What the Road Puts in Front of You


(Pictured: a plaque at Theodore Roosevelt’s gravesite. Insert your own Casey Kasem joke here cuz I got nothin’.)

From time to time over the years I have mentioned my seasonal teaching job, which requires me to travel a few times a year. This is one of those times, and how. I left home this past Friday and will be gone for two weeks. It’s the longest trip I’ve had in as long as I’ve been doing this. Right now, I’m on Long Island. Later this week I will drive up into Massachusetts before swinging back south (to New Jersey) on the coming weekend, then back north into New Hampshire next week to conclude the trip.

Yeah, whoever mapped it out wasn’t having their best day. I am hoping that New England’s fall colors, which should be coming out this week and next, will compensate for the inconvenience of my schedule.

What follows on the flip are some observations from the trip so far.

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All Day Music

(Pictured: Helen Reddy, who was quite a big star by the middle of the 1970s when this photo was taken. In 1971, she scored her first hits on the American chart.)

After writing about the AT40 show from September 18, 1971, earlier this week, I looked up the full Billboard Hot 100 for that week. Holy smokes there was some interesting stuff beyond the Top 40. (For the chart, see page 66 at this link.)

41. “All Day Music”/War. This would reach only to #35 on the Hot 100 in October, but it peaked at #4 in mid-September on WLS. As a result, “All Day Music” is one of my most indelible memories of the fall of ’71. If you aren’t completely sucked into that easy groove, check your pulse to make sure you ain’t dead.

43. “Marianne”/Stephen Stills. The theme of this post is apparently going to be “songs that vastly outperformed their national number on WLS.” “Marianne” would hit #42 on the Hot 100 but #6 in Chicago.

44. “Go Down Gamblin'”/Blood Sweat and Tears. Just fallen out of the Top 40, “Go Down Gamblin’” kicks your ass and the asses of your neighbors before going out to flag down random asses on the Interstate and kick them too.

45. “Stagger Lee”/Tommy Roe. A bubblegum version of the most notorious murder ballad in the history of the blues? Sure, gimme that.

47. “Lovin’ Her Was Easier”/Kris Kristofferson. Waylon Jennings and Tompall Glaser had more famous recordings of “Lovin’ Her Was Easier,” but Kristofferson, who wrote the song, does a pretty good version.

49. “Easy Loving”/Freddie Hart. This is a record we have dug around here since always. “Easy Loving” would reach the pop Top 20 late in 1971 and win the Country Music Association’s Song of the Year award for both 1971 and 1972. You could loop the first 11 seconds of it and I’d listen to it for an hour.

51. “Crazy Love”/Helen Reddy. A version of the Van Morrison song from Moondance. It must have seemed like a good idea at the time.

53. “Take Me Girl, I’m Ready”/Jr. Walker and the All-Stars. Any list of great Motown choruses had better include “Take Me Girl, I’m Ready.” It sounds a lot like “What Does It Take (To Win Your Love),” but I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.

57. “Annabella”/Hamilton Joe Frank & Reynolds. The followup to “Don’t Pull Your Love,” “Annabella” is a fine singalong ballad that made #46 on the Hot 100, although WLS charted it as high as #23 in a three-week chart run.

61. “Gimme Shelter”/Grand Funk Railroad. More volume, less subtlety. This version of “Gimme Shelter” is mostly an historical curiosity.

63. “How Can I Unlove You”/Lynn Anderson. For listeners who enjoyed her smash hit “Rose Garden” earlier in 1971, here it is again. Anderson died earlier this summer at the age of 67.

67. “Think His Name”/Johnny Rivers. Co-credited to the Guru Ram Das Ashram Singers, “Think His Name” is nevertheless a straight-up Jesus-rock number of the sort you might have been taught by an enthusiastic revival leader or church camp counselor. Needs to be 2:10, lasts 4:40.

74. “Don’t Try to Lay No Boogie Woogie on the King of Rock and Roll”/Long John Baldry. What you want more than the song itself is the story with which Baldry introduces it, about the British bobby who busted him for playing “boojie woojie music.”

81. “Charity Ball”/Fanny. Another record we have dug around here since always. Despite reaching only #40 on the Hot 100, “Charity Ball” would go to #3 at WLS in November and kick whatever asses remained unkicked by “Go Down Gamblin’.”

98. “It’s for You”/Springwell. “It’s for You” is a psychedelic freak-out version of the Lennon and McCartney song originally written for Cilla Black. Springwell was a Detroit-area band that shared bills with Ted Nugent, Bob Seger, and other Motor City acts in the early 70s.

The week of September 18, 1971, was a pretty solid week of hits from #1 to #100, all told. Well, maybe from #2 to #100.

The Music to the Story in Your Eyes

(Pictured: Young Rod Stewart, performing with Faces in London on September 18, 1971.)

When I was a kid, I rode the school bus for over an hour every morning. If I go out and lose myself on those town roads now, I can find places that were on the route, but I have never been able to reconstruct the whole thing. Maybe that’s because I wasn’t really paying attention. That long morning bus ride is a critical part of my personal mythology, because in the fall of 1970, I started sitting under the radio speaker every morning, absorbing WLS like a sponge. By the time I got back on the bus in the fall of 1971, I knew that listening to the radio wasn’t going to be enough for me. I wanted to be on the radio.

American Top 40 recently repeated the show from September 18, 1971, and as I listened, I found myself looking out the window of the bus. That, and being fairly impressed by just a remarkable list of songs. It’s as close to all killer and no filler as any AT40 ever gets. It’s loaded with soul classics: “Thin Line Between Love and Hate,” “Mercy Mercy Me,” James Brown’s “Make It Funky,” Stevie Wonder’s “If You Really Love Me,” “Tired of Being Alone” by Al Green, plus “Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get,” “Ain’t No Sunshine,” and “Spanish Harlem.” Apart from those, the radio was rockin’ in that bygone late-summer week. Some notables are on the flip.

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What We Will Remember

(Pictured: Pink Floyd, 1972.)

Earlier this year, Stephen Thompson of NPR Music tried answering the question, “Will we remember today’s pop stars in 50 years?” You should read the piece for yourself, although I can give you the short version: what we remember is what we keep hearing year after year after year, and so it’s guaranteed that some songs that have hit over the last couple of years will still be of interest to listeners in 2065.

Thompson says, “If you want a sense of whose music people remember, look no further than the artists who never actually have to go away.” He notes that Taylor Swift has been around for nearly a decade already, and Beyoncé scored her first hits at the end of the previous millennium. The pertinent list is far longer than that, of course: the first Four Seasons hit was in 1962, but Frankie Valli is still on the road. The Rolling Stones remain a going concern after 51 years. James Taylor and the Eagles are still filling halls and selling albums more than 40 years on. Just recently, Dave Davies of the Kinks talked about a possible reunion, more than half a century since “You Really Got Me.” The long afterlives of Pink Floyd and the Doors show no sign of waning, either.

One issue Thompson didn’t address is the change in the way we experience popular music now. In any given city, people aren’t getting all of their music from a small handful of mass-appeal radio stations anymore. Now they can choose from a contemporary hits station (CHR), rhythmic CHR, hip-hop, soft adult contemporary, rhythmic adult contemporary, modern rock, active rock, classic rock, plus Pandora, Spotify, Beats 1, YouTube, and other sources teenagers know and adults don’t. And so a particular song can become a big hit with a particular segment of the audience without making an impact elsewhere. My sense of the 70s and 80s is that the smaller number of outlets made the experience of a big hit song far more communal than it is today. Today, only a handful of songs break through into anything like truly mass consciousness (“Happy,” “Uptown Funk,” “Call Me Maybe”), where even people who don’t listen to much contemporary music can’t help but hear them.

A handful of individual works seem to have a chance to stick around (comparatively) forever. Every generation discovers “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and it will be a long time before Dark Side of the Moon fades into obscurity. I don’t know which individual hits by Taylor Swift, Beyoncé, or some staggeringly popular one-off might be equally long-lived. (“Happy”? “Uptown Funk”? “Call Me Maybe”?) Recent massive one-off smashes like “Somebody That I Used to Know” and this summer’s hit “Cheerleader” don’t seem to fit the bill, but who would have guessed in 1976 that “Bohemian Rhapsody” would endure for so long?

(Perhaps it’s just that I want you darn kids to get off my lawn, but to me, “Cheerleader” is the most over-praised record since . . . “Somebody That I Used to Know.” Both sound like they were written in about 10 minutes and recorded in 10 more; “Somebody That I Used to Know” doesn’t even sound like it’s finished. That audiences should go nuts over such flimsy stuff is nothing new. The odd thing is not that we sell our attention to the highest bidder, but that we sell it so cheaply.)

All of this is just my opinion. I could be wrong. What do you think makes music endure? Which artists and songs popular in the last 50 years are still going to matter 50 years from now? Which stars and songs of the last decade or so?

And Now, Some Canadian Content

(Pictured: Young Gordon Lightfoot, circa 1970.)

(Before we begin: our friend Tim Morrissey told one of the all-time great radio stories in the comments to this week’s post about weekend board operators. Go read it.)

Traveling years ago, I found a Canadian oldies station on the radio. Listening was a little like slipping into an alternate universe, where nearly everything is familiar but a few things are different, in significant ways. (Rather like it is for an American to visit Canada itself.) Canadian media is required to program a certain amount of Canadian content, which means that oldies stations up there are playing a few songs that sound absolutely right for the time period, but largely unfamiliar to an American listener. So, 45 years ago this week, CHWK in Chilliwack, British Columbia, would have sounded very much like an American Top 40 station of the moment, but with some interesting differences.

4. “Ten Pound Note”/Steel River. This Toronto band had been clubbing since 1965, although they didn’t go full-time or get a record deal until 1969. “Ten Pound Note” was their first single and a Top-10 hit across Canada. Although it doesn’t strike me as particularly distinctive in any way, it bubbled under in the States at #109 later in the fall of 1970, as did another single, “Southbound Train,” in the summer of 1971.

6. “Yellow River”/Christie. Another Canadian band. (Well, shit, I guess not. See below.) If you know “Yellow River” at all, you may own Rhino’s Super Hits of the 70s: Have a Nice Day, Volume 4, where it’s the first track. It made #23 on the Hot 100, but I first heard it on the country station my parents listened to, and it wasn’t a bad fit there.

7. “Wigwam”/Bob Dylan. From Self Portrait, an album nobody could figure out in 1970. We know now, of course, that Bob Dylan takes pleasure in confounding expectations, and “Wigwam” surely did. Were it by some other random dude named Bob, it would not have seemed nearly so weird. Despite widespread befuddlement, “Wigwam” became a Top 10 hit in Portland, St. Louis, Boston, Toronto, and Chilliwack, and just missed the Billboard Top 40.

13. “Me and Bobby McGee”/Gordon Lightfoot. A folk troubadour version of the song Janis Joplin would come to own within a few months. Lightfoot’s “Me and Bobby McGee” failed to make a dent in the States; all of the citations for it at ARSA come from Canada.

18. “Down by the River”/Buddy Miles. Canadian content by the back door—this is Neil Young’s song, from Miles’ album Them Changes. I had known about the album for years, but I’d never heard it until a couple of years ago, and holy smokes it’s great, one of the best rock and soul fusions ever made. If your musical experience has been similarly lacking, you can hear the whole thing here. almost all of it here. (“Memphis Train” is missing from the playlist.)

You may be interested to learn that Chilliwack, British Columbia, is not the hometown of the Canadian rock band Chilliwack. They came from Vancouver, which is not far from Chilliwack. It’s as if a band based in Chicago named themselves Schaumburg.

On Another Matter: Trunkworthy, a site I’d never heard of before, published a story earlier this week about the lost Motown works of David Ruffin. After leaving the Temptations (supposedly after being refused top billing, like Diana Ross got with the Supremes), Ruffin cut superlative versions of “I Want You Back” and “Rainy Night in Georgia” that ended up buried in the Motown vaults for 30 years; he also teamed with Stevie Wonder on “Make My Water Boil (Loving You Has Been So Wonderful),” a burner that should have been an enormous hit in 1971. Ruffin made music that could have healed the sick, raised the dead, and brought peace to the world, if it had only been heard. And that’s only a minor exaggeration.

The Board Operator

(Before we begin: I owe Indianapolis a modest apology. When I wrote about the city last week, I hadn’t found the best parts of it yet. Now I hope I get to go back someday.)

On radio today, syndicated countdown shows or public service programs get loaded into the automation to play at 7AM on Sunday while everybody on the station staff is fast asleep. But before the rise of self-operating automation systems a generation ago, those programs had to be played by a live human being. And so many of us old-timers started at the bottom of the food chain: weekend board operator.

At my first job (KDTH in Dubuque), I was hired to work from noon to 6 on Sundays. I pushed buttons for the noon news block, then ran a taped public service program. If there was any time after that, I got to be an actual DJ until 1:00, when it was time for the nostalgia show Sunday at the Memories. Then came the 5:00 news block, after which I got to do 30 more minutes of real radio.

Other jocks had different experiences. Just last week a former colleague, who’s back at her hometown station after many years away, remembered how she started there in the 80s by playing the legendary Powerline show. If you listened to Top 40 radio between the 70s and the 90s, you probably heard Powerline—at one time, it was on over 2,000 stations around the world. Each week for a half-hour, Brother Jon Rivers mixed music with soft-pedaled religious messages, which made the show a Sunday staple. It was generally heard early in the morning or very late at night. (The show was revived in 2013.)

There are thousands of people in radio who started by running American Top 40 or some other syndicated music show on Saturdays or Sundays. Shows like these could come to the stations on tape, although more often they were pressed on vinyl. It was the operator’s job to play the show segments in the proper order, and to put in whatever local commercials had been sold. Taped shows usually had to be shipped back to the syndicator (so they could be erased and reused), and it was the operator’s job to make sure the tapes got back to the program director’s desk so they could be sent.

There were other tasks that sometimes fell to the board operator—engineering sports broadcasts, for example. My first station carried University of Iowa football, so it was frequently my job to get the game on the air and put the commercials in. To get the Iowa broadcast, you’d dial a toll-free phone number to connect to the feed. A local high-school football game might come in on a portable transmitter, which often had a dedicated channel on the control board. For an out-of-town game, the play-by-play guy would call the studio hotline, and it would be up to you to get the phone on the air.

Some events required you use to the patch panel, a gizmo that allows connection of various inputs to various outputs. By some sort of engineering alchemy, a broadcast source would be routed to the panel, and you’d plug a patch cord into the right spot to route the audio into the control board. (The same thing happens today, but all an operator has to do is dial up the proper channel on the board instead of using a cord.)

The weekend board operator usually didn’t get to say very much on the air. He or she would sometimes read the weather forecast or the occasional live tag to a commercial, but that was it. Given that they almost always aspired to more, many chafed at this. I once hired a young woman to run syndicated shows on Sunday nights until 11:00, after which she was to return to the satellite service until her shift was over at midnight. A couple of months later and completely by accident, I learned that she’d taken it upon herself to do her own show between 11 and midnight. She wasn’t especially apologetic when she got caught, and I felt like I had to fire her. Too bad for her that if she’d simply asked me first, I’d have probably let her do it. Young jocks have to start somewhere, so why not there?

Old radio types amongst the readership certainly have more and better weekend board operator stories than I do, so please share.


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