PUTTING THE ROCK IN ROCK & ROLL

I spent nearly a half a century behind a microphone, wearing headphones that were turned up to a level that could be heard by anyone within a 6 or 7 mile radius. Most of the radio stations I worked for dealt with rock & roll, in some way, shape or form. It would stand to reason, then, that I would have a lot of very cool stories about a lot of very cool people. Musicians, politicians, authors, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers – I got to play with some very nifty folk. This story is about none of them. In fact the only relationship it has to rock & roll is in the form of a rock. We had begun our little experiment in Mokena, Illinois. in August of 1981. It was experimental because, until that point, there was nobody broadcasting radio formats via satellite 24/7-365. We were an upstart young company who's concept would, eventually become the norm and, ironically, a death knell for local radio everywhere. We were the Satellite Music Network, which went on to become the ABC Radio Network for many years and we had 2 formats and 2 affiliates at the start. The industry laughed at us, but we were proud. We even had a little sign in front of the microphone that paraphrased ZZ Top, “We're Bad – We're Nationwide.” We were doing something that had never been done and we were inventing solutions to problems as they arose. My job at SMN was to be up at 3am and on the air by 5, fully prepared to attempt to entertain people around the country from my little studio sandwiched in between the True Value Hardware store and the pet store in a little strip mall in Mokena. I did the morning show for the Starstation. The format was “Adult Contemporary” or rock & roll for people who had gotten a little too old to actually rock & roll and were now attempting to remain “hip” without breaking one.....taking a walk on the mild side. This particular morning was especially cold, even for Illinois in the middle of winter and I opted to take the Honda to work. We actually had 2 Hondas, but one was in the garage and I figured I would just make it easier on everyone and take the one that was outside. Trying to get the lock unfrozen and the door open was, in itself a production that should have alerted me that I was supposed to take the other car. The warm one, in the garage. The route from my house in Frankfort to the studio in Mokena took me through a good 6 miles of forest preserve. It was a pretty straight shot, down a single 2 lane road through the woods. As I started to drive, my door opened. It was too cold to close, but, I was on my way, so I held it shut, the curse words beginning to bubble a little just below the surface of my psyche. About 3 miles into my journey, I noticed a street light and decided to stop and try to get the door closed. I had to be on the air in about 20 minutes and I was close enough to do this little chore and make the rest of my ride easier and warmer. I played with the lock and shut the door – voila' –it closed.........and locked. Now I was on the outside looking into my car, in the middle of a forest preserve, in below zero weather, with less than 20 minutes before the mic went on. That's when I did the only thing any sane human being would do in a similar situation – I picked up a rock and aimed it at the drivers window. Now let me preface the next part of the story with a little tidbit. I started playing baseball when I was 8 years old, played semi-pro for a couple of years while stationed in Nashville and had been scouted by the Red Sox as a pitcher. Here I stood, less that six feet from my car window. “He takes a look at the plate....shakes off the signal deciding to go with a pitch of his own. He takes the windup – here's the pitch.....ohhhh, he missed the plate” – and the window. There was a dent in my driver's side door and those aforementioned curse bubbles were now flowing like hot lava, freezing as they hit the cold early morning air, dropping with a thud on the ground near my front tire. I picked up the rock and threw it again, this time, hitting the widow square on and shattering it all over the front seat. Now I had less than 15 minuted to get to work. I climbed in and closed the door, which did, indeed, shut and sat in a pile of glass as the wind howled into the car and I drove that last few miles to work. I got to work with about 2 minutes to spare, spewing invective that would embarrass a drunken sailor on shore leave. I was able to regain my composure long enough to call the police and make a report.....you know, about those kids who were throwing rocks at the cars in the parking lot, smashing my driver's window. (shaking fist in the air) “Damned kids.....” The song I was playing was about over and it was time to turn on the mic and “perform.” I was still seething when I saw the control room door open. My newsman, I'll call him Dave, because that was his name, walked into the studio and plunked a rock the size of my fist onto the console - “Here,” he announced, “you dropped your keys.” I almost couldn't get off the floor from laughing so hard. From that point on the show was a breeze. Cut to nearly 30 years later. I find Dave on Facebook, still a news anchor and still in Chicago. After all that time, his first words to me: “I still have your keys in my back yard.”