About a year ago, my friend and ex-PD (KACE/L.A. and V100/L.A.), Kevin Fleming, and I realized that we had both portrayed Travis Younger in the Lorraine Hansberry play, “A Raisin In The Sun,” when we were kids. He’s not the first radio person I know who had experience in other performance venues before entering radio. Other radio friends were, and often still are, musicians. Mark Drummond, also late of KACE and V100, is a serious guitarist, for example.

My first PD, Mike Payne, had spent time at Cleveland’s Karamu House Theatre when he was a kid. I may well have run into him unknowingly. At that time, he would have been a much older kid. (As we aged, the difference narrowed.)

In one of my early blog posts, I stated that I had not intended to get into radio. It would have been more accurate to have stated that I didn’t intend to get into radio until I intended to get into it. Here’s what I can say without reservation: I intended to be in this thing called “show business” one way or another.

My father was – and is, when he chooses to be – a professional musician; a jazz pianist, though that designation can be limiting. He’s a musician who plays piano and, for years in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, played the Hammond B-3 when it was in vogue. My mother was a member of a Karamu House booster organization called The Thespians. She had studied theatre as a child at Cleveland Playhouse and had, and has, a deep appreciation for the dramatic arts. As I was her first child – and, the first child of my generation in the extended family – I was a “little prince,” a center of attention, referred to by my grandfather as “The Great Man” and by my dad, much to my mother’s chagrin, as “the little monster.” 

Early on, I observed that adults went to work. There seemed to be a gray-ness about it, except in the case of my dad, the musician. His work-life appeared to be interesting. He had musician friends. These guys were different from other adults. They were hip and creative. Daddy would get glued to the piano in my grandparents’ living room and transport himself to some distant and wonderful place. This became most apparent when I was tasked with calling him to dinner.

“Daddy, dinner’s ready.” 

He’d keep playing.

“Daddy!”

He’d glance my way, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and keep playing.

“Hey, Daddy!”

It took time.

Karamu House Childrens’ Theatre required that a kid be at least five years of age before joining. Mama, apparently, had some pull. I was admitted before – though, not long before – I turned five. Every week, I’d be part of a kids’ workshop led by Ann Flagg, my first teacher outside of my family. Miss Flagg was a chain-smoker at a time when this was deemed acceptable even when working in the midst of children. (To put it in perspective, family members smoked indoors in those years.) But, she worked well with children and had an older kid named Buddy Butler as her “enforcer” to help manage us.

Under Miss Flagg, we developed our imaginations. I remain grateful for that. In our workshop, we were called upon to see things that were not actually there and to “hold” objects with no physical existence. We would simply “put” them there. Hence, to this day, I can “hear” my own produced audio before it exists in the physical universe. That a person could seemingly lack creative imagination still seems odd to me.

About 1957, I was cast in the Karamu Childrens’ Theatre production of “The Bluebird,” only bits of which I’ve retained in active memory. I just remember wearing a toga-like garment and acting behind a scrim, which lent a dream-like quality as I occupied a dream-like world in the story. The story involved two children – a brother and sister – who were on an odyssey of sorts. One of the places to which they journeyed was a land of yet-to-be-born children, where they met their future brother; me. In my first play, in our first performance, I jumped my cue, prematurely walked onstage, realized my mistake, cupped my mouth as if to say, “Oh, sh**!”, did a pivot and ran backstage where Ann Flagg sat in her prompter’s chair, hands covering her face. Then, I went right back out, on-cue, and did my act. I knew my mistake. It was never brought up.

A couple of years later I was cast as the lead in “Simple Simon,” along with Ricky LaRue. We alternated in the role, involving big rubber ears, a very cool, small explosion and fake, fabric “pies.”

In 1961, I joined the adults in the first Karamu House production of Lorraine Hansberry’s “A Raisin In The Sun.” It was the experience of a lifetime. My grandfather bought five copies of every newspaper in which I was mentioned or pictured and passed them around to family and friends. He thanked our director, Reuben Silver, for providing me with such a stellar supporting cast, which included Ron O’Neal, who would go on to portray “Superfly,” and Minnie Gentry, a great actress and great-grandmother to actor Terrence Howard.

My mother tells me that I met Langston Hughes at Karamu. Mr. Hughes had originated the title “A Raisin In The Sun” in a poem. That meeting is foggy. But, I clearly remember meeting the late playwright, Lorraine Hansberry. We chatted briefly when she came to watch our production of her play in ‘61. Decades later, I would take my then-18-year-old son to the exact spot where that chat occurred.

After the second Karamu production of “Raisin,” in 1963, that was it for Karamu. I simply became involved in other things.

There was b-flat clarinet in junior high school. Then, in high school, still well before any consideration of being on the radio, I did morning announcements on our high school PA system, along with schoolmates David Graham and the very pretty and lively Jo Reed. We even replicated the NBC Network chimes at the start and conclusion each morning. But, the real highlight, in terms of show biz, was my participation in The Entertainers, our high school drama club. Led by our teacher, Carol Ann Blaha, we became, through our own efforts, the richest club in school. And, we played to a packed house at each performance. We were good.

Then, in late 1965, Chuck Denson and I stopped in at the local jazz station, WCUY/Cleveland Heights, and discovered radio.

Uh-oh.

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I’ve often wondered what my life and radio career would have been like if Wes had stayed around. How might he have fared in a digital universe? How far might his creativity have taken him given the tools we’ve had since the industry-wide conversion to digital if combined with his remarkable native intelligence?

Wesley F. Dickinson took me under his wing sometime in 1967. At the time, he was the mid-day jock on WABQ in Cleveland, our hometown. I had been given the run of the station by Program Director Mike Payne, with whom I would form a lifelong friendship. But, I hung out, initially, with Wes.

WABQ, a daytimer, boasted a small, highly talented and creative air staff; King Curtis (no relation to the late saxophonist) in the morning, Wild Wes in the mid-day, Mike Payne in the afternoon and part-timer, Leon “The Burner” Isaac, who the world would come to know as Leon Isaac Kennedy of “Penitentiary” movie fame. Compared to stations at which I would subsequently work, WABQ and its staff was – apart from its state-of-the art, if rudimentary, air studio – fairly unsophisticated in terms of format and general mode of operation. But, the staff was young, clever and quick, which made for an interesting and entertaining listener experience.

Wes had a lightning-fast mind. His presentation was very up-tempo, and his on-air production sense was such that the listener was never given time for wandering attention. He clearly and immensely enjoyed what he was doing, which connected across the air. But he really excelled in the production studio.

The WABQ production studio was where the older equipment went when it was deemed too out-of-date for the air studio. It still functioned just fine, however, particularly under the care of Willie and Rudy, our two-man engineering staff. And, Wes knew how to work it. His production sense and imagination gave us elements that continue to linger in my memory, particularly my first fanfare of a show opener featuring the voice of my schoolmate, Vicky Avery. And, given that which I’ve heard him produce at home, for example, using a simple home-model reel-to-reel tape recorder, an ancient RCA microphone and a non-professional turntable, I remain convinced that he could have worked miracles with a megaphone, two cans, a length of string and a Victrola. (For the benefit of readers born post-‘70s, we worked in an analogue production universe, involving magnetic tape, reel-to-reel tape machines, editing bars – look it up – and grease pencils. We turned out highly imaginative, how’d-they-do-that? audio.)

By mid-1969, Wes had migrated to KYOK/Houston and Mike Payne was on his way to its local competitor, KCOH/Houston. One day, I received a call from Mike urging that I make the move to Houston with him as KCOH had more than one air-slot about to open. This was exciting! I had heard stories from Wes about life in Washington, D.C., where he had worked on-air at WOOK, and from Mike about Houston, where he had lived for a time in the mid-‘60s when working at KYOK.

Then, it got a bit complicated. Wes called two days later and urged that I join him at KYOK. Man, what was I gonna do? Well, KCOH offered $110 per week. KYOK, on the other hand, offered $125 per week. Mike and Wes were both friends, but this was a no-brainer. I took the bigger offer and headed for KYOK. 

In Houston, I initially stayed with Wes and his wife, Mabel. He had use of the station van, by which we would get from Third Ward to downtown each day. I had a great time. It was at KYOK that I met my first wife, Phyllis Lynch. Today she’s Phyllis Pope and we still talk and laugh. There, I met General Manager Dick Oppenheimer, to whom I gave a hard time. I guess he attributed that to my youth. Or, perhaps it’s just that Dick is a big man. We became and remain friends. Night-time jock George “Boo-Ga-Loo” Frazier would eventually come to live and work in L.A., where I would see him out and about. But, I digress:

After Houston, Wes and I continued to maintain contact. He went to Milwaukee. I went for a too-short stay in Chicago, then to San Francisco for a few years and on to L.A., where I initially stayed with my best friend, Billy Graham; the same older kid who, years earlier, had seen to it that I arrived at WABQ in time to record my audition tapes, knowing it was my dream to be on the air. 

I should mention here that Wes had “demons” of some sort. There was a dark side to him that was distressing to his friends because we didn’t know exactly what to do. Today, he might – if I were not around – be diagnosed with some sort of nonsense out of psychiatry’s DSM, their Bible, and prescribed a psychotropic drug or three, thus killing him ahead of his body. Back then, he simply coped as best he could. But, by mid-1974, it had gotten to be too much for him.

One day, while staying at Billy’s, I got a call from Mike Payne, who always started his conversations with his signature energetic, staccato greeting. I was always glad to hear from him and I knew I was in for some laughs and jock-style silliness. This time was different. After his greeting, his mood shifted. He had called to tell me that Wild Wes, with whom I had spoken two weeks earlier, urging that he come to L.A., had taken his own life.

I’m left with memories of time spent watching him work in the production studio, sitting at his mother’s home in Cleveland fixing the WABQ program log to bring it into compliance after I had arrived 45-minutes late for my weekend morning air shift, trying our hand – poorly – at archery in Houston and talking possibilities in a business that we both loved at an early age. I still have a great black-and-white photo of me, Wes and James Brown; one of my treasured possessions.

As with my other mentors, Wes Dickinson is a part of me. The things that I do in this and related businesses are informed by things he taught me so long ago. I still think about him. He is still missed.

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I’m probably one of the few people who can say, in truth, that he met all three Kings of Blues; Albert, Freddie and B.B. As I mentioned in an earlier blog post, Albert called me when I was on the air at WABQ/Cleveland one Sunday afternoon. He invited me and a group of friends to the club he was playing. There I saw my first blues performance. And, what a performance! (Refer to “Albert, the King”, March 2012 in the Archive.)

I met Freddie at a club called The Lion’s Share in San Anselmo,CA, when I was a jock on KFRC/San Francisco. It was a pleasant, but brief encounter, punctuated by the news that his Cadillac had been vandalized in the parking lot. Ouch. Still, Freddie King had put on a show! And, his “Getting Ready” album still stands as one of my all-time favorites.

The biggest King of all was and is B.B., who could never remember my name, which I found to be odd given the B.B./J.J. similarity. But, that’s OK because he always recognized me on sight no matter how much time had passed.  He’d look at me, pause, then say, “He-ey…!”

It began when Bill Ham invited Phyllis and me to see a new rock act opening for B.B. King at a club in Houston when she and I both worked for KYOK; me on-air and she in administration under our General Manager, Dick Oppenheimer. The act, ZZ Top, rocked the house. After their performance, we went backstage and were introduced to this heavily bearded bunch, all in shades. That was kind of gimmicky, but they really did throw down. And, the act grew from there.

Then, B.B. hit the stage and I saw my second blues performance in life. Yikes! Afterwards, we went backstage again and were introduced to B.B., gracious to one and all. “The Thrill Is Gone” had, by that time, catapulted him from being simply well-known to being a multiple award-winning headliner and a household name even to non-blues lovers.

Years later, I saw him at the Roxy on The Strip in West Hollywood. Again, it was a great performance. The Roxy dressing room was reached through a door next to the stage and up a flight of stairs. As I headed up the stairs, I saw B.B. above me walking, apparently, to the men’s room. He glanced downward, spotted me, paused and said, “He-ey…! I’ll be right back.” I, along with a number of other radio people, went into the dressing room. B.B. appeared about two minutes later and I re-introduced myself. It had been four or five years since our Houston encounter but he seemed to recall that we had met at some earlier time. I was flattered.

The thing about his performances was that they were done in the way of an old performer. He told me years later that, on any given concert tour, he only planned his first three songs, whatever they happened to be. In the time spent on those three songs, he would “read” the audience; how that guy bobs his head, how that lady stirs her drink and so on. Then, without discussion, he would launch into the fourth song. His band knew him so well that he didn’t have to tell them what was next. He would start and they would simply fall in. Thus, each performance was customized for that particular audience. It wasn’t just “give the people what they want.” It was more like; “Give the people exactly what they want!” It’s the way show biz was commonly done before focus groups and computers.

In the late ‘80s, I hosted a syndicated radio show called “Highlights.” Among its features was “Every Week I Have The Blues,” hosted by B.B. King. It was a ten-minute segment. We would pre-record B.B.’s scripted part at Nelsound Studios or remotely in B.B.’s hotel room, whichever was most workable. B.B. had the latitude to change anything he wished to change in the script in order to make it his own. I was usually on-hand, not because I was required to be there, but because I was a fan. That segment eventually spun off to become a separate syndicated show, which ran for quite some time.

For years, throughout the ‘70s and ‘80s, I would run into this ultimate King of the Blues; in venue dressing rooms, while he recorded at Wally Heider’s studio next door to Martoni’s, in various hotel rooms, at MCA Records on the Universal lot and so forth.

He could never remember my name. But, that’s OK. He always remembered me. 

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“I can’t get my guys to do that,” he said. I responded, “Why not? You say, ‘Do it,’ and they do it.” At least, that’s the way it had always worked in my radio universe. I was seated in the lobby of a hotel in Orlando chatting informally with a group of small- and medium-market program directors.

It was not my intention to put the young guy on the spot and I don’t think that I did. I was addressing the whole group of five, or so. There seemed to be an implied consensus that a PD put forth suggestions which the jocks might or might not take. I can only imagine Mike Payne, Paul Drew, Jim Maddox or any of my former major-market PDs operating that way. I certainly had not.

Successful program directors were not bullying dictators, of course. And, cajoling had its place, certainly. Agreement is good and the best PDs were able to bring about agreement among the air staff. But, there was such a thing as an instruction. Call it an order because that’s what it was.

“We’re getting too long-winded around here, generally. So, the ‘ten-second backsell’ rule is now in effect.” That was not up for discussion. The above “agreement” reference notwithstanding, it was not a democracy. It was a programming department manned by professionals who knew well how to follow instructions and knew why things worked the way they worked.

In one – and only one – jock meeting, one of my guys suggested we take a vote on a particular programming matter. I didn’t have to do a thing. The whole group turned and looked at him as if he had two heads. Following a slight pause, I put forth The Plan. Of course, we discussed it. We went over “what if” and “how come” questions. I took care to get everyone to see the logic. And, everyone did. That’s how it was done.

When issuing an instruction in memo form, particularly with regard to new on-air promotions or programmatic approaches, I would close out with; “If you have any questions, see me or call me, no matter the hour.” And, I meant that. Mine was a 24/7 job. If the station was operating, I was at work no matter where my body happened to be; at home in the middle of the night, at a concert, at the beach or in New York City. Didn’t matter. I was in charge of programming at a major station in a major market and it had to roll right.

“The program director is responsible for everything that goes out on the air from the smallest scratch on a record to the biggest news story,” said Paul Drew. (Note to the post-Boomers: We actually played vinyl records back in olden times and they sometimes got scratched.) That was probably his most overarching lesson to me and it stuck. I had seen him in action. He had amazed even old hands with his thoroughness. And, I’d like to think some of that rubbed off on me. In this case, he was talking “buck stops here” responsibility. Did it go across the air? Ultimately, it was the PD’s responsibility. Jock gone crazy? PD’s gotta handle it. Riot situation? PD’s gotta manage the station’s on-air response.

There were consultants. The best were not micro-managers. Bill Drake, who’ll be the King of All Radio Consultants in my mind for the rest of my life, cajoled and persuaded. This statement is based on conversations that he and I had in later years. To be sure, he was in a position to simply tell local PDs, “This is how we’re gonna do it and that’s that.” And, I’m sure that he had occasion to put his foot down. His business and his reputation were connected to these stations – particularly the RKO stations – after all. But, he knew that schmoozing had its place and was key to bringing about the desired result. Bill Drake got results.

But, there were other authoritative considerations.

Case in point: One night, when I was truly a “junior” in the business, Paul Drew, my PD and a giant in the industry, walked into my studio at KFRC/SanFrancisco, pointed to some commercial copy and asked how the client name was pronounced. I told him. He said no, it was pronounced another way. I persisted because I knew what I was looking at. He insisted it was so-and-so. Finally, I said, “Look, if you want me to say ‘so-and-so,’ I’ll do that. But, it’s ‘such-and-such.’” I was not about to concede a point on which I knew I was totally right. He looked at me rather blankly, turned and left. I continued to pronounce it my way; the right way.

Case in point: At 1580 KDAY/L.A., long before computers became fixtures in air studios, there was always a stack of local newspapers and trade magazines sitting on a counter near the jock. It was there for quick reference. Reference. Jocks, being human, would sometimes become engrossed in the news to the detriment of their on-air performance. So, on one occasion I walked in and simply removed the stack. What followed was UPSET!!! I had expected protest, but their level of expressed unhappiness was far higher than I had predicted. The crew seemed close to mutiny. I’m exaggerating, of course, but it was rather extreme as reactions went. I determined that I’d erred in not using more of a gradient approach; perhaps issuing a stronger warning. I put the stack back in place with the admonition that it was for reference only and could not be allowed to distract or I would remove it again. Deal.

Radio was serious fun. Being a professional radio jock was serious fun. Being a major-station, major-market PD was challenging and serious fun. And, we’re the only ones who really get it.

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You couldn’t miss him. He had a bigness about him that could not be ignored. He was only a little larger than me, physically, but Eddie Edwards had a most appealing way of “booming” into a room. His smile seemed to precede him. Unlike me, he had no timid sense of back-off from anyone. He would comfortably walk up to any total stranger and start a conversation. I could do that, but it took effort. Eddie did it with apparent ease.

That quality served him well in his radio quest, begun when I was on-air as a part-time jock at WABQ/Cleveland in the late ‘60s. He would do as I had done before; come and hang around the station. That was the way. The winners – the ones who won that first on-air job – were the ones who persisted. They would not go away. They would be dissuaded neither by time nor by discouraging words. Having a little talent helped.

I knew he would be the inheritor of my part-time slot; not just because he persisted, but because he was so obviously good. His talent became apparent to me upon his first attempt at auditioning. Most of us started off in a somewhat timid fashion. Not Eddie. He was shown how the equipment worked and what was required in the way of delivery. Then, he commenced to do exactly that with none of the awkward hesitancy that I had exhibited when I first arrived. He just went right in and did it. Boom. A-to-B.

Conscious memories of my cousin Eddie extend only back to the passing of our great-grandmother, Iva Nesbitt, in 1967. He and I had both attended JFK High School in Cleveland for some time by then. I would see him in the hallway, but I didn’t recognize him as kin or by name prior to his arrival at my grandparents’ house the day of the funeral. As it turned out, I had been a classmate of my other cousin, Eddie’s sister Jo, for a year or so, also unaware that we were related. Our parents – my father and their mother – were first cousins and, as it turned out, favorite cousins. I knew his mom and her siblings. How I missed her children remains a mystery. My father told me decades later that Eddie and I had had childhood encounters. I’m still blank.

But, I was always glad I had a Cousin Eddie. Anyone would have been. And, as the years passed, my reasons to be proud increased. First, he replaced me as WABQ’s part-time guy when I departed for Houston in 1969. And, he was good! On visits home, I would tune him in. He never disappointed.

Later, he moved to Washington, DC, where he achieved considerable on-air success. He also met his wife there, walking up to her and introducing himself in his typical, straight-on, “caution to the wind” manner. He and Willette have been together ever since. But, there was, evidently, trouble in Paradise between him and his DC station, so they left, landing in Pittsburgh.

This was the beginning of my realization that Eddie was smarter than me. I’ve been told that I have talent. And, my IQ is definitely respectable. But, having and doing are two different things. Eddie, as it turned out, was a doer par excellence!

On one of his visits to Los Angeles, we sat in the lounge at the West Hollywood hotel where he was staying as he described to me the maintenance company that he and Willette had started and were running in Pittsburgh. I was impressed. Here I was hustling spots and voice overs, albeit with a reasonable degree of success, as Eddie grew his assets column in a major way by buckling down and doing business business while remaining with his first love, besides Willette; broadcasting. Son-of-a-gun. You can do both. And, at the same time!

Then, he knocked my socks totally off when he started Edwards Broadcasting. Long story short; he became, verifiably, one of America’s most powerful black broadcasters, acquiring and running numerous TV stations in the east from Pittsburgh south.

In typical Cleveland and family fashion, he remained an independent thinker and steadfastly refused to go along with anyone’s stupid program just to get along. He went toe-to-toe with forces – well-known forces – both inside and on the periphery of broadcasting. They attempted to intimidate him. Big mistake. Eddie simply and predictably dug in. He told me at the time; “I don’t care. I’m not givin’ an inch.” And, he didn’t. Result: He still has his assets, his self-respect and the respect of those around him.

I’ve not spoken to him in quite awhile. I really don’t know what’s going on with him as I type. I’d better find out.

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Maybe I just lucked up on a convergence of really nice people in Chicago. But, that’s not likely because it was so consistent. The people at my new station, the people at the competition station, people in between; nice. Nice, helpful, generous people were to be found everywhere in that city, it seemed.

Oh, these Chicagoans were not syrupy-sweet about it. In fact, they were rather grumpy in their niceness, which is to say that almost any expression beyond a simple “Thank you” tendered in response to a kindness would elicit a curt wave-off, equivalent to, “Yeah, whatever…”

It was the wintertime of early 1971 when Phyllis and I, in my “Jimmy O’Jaye” radio identity, arrived in the Windy City. Jimmy O’Jaye had come into being three years earlier, the night before my music radio debut at WABQ/Cleveland. That persona had stayed with me through Houston and was still a part of me during that Chicago winter.

Eddie Morrison, who had done the calls on the Ray Bryant Trio’s 1960 release, “It’s Madison Time,” was my new program director at WGRT/Chicago, “The Great 98”. He had flown me in from Houston to have a look at the station and the city. Jack Gibson – later known as “Jack The Rapper” (a play on “Jack The Ripper”) during the time of his very successful industry tip sheet and originally having no connection to hip-hop – had put us together when I needed a job and Eddie needed a jock to replace the departing Jay Johnson.

I immediately fell in love with Chicago. It reminded me of home in its Midwest-ness. I was, as well, impressed with WGRT; very sleek for its time. The staff was uniformly nice. Of course, I was the potential new guy, so naturally… Anyhow, I took the job, Phyllis and I moved there and they remained just as nice.

Our receptionist, Gladys, would regale me with stories about Leonard Chess and Chess Records and about Ewart Abner, who I would later get to know in L.A., during his days at the legendary Vee-Jay label. These labels had histories and Gladys knew a good deal of it, apparently.

Phyllis and I stayed at the Sherman House Hotel, a block away from the station, which was situated right on the Chicago River at the corner of LaSalle Street and Wacker Drive. We were visited and welcomed to the city by, among others, Gene Chandler and my homie (still my homie), Earl Williams, who was living in the city and working as an intern for WGN.

The pay was good and the opportunities for earning additional money (Read: Hustling – not a bad word) were plentiful. The guys from my station schooled me on how things tended to work in my new environment. Even the guys from the competition, such as WVON’s Program Director, E. Rodney Jones, were eager to help me, introducing me to key people, pointing out ways that money – legitimate money – could be made. My immediate main man was our morning guy, Richard Steele who, years later in L.A., would be the first person to see me with a shaven head. Steele also later did cutaways on Public TV oldies concert presentations, which were great!

Daddy-O Daley, a Chicago radio mainstay and mid-day talk show host on WGRT, encouraged me to aim high. I told him I envisioned becoming a radio programming consultant. He told me to plan to become a station owner.

I was 20 years old. Advice was coming from all directions. But, it mostly aligned and, even in retrospect all these decades later, it was mostly solid and good.

Hillery Johnson, promo man for Capitol Records and someone I had met during my first week in Houston a year-and-a-half earlier, lived in Chicago. There, our friendly relationship strengthened into a real friendship. We, and our wives at the time, socialized a lot.

One of the hang-outs of the day was the High Chapparal, a night spot on Stoney Island near 79th. It was managed by a man named Clarence, with whom I had worked out a deal for Sunday nights wherein the bar would go to the club and the door to me and Phyllis, who was no novice, having worked for Houston night club entrepreneur, Ray Barnett. 

My agreement with Clarence was a handshake deal, which was all that one would need. This was Chicago, after all, granddaddy of all corrupt cities, where people were honest and trustworthy. Contradictory but true.

Phyllis and I and, on one occasion, the two of us along with singer Bobby Hutton and his wife, made money at the High Chaparral. Clarence had at least one opportunity to breach his word for the sake of money. He did not. Our handshake prevailed.

Early evenings on Fridays, there would be a gathering at Ernie Leaner’s one-stop. Guys from WGRT, WVON, and occasionally other stations, would be there. So would various promo guys and the occasional artist. It was always guys; a men’s club. We would drink, play cards, laugh and talk, then go home.

As much as I loved that city and its people, I didn’t stay long. Paul Drew came with the offer I couldn’t refuse; to come to work on-air at KFRC/San Francisco. I did feel somewhat guilty for leaving like that after a mere four months, but Eddie Morrison and my friends understood.

The staff threw a little going-away party for me at the end of my last day and gave me a going-away present; a silver bracelet inscribed with the words, “To A WGRT Great Guy.” It’s one of my treasured possessions.

As it turned out, that was Jimmy O’Jaye’s final day on the air.

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Sometimes I get annoyed with teens who go around composing or reciting rap lyrics aloud in public places. Then, I have to remind myself that it’s their version of doing essentially the same thing we did with our favorite music: Sing and dream. “How Does It Feel” was one such song back when I attended Alexander Hamilton Junior High School in Cleveland. It was by a local group named the O’Jays.

We never quite did that song justice, but we thought we did, which was enough at the time. This was the type of music that junior high and high school guys “performed” on walks to and from school, on summertime nights under street lamps and in school stairwells, which provided marvelous echo to enhance our harmonies. And, it was along these lines that the O’Jays had gotten started just a few miles away a few years earlier.

“How Does It Feel” never charted, which was quite beside the point from our perspective. A lot of us liked it and, therefore, it was a hit…to us. It was 1963 and the O’Jays would enjoy their first actual charted release later that year with the H.B. Barnum-produced “Lonely Drifter”.

By the spring of 1966, I’d grown used to seeing R&B acts at the Sunday afternoon matinees at Leo’s Casino; acts such as the Four Tops and Gladys Knight & the Pips. Twelve or so blocks up Euclid Avenue was the Music Box, which offered its own Sunday afternoon matinees. That’s where I saw the O’Jays the first time. There were five of them and they were great!

There was no cable TV, no music videos, no digital downloads and scant awareness of national charts. A hit act was any act whose music was played on the radio and that you and your friends liked and agreed upon. Hence, the O’Jays, to us, were stars long before they finally broke nationally with “Back Stabbers” in 1972.

Eddie Levert, an admirer of Mario Lanza, had envisioned himself an opera singer. He had developed his own operatic approach to R&B, hitting soaring, sustained notes that made the girls scream. But, there was a modicum of democracy within the group as I viewed it from the outside: Eddie was not the exclusive lead vocalist. His friend from childhood and fellow group member, Walter Williams, had led on their 1964 release, “Lipstick Traces” and can be heard on “Darlin’, Darlin’ Baby”, among other cuts. And, there was the falsetto of William Powell, first heard by most of us (in Cleveland) on “Oh How You Hurt Me”, also in ’64. 

I actually met Walt and Ed in San Francisco in 1973. I don’t remember exactly how that came about. I recall that we were on the street in North Beach and that it was brief. I got to know them in L.A. a couple of years and numerous hits later. By the time I had begun interviewing them on-air at 1580 KDAY, there were three O’Jays; Eddie, Walt and Sammy Strain, who had spent years as a member of Little Anthony & the Imperials.

These were great on-air interviews because we had fun and a listener could feel it. It was more like having co-hosts than interviewees, particularly when Eddie and I would go at each other, much to the amusement of Walt, in particular. I’d zap Ed, he’d zap me back. I can hear his voice as I type. I’d hit him. He’d deadpan, “Cheap shot.” Then, we’d all roar.

I know I mentioned this in an earlier blog post, but, as the end of KDAY approached, I silently wished for one more O’Jays interview. I never said that aloud. So, there must be a God. One day, about two weeks before we signed it off, our PD, Jack Patterson, told me I had an O’Jays interview coming. Yikes.

For us, it was a “standard” on-air interview; music, back-and-forth “insults” and lots of laughs. After that, I was ready to sign it off.

The last time I saw the guys was years ago in their hotel room. I interviewed them for my website, The R&B Page. This, being for the purposes of biography, was not the same as our on-air encounters, but just as enjoyable. I found out, among other things, that Eddie had played the violin as a child. I resolved to remind him of that from time-to-time.

Subsequent to that interview, I was saddened to learn of the loss of one of his sons – Gerald, whom I had also interviewed for the website and a guy I liked, though we hardly knew each other – then another; Sean. Later, I was heartened to learn that Eddie was back up and running, doing what he does; performing with his lifelong friend, Walt.

One of the reasons I opted for the show biz life was that I wanted to surround myself with interesting and highly-creative people. Eddie and Walt were two of the guys who filled the bill.

(Follow me on Twitter @jjsradioblog.)

Paul Winfrey and I used to hang pretty tight. We were friends. I had met him through Leon Isaac Kennedy, my predecessor at WABQ/Cleveland. They were cousins. He and I hung out a lot even after – especially after – Leon left for Detroit and I went on the air in 1968.

At the time, we and our contemporaries were very much into the Temptations. They had the look. They had the sound. They were smooth and nearly perfectly coordinated. Though we had been aware of them in Cleveland well prior to the release of “My Girl” in 1965, that was the song that effectively hard-wired them into the general public consciousness. Decades later, group co-founder and leader Otis Williams would tell me of the gracious congratulatory telegram the group had received from the Beatles upon achieving Gold status (later Platinum) for that Smokey Robinson/Ron White-penned and produced hit.

“My Girl” even affected my father, an educated musician, who, in those years, tended to disparage contemporary R&B acts as “bird groups”; a holdover reference to groups in the Fifties such as the Ravens and the Orioles. Earlier, he had given James Brown credit for having a great band. Progress. With this Temptations release, he actually admitted that this was music; good music. Breakthrough!

I had seen the Temptations for the first time in 1964 at the legendary Cleveland nightspot, Leo’s Casino, which had established a Sunday afternoon, no-alcohol matinee for teens. There, we could enjoy the hit acts of the day, such as Gladys Knight & the Pips, the O’Jays (!), Marvin Gaye and many others. My first time at the Sunday matinee, when I was 14, I saw the Tempts and opening act, the Velvelettes (“Needle In A Haystack”). Wow.

By 1968, those of us who watched – those of us who were in our teens and cared – had begun hearing stories of friction between the Temptations and their lead singer, David Ruffin. It was a living soap opera. How would it all turn out? What’s next? And, what had really been up between David Ruffin and Tammi Terrell? This was intrigue.

Given my “status” as an air personality at WABQ, I was used to getting into performance venues for free. Often, I would simply mention my name and the call-letters and the proverbial velvet rope would open. Unfortunately, I had no such pull at the club on the top floor of the Versailles Motor Inn. The Tempts were booked to perform there and Paul Winfrey and I wanted to see them. But, I couldn’t work it. He and I didn’t have money at the time. So, we got creative.

Paul noted that their men’s room was situated outside of the showroom. So, a patron who needed it would have to walk out past the guy at the door collecting cover charges, walk over to the men’s room, then back past the guy and into the showroom. Naturally, the guy would not hassle a patron.

Our plan was to get to the top floor, go immediately into the men’s room, then back out and past the guy at the showroom door as if we had been there all along. It worked. To compound the crime, we ordered drinks, though we were underage, and drank them. 

The show was great. David Ruffin was even better than when I had seen him with the Tempts four years earlier. It was not the last time I would see him with the group, though two weeks later he was expelled: David Ruffin out, Dennis Edwards in. As great as David had been, having Dennis was a good trade-off as far as consumers were concerned.

Sometime thereafter, I arrived at the station, walked into the air studio to say hello to Mike Payne and there was David Ruffin. It was our only encounter. I found him to be charming and gracious. I saw him perform years later as a solo act at the Whiskey on the Sunset Strip. He was good, he had a bona fide hit going, but it wasn’t the same. Further, the emcee forced an encore. Encores should never be forced except by the audience.

In 1982, the Temptations Reunion Tour arrived at L.A.’s Greek Theatre. It included David Ruffin and Eddie Kendricks, who had also exited the group years before. The lights went down. The audience waited breathlessly, the trademark four-headed microphone stand rolled out and the crowd went wild. Then, seven Temptations dressed in white hit the stage and performed all their hits to rousing reception, including the Rick James-produced R&B hit, “Standing On The Top”. (Rick James would tell me years later that he was probably the only producer who ever had seven Temptations in the studio at the same time. That’s probably right.)

Months later, according to Otis, “they went crazy.” Some group member would fail to show up and Otis would be left to face an irate concert promoter who wanted to know why he was paying for seven Temptations but only seeing six. Or, five. End of Reunion.

The last time I saw the Tempts was at the Amphitheatre in Universal City. They still had it after all that time; the sound, the moves, which still looked like Tempts’ moves but which were not frozen in the Sixties. Afterward, backstage, I asked Otis if in the beginning he thought the group would still be active forty years (at the time of our conversation) after its start. His response: “Nope.”

I think I’ll get in touch with Paul Winfrey.

(Follow me on Twitter @jjsradioblog.)

There are great entertainers and there are great singers. The two are not necessarily synonymous. I’ve seen and enjoyed marginal singers who were immensely entertaining. I’ve watched highly creative people who bored me to tears in performance. And, there were those who could combine great singing – exceptional vocalizing – with compelling performance; presentation that kept the eyes glued to their every movement and gesture.

Little Anthony was and is such a performer. I had been aware of him since childhood when, in the late 1950s, Little Anthony & the Imperials’ “Tears On My Pillow” became a major hit. His “high falsetto”, as mentioned in descriptions of his style, is really his natural voice. It’s a high-end, very male voice that can push a listener up against the rear wall of whichever venue he plays. It’s that powerful, though I wouldn’t know that for many years.

In the summer of 1965, Little Anthony & the Imperials appeared on a network TV show which I viewed in black & white on one of those 20” portables with rabbit ear antennae perched on a rickety metal roll-about caddy that every family seemed to own. The audio was far from optimal. And, the picture resolution of black & white TV left a lot to be desired. The Imperials were enjoying a string of hits dating back to the previous year. This TV presentation was a performance-type – as opposed to a lip-sync-type – presentation. And, they performed! They connected through black & white technology and a single, three-inch speaker. This was a real feat. And, I’ve never been easy to impress.

By 1973, I was Program Director of KFRC*FM in San Francisco, an automated rock ‘n’ roll oldies station. It was a job I could never quite bring myself to love. But, it had its advantages. Among those was a real education in radio programming under Paul Drew, the prestige of being an executive – albeit at a low level – of the great RKO Radio chain and invitations to performances by artists I had grown up admiring.

Our station gave away tickets to a Little Anthony & the Imperials performance at Sunol Valley Golf Club, south and slightly east of San Francisco. The place was isolated; out in the country. As we approached the clubhouse, I could see the lights. Good. That helped us to find the place. Then the road took a dip. As the car rose back up from the dip, the clubhouse had disappeared in the darkness! Gone. So, we crept along in the dark until we could make out the building, then parked and went inside.

There, by candle-light, Anthony was performing stand-up comedy until the power could be restored. Many lesser entertainers would have sat it out until the electricity came back on and the audience would mostly have understood. This audience was roaring to the comedic antics of a microphone-less singer and enjoying it. I was impressed with this guy already and had not yet heard a single note. With Anthony, it was about performance. A power outage was just an obstacle to be overcome. He overcame.

The lights shortly came back on and the group and band picked it up mid-“Tears On My Pillow”. It was during the remainder of this performance that I came to realize what a powerful singer Anthony was. All of these guys came to sing! Overall, it was a riveting performance; much more than I had anticipated.

Afterward, my companion and I went backstage to meet Anthony and the group and that was that.

A couple of years later I was on the air at 1580 KDAY in L.A. Being in Hollywood and having spent my childhood in theatre, I naturally sought out acting coaches. First, there was Jeff Corey, one of Jack Nicholson’s teachers, followed by David Alexander, who had taught Jack Lemmon. (Mr. Lemmon had come to speak to us and signed my copy of his autobiography. He was a gracious man.)

The program director of a major L.A. Top 40 station invited me to join him at the Playboy Club in Century City to talk about my joining his staff. I met with him, but declined the offer. I was glad I had taken the meeting, however, as Little Anthony & the Imperials were performing at the club that night. Again, they were great. And, again, I went backstage to greet the group. This time, Anthony and I stayed in touch. 

Soon thereafter, I introduced him to David Alexander and he joined the workshop. So, each week we would work on our acting, then repair to a nearby coffee shop and chat for another hour or so with a couple or three fellow actors. Anthony and Linda, his wife, and Jahn, who was not yet my wife, and I socialized a bit, then we drifted.

The last time I saw him in person, I was doing a rather lonely remote from the cloisters of L.A. City Hall, used in countless TV and movie scenes, perched high above the crowd. The occasion was the then-yearly street festival put on by the city. On a stage below, Anthony was performing without the Imperials. He came up to say hello and I was very glad to see him. Years after that, I called him long-distance. He had moved to another city. He seemed glad to hear from me. That, of course, was gratifying. Since then, I’ve seen him in performance on the PBS oldies/doo-wop series. Remarkably, he and the Imperials still have it after more than 50 years.

From early childhood, I longed to be with and among the real artists. That came to pass in my theatrical childhood and continued onward. “Little Anthony” Gourdine was one such person; a real artist.

I knew I’d get the call, but not exactly when. It came at 3AM. Elmer Hill, head of Black Music Promotion at MCA Records, wanted to let me know that he intended to offer Joan a job at the label and wanted to clear it with me first as a courtesy, which I appreciated. He had hinted at it, already. Besides, I knew you didn’t keep a person such as Joan in a position of marginal pay and opportunity forever. I didn’t want to lose her, but I certainly did not want to hold her back in any way. Her job at 1580 KDAY – an important one from my point of view – would never pay much more than she was making at the time no matter how well she carried out her duties. And, Joan Scott was great at her job.

She was not my right hand. She was my right arm. As had been pointed out by someone in the industry who knew both of us; Joan watched my back. I never introduced her as a secretary, though she carried out those duties as well. No. In truth, she was so much more. If I’d been really clever, I might have come up with a more fitting title. But, I settled on Programming Assistant and she seemed OK with it. I can state without equivocation that the department would not have run as it did without a person like her. And, it ran.

I had “inherited” Joan when I re-assumed the programming position from Steve Woods in the very early ‘80s. I don’t know how she came into the job, whether Steve had led the charge to hire her or if our general manager, Gary Price, had. The job carried with it the unenviable and nearly simultaneous responsibilities of handling office duties for both the PD and the GM, though she was mostly a programming person. In any case, I had become the beneficiary.

On a typical day, I’d finish my morning air shift at 10AM. Joan would arrive just before 9. If she didn’t stop in the air studio before my shift ended, I’d see her at 10 in her office adjacent to mine. We’d greet each other and begin.

There would be a quick review of my daily agenda, which she would cheerily deliver: I had to call this person by 10:30. Do I have to? Ye-es. Another person wanted to talk to me about the album promotion he had proposed for the coming weekend. I’d tell Joan to tell the guy that I was good with it on condition that the product be in our hands “by noon tomorrow” or no-go. She would respond that she had already reminded him of the rules. No surprise there. But, she might say, he wanted to talk to me, anyway, and she had told him I’d call him a little later in the morning. She knew what was OK and what was not. There might be more; I was to meet so-and-so for lunch at Martoni’s. I was to review an air-check with one of our jocks mid-afternoon. I was to be at that studio across town late that afternoon to record my narration for the syndicated show that I hosted. And, did I want tickets to the big concert at the Forum in two weeks?

Joan provided the space I needed to actually be a program director. She delivered what is called “exchange in abundance” by consistently going the extra step and by being reliable to a fault.

There was, of course, the priceless bonus of her friendship, which I have to this day and which she extended to my son beginning when he was a very small child. When he was eighteen, she arranged a duel summer internship for him at a PR firm and in the office of a famous entertainer. He subsequently opted not to enter show biz, but he knew a thing or two about it first-hand because of Joan’s thoughtfulness and care.

So, Elmer was on my line in the middle of the night, telling me that he wanted to hire Joan. I told him it was OK under two conditions, both amounting to “treat her right.” The next day I took her to lunch, informed her that she would soon get the call from Elmer; something she already knew. Also, I reminded her that once she departed, her KDAY position would be filled and would thereafter be unavailable. In other words, this was a big step which I recommended that she take. I’m sure she had planned to do that, anyway.

She took it. She was in the business. I would see her on record day in our lobby and across my desk as she pitched her company’s latest priority releases. It was strange at first, but exhilarating. While we couldn’t always give her a “yes,” we rooted for her.

Today, she works for a local politician. I guess that’s show biz of a sort. And, she and I are still members of an exclusive entertainment industry club. This weekend, I’ll hang out with Joan and however many dozens of our old associates gathering for a day in the park.

Having a Joan in one’s life is a bonus that comes with living. If you’re lucky.

(Follow me on Twitter @jjsradioblog.)