted it. Once, when Jefferson Starship played a free WNEW concert in Central Park, the city police threatened to shut it down if the inebriated concertgoers wouldn’t stop climbing the surrounding trees. Muni was dispatched to go onstage between songs. “Please stop climbing the trees or we’ll have to stop the music,” Muni pleaded. His entreaties fell on deaf ears, so after the next song, Graham grabbed the microphone.
“Get your fucking asses out of the trees, you bunch of shitheads.” Within seconds, the woods were cleared and the show continued.
During a performance at the Fillmore East, a man dressed in a fireman’s uniform leaped onto the stage from the audience pit and grabbed the mic. Graham, thinking he was a prankster from the crowd, wrestled it away and dragged the offender offstage. He was about to issue a savage beating when the man screamed, “Bill! The deli next door is burning to the ground. We’ve got to evacuate the theater.” The alarm was real, and Graham calmly cleared the hall.
Perhaps that’s how Muni learned that sweetness and gentle persuasion don’t always work in the rock world. At the Capitol Theater in New Jersey, Lynyrd Skynyrd was scheduled to do a live radiocast when Ronnie Van Zandt objected. “I ain’t going on some radio station. Not in the mood tonight. The hell with that. I ain’t going on ’til they go off.”
When Muni was informed that the band was backing out of their commitment, he burst into the backstage dressing room. On the table was a large bottle of Jack Daniels that Van Zandt had already put a good-sized dent in. Muni grabbed the bottle, took a long swig, and then waved it at the reluctant singer.
“Listen, you little cocksucker, you may not think you’re going on the radio but I guarantee you, once you start to play, you are going to be on our air. And there ain’t nothing you’re gonna do about it. Right?” He took another pull of Jack, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and strode, John Wayne–like, out of the room. The concert broadcast was brilliant.
Of course, there were times when the artists struck back. In their wild younger days, the Grateful Dead’s dressing rooms were virtual pharmacies—a complete assortment of drugs were proudly displayed for all to indulge. Although Muni liked his scotch and would down an occasional Heineken, drugs were outside his realm. He knew of several bad experiences that had happened to friends and his older brother, so Scott was afraid of anything harder than an occasional toke of marijuana when it was passed. The Dead weren’t content to let things be when he continually turned down their offers of acid. They wanted to expand his consciousness, but Muni steadfastly resisted, despite their persistent advocacy. Finally, at one of their later concerts, they seemed to have given in. One of their roadies ushered Muni directly to the beer cooler and offered him a bottle, popping it open for him with a loud swoosh. Old Scottso chugged a few swallows, but upon sensing its bitter aftertaste, he realized he’d been dosed. He put it down immediately, but the damage was done. Led onstage, he quickly introduced the band, then ran out of the hall and hailed a cab. Arriving home just as his world started to spin, he had the presence of mind to lock all the doors and windows so “I didn’t do that flying bit. It was a rough night, but I survived. But I remember putting the bottle down and when I came offstage, it was gone. Some stagehand must have had a hell of a night.”
Graham’s artists always seemed to be playing tricks on Muni, some of which he didn’t mind. Once, while interviewing Grace Slick of Jefferson Airplane, Scott paused during the questioning to read a live spot. While he was in the middle of a serious commercial read, Slick climbed atop the desk housing the console and lifted her skirt over her head. Muni glanced up and beheld that her morning ritual did not include donning panties. An unnerved and distracted Muni was unable to finish reading, so he merely issued his trademark grunt and started the next record.
Like Graham, he always believed in giving struggling new artists a break. When the Allman Brothers complained to Bill that they wanted to play by themselves with no opening act, Graham insisted that they have not one, but two acts before them. “How do you think these bands get started?” he’d ask. “How did you get started?” Muni shared that philosophy and fought to have new music on the station, even when classic rock seemed to be the way to go.
Was he as hip with new music as some others? Most of the new artists who met him were surprised at his overall grasp of their material and his sense of historical context. Did he have the more energetic, up-tempo approach that afternoon drive jocks now boasted? No, but he didn’t put you to sleep either. Did he work hard? Not especially, but what did he really need to work hard at?
If you were to weigh his value simply on tangible items, there might be a hundred jocks better than Scottso. Indeed, if you were starting a station in Kansas, you probably wouldn’t hire him. But his intangibles in New York far overwhelmed the competition. His contacts in the business gave WNEW an advantage on new releases or with prestigious bands for concerts or interviews. And his father-confessor role with the air staff helped tame many a budding border dispute.
Artists would often confess their problems to Muni as well. Pete Townshend first publicly revealed his tinnitus in a lengthy talk with Scott when he spoke eloquently of how he struggled to survive in a rock band, given his hearing loss. Townshend was so detailed when discussing the Who that Muni often teased him that he was going to ask a question and then go out for a cigarette while Pete crafted a long-winded answer. All the members of the band were frequent guests on the show; in fact, Keith Moon once arrived almost an hour before the rest were due and therefore had the microphone to himself for an extended period. He revealed that Daltrey, Townshend, and Entwistle were constantly lecturing him about his weight and drug and alcohol consumption. He admitted that he was worried as well, since he feared that if he didn’t curtail his wastrel habits, he was going to die. Barely a month after the interview his fears were tragically realized.
Even some of Scott’s quirks were positive factors—his ridiculous antics with producer
Tom Tracy were a morale builder, helping to lighten the mood at the station when the pressure escalated. Muni and Tammy would often start their act in a closed elevator, with Tracy calling Scott a peckerwood motherf—r and threatening to carve him up with a knife. Muni would answer back with racial slurs and the terrified occupants of the lift would exit before they reached their floors to avoid these obvious madmen. All of the constant back and forth was in jest. In fact, when one general manager told Muni he planned to fire Tracy, Muni suggested that he turn in his own resignation first, since he would be canned shortly thereafter. Although he laughed it off, a week later at a company function, while Muni and the man spoke to George Duncan, Scott brought up the proposed firing in a mirthful manner. “Hey George, what would happen if our friend here fired Tom Tracy?”
“I’d fire him before I’d let him do that,” Duncan said, with a straight face. Needless to say, Tammy kept his job.
Muni and Tracy also had pet names for staff members, all of whom Tracy pegged as latent, or in some cases, active homosexuals. Marty Martinez became “Martina,” Dan Carlyle was immediately tagged “Danielle.” I was “Rochelle.” Scott would needle Tracy with things like, “You people have your own towns. Dobb’s Ferry. Harper’s Ferry. And your own Christmas carols: Don we now our gay apparel.” The two men were completely at ease with their differences, and their loose-lipped trash talking provided needed comic relief through some tough times. Muni’s steady hand on the tiller had kept the station on course, when many others had drifted into oblivion.
Ironically, the one interview Muni wanted more than any other was denied him. Dennis had his John Lennon and I my Bruce Springsteen, but for Muni the Holy Grail would be an interview with Bob Dylan. When Scott started at WNEW in 1967, the very first record he played was Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone.” The reluctant troubadour just didn’t visit radio stations, and the only rare audiences he granted were on his turf—on his terms. Aside from the 1978 visit backstage at Nassau Coliseum, the only times he sat down with radio people were with Dave Herman in July of 1981 in England, and several years later with my brother Dan-o at Dylan’s West Coast home. Herman was displeased with the results because Bob played his acoustic guitar during the entire chat and didn’t reveal much of anything. Later, Dave speculated that the canny singer had affected this so that the tape could not be edited cleanly and distort the exact meaning of his words, such as they were.
