Why I gave up Midwest winters (Part 2)

Around the south side so cold that we cried

Were we ever colder on that day a million miles away

It seemed from all of eternity

Move forward was my friend’s only cry

In deeper to somewhere we could lie

And rest for the day with cold in the way

The moments seemed lost in all the noise

A snow storm a stimulating voice

(“South Side of the Sky” by Yes from Fragile, 1971)

The inner sanctum of my car was quickly becoming a Frigidaire exposition.  I was yelling options at myself to help keep warm. Since no one was going to stop and assist, I had no CB radio, and cell phones were years away from being invented, I could either start hiking, or expend some energy trying to restart the car.  Option B made the most sense.

With my bare hands, the tire iron, and incredible angst I started cleaning caked snow out from every nook and cranny around my engine compartment.  I had to stop several times and climb back in the fuselage to get a respite from the screaming freeze and to breathe on my frozen digits.  The Converse tennis shoes I had on my feet were hardly protective—my toes were unfeeling, even when I kicked them against the side of the car to keep nerve endings stimulated. I feared frostbite could set in at any time. 

My final task was to try to carefully clear out the carburetor. How it got so icy inside, I will never know. I had to lay across the engine trying to warm it with my body, and exhaled heavily onto it trying to melt away moister that had crystallized around it. Queen’s song, “I’m In Love With My Car,” was an FM hit during those days, and anyone driving past must’ve thought I took its sentiments just a tad too far as I was nearly French kissing and dry humping the motor! To my amazement, the engine fired-up pretty quickly (I guess it just needed a little lovin’). Knowing that if I didn’t try to re-secure the hood that the problem would probably only get worse, I had to then figure how to slam it down and keep it firm.  I managed to jerry-rig a makeshift lock by wedging the tire iron into the left front side.

This worked reasonably well for another five miles, when the car ground to a halt again with the same groaning sounds.  The swirling snow had seized it up again.  I repeated this cleaning process two more times over the next dozen miles or so.  I have never been that cold in my life, nor do I ever wish to be again.  I would rather burn in the sands of the Sahara than be too cold. 

Visibility was down to ten feet.  I was creeping along at perhaps fifteen miles an hour, hoping that I wouldn’t ram into an abandoned vehicle.  Near Crystal Lake, Illinois, I came upon a police roadblock.  The officer who came up to my car wondered how long I had been trying to make it through.  It had taken me nearly four hours to cover about forty five miles. Seeing my attire, or lack thereof for these conditions, he said with a bit of bemused admiration in his voice, “Your valiant effort is now complete for the day, son.  We’re not letting anyone go north of here. Every road is closed for a hundred miles.”

“Officer, I’ve only got three bucks on me, and am nearly out of gas.  What can I do?”

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t be able to get into a motel anyway—they’ve all been booked solid for hours. Take a left here and go about four blocks. You’ll see the Crystal Lake Fire Station. They might be able to put you up.”

To their credit, the firemen at this Lake County station house were more than accommodating.  They set up a cot with some surplus blankets, and offered me some hot chocolate and stew.  Many phone lines were down in the area, but they had a good one in operation, and allowed me to call my radio station.  I spoke with Charlene, the receptionist.  Somehow a few of them had made it in to keep the public service portion of our duty going strong for the community.  People are so dependant on radio broadcasters in a situation like this. I told her it looked like I might not make it back until the next day. I also mentioned to her I’d been having trouble reaching my parents, and would she please try to call them for me, let them know I was safe, and inform them of my whereabouts? She said she would. I then tried to call my folks again --who lived forty miles east of there in Skokie--to let them know my predicament and that I was OK.  Unfortunately, all circuits were jammed.  I kept attempting this for hours with the same lack of luck.  Then, by late afternoon, all lines were down. No TV, no radio, not electricity of any sort until they were able to crank up an emergency generator for the most basic of needs.

So there I was, alone with these public servants in a candle-lit firehouse in a strange town.  I slept hard that evening.  The howling gales kept flailing the sturdy brick structure. Early on Thursday morning the blizzard finally passed.  But as all Midwesterners know, a hellacious deep freeze then set in.  The skies were clear blue, but the winds were still strong, and it was easily forty below with the wind chill factor. 

I would overhear conversations and some reports coming in on their CB radio that it was as bad as anyone could remember.  Most power lines had been severed.  Pipes were frozen everywhere.  Some roads and overpasses were completely drifted over.  On transistor radios we heard of entire rows of semi trucks on the I-90 toll way that had been buried in twenty-foot drifts. No one had any idea when roads would be opened.  Every snowplow that hadn’t gotten stuck was working ‘round the clock to try and open arteries.

A day and a half passed with no way of reaching anyone. The fireman tried raising the Skokie Police to see if they could contact my parents, but were greeted with laughter,  and, “We are so swamped taking care of emergencies…we don’t have time to make house calls about lost sons in other towns.”

In the late afternoon on Thursday, we heard that a route my have been opened heading up Route 14 towards Harvard, Illinois.  If I could get my car started, perhaps I’d be able to get through.  As it was, I was only about thirty miles from my apartment in Williams Bay. I furiously worked on getting my car restarted. Once again, with some prodding, that old warhorse cranked up pretty well.  The fireman allowed me to fill up on fresh gas, gave me an extra sweatshirt, a couple more pair of socks, and a scarf to help me with further protection against the elements. With some firm handshakes and well wishes from Bill, Rusty, Shep, and the rest of the gang, I was on my way.

I wove in between abandoned and wrecked vehicles of all sorts.  Many were mangled badly by huge snowplows that had crushed their unseen buried hulls as they careened down roads.  I saw one brand new Porsche whose side had been peeled back like a tuna can from a powerful blade. As I drove I listened to more and more horror stories of frozen bodies being found in cars, even professional truckers who had died from being stuck with no options. It made me grateful for my good fortune.

I had nearly made it to the Wisconsin border when I came upon another line of cars.  There was a daunting three-foot high drift that had not been cleared.  The height wasn’t so much a problem as the width (completely covering the road) and the length (it must’ve been two hundred yards long). Without a plow to clear the way, it would take several dozen people a full day to dig it out.  It was 4:30 PM by now, and the sun was sagging low in the southwest sky. No plows were in sight.  Several of us were putting our heads together to work up a plan.  One irrational Cheesehead was even willing to build up speed to try and bludgeon their way through.  But we all reasoned him out of that.  We were all anxious to move northward.  All of us had been in this situation for days now, each comparing various horror stories, but simultaneously glad that we hadn’t succumbed to the elements like other unlucky folks we’d been hearing about.

Just then a State Patrol officer drove up informing us that this road wasn’t going to get attention for at least another day, and that there weren’t any other passages into the Dairy State that he knew of.  With nightfall nearly upon us, and temperatures guaranteed to drop another twenty degrees without the sun, we had best follow him to the gymnasium over at the Harvard elementary school where the locals were taking refugees in. We dropped our heads, knowing this was again to be our lot…and all retuned to our cars and formed a procession.

The Red Cross was operating this shelter, and we were all pleased to be greeted with warm smiles, blankets, bedding, and even warmer food and piping hot drinks.  Sub-zero cold can really drain your system, and most of us were asleep by 7 PM.  And there had still been no luck for any of us in getting through on any phone lines.

Early Friday morning, after downing some oatmeal, a policeman came in and informed us that another route had been opened.  He would be glad to lead any of us that way.  We eagerly jumped at the chance.  When I got out to my Chevy, however, I had a new problem.  Even though the winds had died down, it had simply gotten too cold for too long, and I believe the gas AND oil lines were frozen up.  I remember sitting inside my old beater with tears freezing to my cheeks as I sobbed over my plight. 

Trying to compose myself, I sulked back into the school.  Most everyone had left, so I felt even more alone.  One of the volunteers tried to give me a jumpstart, but it was a no-go…dead as a doorknob. She then used her CB radio to hail a friend who owned an industrial grade wrecker.  His nickname was “Shoe” (short for Schumaker, I believe), and he came by around noon to see if he could help. I explained my lack of funds, but he cheerfully said, “Let’s give it a try.”  The kindness of strangers can be overwhelming sometimes. To his credit, he worked with me for over an hour trying every trick in the book he knew to get my engine to turn over. And, by gum, we finally did it!  He warned me that I might not want to stop it anytime soon. “Just keep that sonofabitch runnin’ no matter what.”  He even gave me a spare set of earmuffs to put on over my wool hat. I got his address so I could send him compensation later.

There was no escort by this time—I had to just keep experimenting with different roads headed north. My map was useless because so may reference points and intersections were buried. Many of the road signs had either been bulldozed by the plows, or blown-over by winds, or were buried under mountainous drifts. I finally cut across the border near Big Foot, and then zigged and zagged on various combos of county highways until I worked my way to my little hamlet along Lake Geneva’s western shoreline. Once again, it took at least three hours to traverse what should have been just twenty miles

Upon arriving home, I was greeted with the coup de grace.  The back of the house that I rented was covered from the roof all the way across the side lawn with a fifteen-foot high and thirty-foot wide wedge of snow.  I couldn’t help but laugh.  Of course, my snow shovel was on the porch, buried beneath it all.  Since Williams Bay is more of a resort town, there were few people to be found.  Once again, through clenched teeth I had to throw my body headlong into the wall and begin burrowing it out by hand.  At least when I was inside my tunnel I was protected from the arctic breeze.  In fact, I recall actually beginning to sweat from the exertion of digging so furiously. Strangely, I don’t think it took more than about ten minutes to carve out a passageway that got me into my apartment.  Being so close to finally reaching my little Shangri La, no amount of glacial tundra was going to stop me at that point.  I’m still amazed that I didn’t get permanent skin and nerve damage through the whole ordeal.

Once inside, the gas heat wasn’t working very well, and the water pipes were indeed frozen.  But I did have electricity, and I cranked up a little space heater I had, along with my electric blanket wrapped around key plumbing enough to allow for water pressure to return.  And, although the water was a tad cool, I enjoyed my first shower in four days, and the oft-taken-for-granted-joy of clean clothing.

And the phone actually worked!  Upon calling my folks I was greeted with hysterical elation from my mother.  It turns that Charlene had forgotten to call them amidst all the chaos at the radio station.  And then, when Mom and Dad got through to her the next day, she had somehow spaced that I had ever called in the first place, and told them that the station staff were worried sick about me. To my father’s credit, he pieced together an idea of where I might have been via calls to several different friends. One had mentioned that I was going to a concert in the western suburbs, and that I might be staying at Dan’s. He located Dan, who told Dad of my hasty departure the morning of the storm. 

Then, against all recommendations from law enforcement agencies, for the next two days Dad went on a search of all roads between Schaumberg and Lake Geneva, stopping at various police departments, highway patrol locations, and makeshift shelters along different routes trying to locate me.  He had just about given up hope.  With each day, dozens more frozen carcasses were being found in horrific roadside graves.  I don’t believe I ever heard my mother so happy as during that call.  Later that night, upon his return back to Skokie, I spoke with Pop for quite a while.  What a brave man. What a good father. 

So, you can see why I was beginning to grow less and less fond of severe winter weather. But that wasn’t the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.  No, being a stubborn Midwesterner, there would be several MORE ridiculous incidents over the next four years that would finally drive me to the South. I’ll share those in another installment next week.

Why I gave up Midwest winters (Part 1)

With all the horrid weather sweeping the country this week, I thought I would repost an entry from six years ago...

Wondering blindly

How can they find me?

Maybe they don't even know

My body is shaking

Anticipating

The call of the black footed crow...

(“Pictures of Home” by Deep Purple, from Machine Head, 1971)

Flying over the white patchwork farmlands of the Great Lakes states recently, I recalled my Midwestern roots, and my pride in that.  I spent nineteen years of my life growing up in Ohio, Illinois, and Wisconsin.  There’s lots to like: four full seasons, rich earth, good-hearted people with the best work ethic in our nation, and that primary accent--or lack of a discernable one--that is the model for all broadcasters.

But I reached a stage in the late 70s/early 80s where I’d finally had enough of the intense winters.  The Great Blizzard of ’78 was the initial reason.

It was early February, and a fairly mild one at that. I was Program Director/Music Director at rock station in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, and was seeing an average of three concerts a week between all my on-air duties.  On a whim one Tuesday afternoon, I decided to shoot down to the western ‘burbs of Chicago to see the up and coming Pat Travers Band play at B’Ginnings Night Club.  A quick look at the teletype ticker (no Travel.com or Weather Channel in those days) told me that it was going to remain forty-five degrees, with perhaps some heavy rain later than night.  Being just a seventy mile jaunt, I didn’t pack anything…you know, the basic wild-at-heart young buck. All I had was a leather jacket and a half a tank of gas in my trusty ’68 Impala.  I didn’t believe in credit cards, so the ten simoleons in my thin wallet was my nest egg.

I got in for free due to my connections with my Polydor rep, but did spend $6.50 on drinks and a “Boom Boom, Out Go the Lights” button. Since it was rainy and foggy after the show, I called my buddy Dan to see if I could crash at his apartment in Addison. That way I could get up the next morning under brighter skies for the ninety minute drive into work to prepare for my afternoon air shift. We chatted for an hour, catching up with each other before I finally fell asleep on his couch around one AM. 

While I dozed, the elements for a perfect storm all converged over the upper Midwest.  It caught even the savviest meteorologists off guard.  The National Weather Service hadn’t seen this coming either.  Wet, warm air coming up through the Mississippi basin throughout the previous week had caused the unseasonable balminess.  But a gargantuan arctic air mass from northern Canada dropped south unexpectedly.  The result was gale force winds blowing thick snow.  Temperatures dropped thirty degrees in less than an hour, forcing wet grounds to freeze solid, then wind chills made everything feel like ten below zero on the skin.

I was jostled awake by Dan at 6:15 on Wednesday morning, saying, “Mark, you gotta check this out!” 

Stumbling over to the window I exclaimed, “Crap!”

It looked like the North Pole had descended and it was blowing in freaking sideways. Quickly turning on the tube, we flipped from channel to channel and every broadcast outlet was being over-ridden with severe blizzard warnings.  “All roads closed within the next hour if not already” was the primary theme.

Not even bothering to eat, I pulled on my pants and jacket, bolting out the door.  I was needed back at the station in Wisconsin during emergency situations like this. Dan came out to help.

There was already a half inch of ice encasing the windows.  Fortunately, the trunk was facing away from the predominant wind, and it wasn’t sealed over yet.  So, with some frantic thumping and pounding we were able to pry it open to get to my ice scraper.  Within moments I was shivering miserably—the first of many occasions when I would chatter blue-lipped curses at the Gods of Thor for “piling on” us with such force and malice.  Dan’s afro was whitened and pasted over to the right side from the screaming northerlies. It must’ve taken ten minutes to carve out the key opening for the front door, as well as splaying the edges so that it could even have a chance of cracking open.

Once accomplished, I slid into the haven away from the blitzkrieg wind.  The leather seats were hardened like Formica in Finland, and I don’t think sitting on a block of dry ice could’ve chilled my haunches any more.

I pumped the accelerator thrice, took a deep breath, and turned the ignition.  Yes! My old bomber started up, though coughing roughly and angrily.  It took another fifteen minutes to gouge some sight holes around two feet in diameter in each of the windows. I began to realize that even with the defroster set on “nuclear meltdown,” I’d be lucky to keep the interior of the car at thirty-two degrees. Dan ran inside and grabbed a pair of gloves, a sweatshirt, and a toboggan hat for me to borrow.

The tires were frozen to the ground, but with loud, creaking cracks they broke free as I began a journey I’ll never forget. Dan slapped the roof of my Chevy twice as I pulled past him as if to say, “God’s Speed, chum!”

The first twenty miles thru Bloomingdale, Hanover Park, and Elgin went basically without incident, despite relentless winds, and momentary snow blindness at various turns. Chugging along at forty mph, I felt I might make it back to southern Wisconsin within a few hours. With occasional eight inch swaths of snow jutting across the lanes, it was intense, but passable.  Some cars and trucks were already sliding off the pavement, but my ego and bold bad-weather-driving-skills filled me with enough swagger to feel I was immune to their flaws.  Besides, I had made this trip so many times, I knew every turn and nuance like the back of my hand.

Entering West Dundee, along the Fox River Valley, things got suddenly dicier. I was monitoring broadcasts on my AM dash radio.  Every station continued dire warnings to get off the roads, and hunker down somewhere warm to ride this out. They were predicting the worst storm in at least five decades. I barreled onward.  I had no choice.  With about a quarter of a tank of gas, and $3.50 in my pocket, what were my options?  The highway was nearly abandoned on this stretch.  I bashed curbs on several occasions, and went into an extended slide for perhaps a hundred or more feet on another (thank God it was a straightaway).  I was gripping that steering wheel with the intensity of Paris Hilton clinging to her celebrity.

Suddenly there was a thump and several odd groans from under the hood before the car rolled to a dead stop.  Why had it died? I tried starting several times, only to hear more garbled arguing from under the hood. I turned off the radio.  The howling wind was relentless. Gusts must’ve been fifty miles per hour.  The Icelandic blast that greeted me upon opening the door was as intense as anything I can ever remember. I got out and realized I had apparently hit a median and gotten something wedged up into the undercarriage. I fought the unseen force, and lay down to get a look underneath.  Squinting through bursts of biting, spitting snow, I could barely see beneath the car.  Nothing there.

I started pounding with bare fists on the hood of my car, primarily to loosen the sheet of ice around the edges, but also releasing pent-up anger.  After five minutes of “reasoning” with the situation, I was finally able to wedge the ice scraper in a crevasse that I had manipulated.  Leaning all my weight on it, the hard plastic snapped in half.

Then I fought again with the trunk latch to pull out my tire iron.  Once freed, I began inserting and maneuvering it around the edges of the hood.  Ruining the paint job and grinding creases into the metal were the least of concerns at that point.

The lid finally popped.  As I lifted it with my numb-tipped fingers a fierce gust grabbed it and raised it violently, ripping one of the hinges away from the moorings.  It was now at a ninety degree angle from its closed position, thwapping violently like a wet sail in a monsoon. Well, I pondered, at least it won’t get frozen shut again.

My eyes, nose, and mouth had frozen spittle and phlegm caking around their edges.  But my supreme frustration with my circumstance was keeping me warm with burning resolve.  I gazed at my now exposed engine—or what SHOULD have been there.  To my surprise, the entire cavity was packed solid with snow.  I was staring at a six foot by six foot blank white block. Driving headlong into these piercing winds and hitting small banks of snow along the way created some strange vortex that pulled and vacuum-packed every available space with snow and ice.

Taking some solace in the fact that a nearly fluorescent lime green $29.95 Earl Schibe paint job adorned my ol’ beater would help people see it amidst the blinding conditions; I hoped that someone might have mercy on me. But there were few vehicles on the road at this point, and those that were sweeping by were not about to stop when I attempted to flag ‘em down…survival of the fittest and all that.  I climbed back into the interior to gather my thoughts and protect my exposed skin.  The my meager clothes were hardly competition for these Manitoban Mariahs.  Who knows why men have nipples—but mine were stiffened like little ball bearings and their existence was readily realized as they tingled in taut anguish.

It dawned on me for the first time that morning that I had been a fool to attempt this return “on time” for my job.  Damn my stupid work ethic, I lamented.  But it was obvious there was no turning back.  Perhaps even more relevant at that instant was that if I didn’t do something, and quick, I might very well come to an unpleasant finale quite soon.

To be continued….

Van Halen Verities

With Van Halen returning to Nashville for the first time in over a decade this Friday, I got to thinking about some true tales of interaction with them in my past.  The first time I encountered them was March 3, 1978 deep in the bowels of the infamous Aragon Ballroom when this unknown quartet was the opener of a three act bill that also featured Ronnie Montrose’s fusion rock quintet, and the newly revamped Journey with pretty boy lead singer Steve Perry.

Van Halen’s eponymous first album had just been released a few weeks before, and their cover of The Kink’s “You Really Got Me” was garnering strong airplay due to Eddie Van Halen’s scorching six string pyrotechnics and David Lee Roth’s reimagining of Black Oak Arkansas’ Jim “Dandy” Mangrum. The boys from Pasadena only had a twenty-five minute slot, but they cranked it. My visit with them was quite short after the show as they were leaving the hall just about the time that Journey was exiting from their final encore.

However, five months later Van Halen was on a long trek opening for Black Sabbath, and on one of their off days from Ozzy and company, they were booked into a small dive near Paddock Lake in southern Wisconsin that became the source of mythic legend: did they actually play a concert at a converted dairy barn while they were the number one band in America?  The answer is yes.  It was, quite literally, a three-story cattle stable that had been converted into a biker bar.  The stage was a former second level hayloft with a huge weight-bearing timber column running vertically right down the center and bordered with rough-hewn pine slat railing to keep performers from falling fifteen feet to the main floor below. I had been at other gigs there in it’s first year of operation including shows by Eddie Money, Starcastle, and The Dictators (featuring Handsome Dick Manitoba), and I swear you could still smell remnants of manure and bovine piss when the place got heated up with wall-to-wall humanity.

By this time, Van Halen’s star had risen to the point where they were responsible for selling nearly half the tickets at the Sabbath gigs, and their debut record had already gone multi-platinum.  It seemed odd that they were playing this gig in such an obscure rural outpost, but the word had gotten out, and there were already cars from four states represented in the parking field by 5:00 PM for this rare headlining set.

Due to my relationship with Warner Brothers as a Program Director at a local rock station, and my writing gig for area magazines, I was able to hang with the guys during their sound check and meal.  Even as an opener for bigger bands, they were used to more space to work with than this cramped excuse for a stage.  Despite the close quarters, Eddie still insisted on having his replica of the Little Boy Atomic Bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima next to his Marshall stacks.  There was barely room for anyone to move more than five feet, and this was going to be especially challenging for front man Roth’s histrionics. You could see them looking at each other in bemused wonder as their crushing sound caused sawdust to filter down through the early evening sunbeams cutting through the planked walls.

After getting their levels, it was difficult getting a read on Diamond Dave as we chatted in an area that was once a horse stall. I could never tell if he was stoned, or just incredibly laid back in that Valley Boy kinda way.  His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, and he did guffaw with that stoner stammer, but then he could also sound quite erudite and clever at times in a tone that belied an altered state.  He was one of those guys that never, ever gave a straight answer to any question.  Eddie, on the other hand, was shy but genuine in his interactions.  Alex Van Halen was distracted and seemed a bit peeved about the cramped condition of his drums (I think they had to reduce his kit in order to accommodate everything that was necessary on the “stage”).  Michael Anthony was quite outgoing, and the most forthcoming and relaxed of the lot.

Despite the less than ideal circumstances, the band gave a rousing performance to the thousand or so that were packed into quarters designed for perhaps half that. They played nearly every song from the debut album, plus at least four that would be featured on their soon-to-be-released Vol. II album. And then there were Eddie’s extended “Eruption” solo and spotlight moments for drums and bass, too.   There was no doubting that this band had the goods, even under these less than ideal circumstances. And since I believe I was the only sober, non-buzzed observer or participant in attendance within that bizarre silo, I can attest that the concert did, indeed, take place.

Fast-forward several years for the second story that has remained a mystery until this moment.  Van Halen had now earned two multi-platinum albums, and every radio programmer and promoter in the planet considered them amongst the rock elite.  Anticipation for their third album, Women and Children First, was building with each passing month.  By this time, I had left the radio industry, and was now Marketing Director for Dog Ear Records, a chain of eight stores in the northern suburbs of Chicago. I was still writing for several rock rags on the side.   Part of my duties included making the rounds to the local distributorships of the major labels to pick up the latest merchandising materials for new releases, promo albums for in-store play, and commiserate with sales people on how to best position product in our stores.  At the WEA (Warner/Electra/Atlantic) warehouse in Elk Grove Village, I had good relationships with various crew throughout the building, and sometimes they would give me stuff before other folks in town.  As one of the guys was handing me some promotional copies of new discs by Blondie, Rod Stewart, Linda Ronstadt, and The Eagles, I off-handedly asked if he might have a copy of the new “Big Boys’” disc (as they referred to Van Halen). 

I was stunned when he said, “Well, if you keep it under your hat, sure…I’ll give you one so you can write up a good review for some of your publications for next month so the news will be fresh when the album hits the streets in these next few weeks.“ There was near top-secret security around this sort of thing, especially in a market as competitive as Chicago. 

I matter-of-factly said, “Of course,” as he opened a thin box with just a few of the twelve-inch discs in it, and handed me one. With my heart pumping, I exited the building as quickly as I could before anyone realized what had just happened. 

Earlier that morning I had heard DJ Sky Daniels on “The Loop” (WLUP, the number one rock station in the market) talking-up how they were going to have the exclusive premier of Women and Children First in four days.  They were in fierce ratings wars with WMET and WKQX for the baby boomer rock demographic that dominated that era.   I realized that I not only had a rarity on my hands from a journalistic perspective, but I also had potential gold in my hands from the broadcast realm to boot.

So, I took a detour back to my house and made a cassette and reel-to-reel copy of the album, and then went to my office at the back of our Northbrook store and called my boss.  Even though we were one of the leading chains in the northern suburbs of Chicago, we were probably fourth in the entire market in sales, and had to scratch for much of what we could earn, and didn’t have nearly the marketing dollars that the larger chains had.  We were the first to mass market used record sales, rent videos, and incorporate video gaming into our offerings.  And our customer loyalty was good due to our intense desire to fulfill even the most obscure special orders.  But still, media partners did not usually pick us first for many special promotions.  I suggested to Rick, the president of our little enterprise, that we could probably parlay this Van Halen disc into some substantial on-air trade-out with one of the other two stations in order for them to get the jump on “The Loop” by airing it first.  He agreed, but warned that we needed to be very careful so that the WEA folks could trace none of this back to me.

Then I called my friends at WMET first, figuring that they might be willing to play ball more readily since a major media conglomerate didn’t own them as WKQX was by NBC. I was quickly put through to the GM who was anxious to do anything to put a chink in “The Loop’s” armor.   I was somewhat audacious in my proposal for substantial and specific trade-out in advertising and promotional tie-ins for the next year, but they were so desperate for this opportunity that they agreed.  They wanted to hear a bit of it first, so I put it on our store turntable and played some through the phone so they felt assured that it was indeed Eddie, D-Roth, and the guys.  Within 40 minutes a bonded deliveryman arrived to take the non-descript sealed brown bag with the stereo reel-to-reel dub and the photocopy of the album art to WMET downtown.  They excitedly called me back when they received it, and they were nearly bouncing off the walls with excitement. Within an hour they announced to their listeners that they would be airing the new Van Halen in its entirety the next day. 

“The Loop” was furious, because they didn’t actually have their copy yet, and they angrily confronted their representative at WEA.  Within minutes major chaos reigned at their warehouse as they tried to figure out how a copy had gotten into WMET’s hands.  It wasn’t that it was just going to be previewed ahead of their competitor across town…it was going to be ahead of every other station in the world…and they were pissed. 

The lower level promotion guy who had given me the advance disc called and asked if I still had the album, and I told him I did.  He never asked if I had made a dub and forwarded that along, and, of course, I never volunteered that info.  No one ever figured it out as far as I am aware.  WMET’s lips were sealed, and they were incredibly grateful for the scoop they got on their biggest competitor. As a result,  Dog Ear Records shared in some great promotional partnerships with them over the next twelve months and beyond.

That was 32 years ago, and I am finally coming clean.  Those wondering if the mighty Van Halen ever really played in an animal shed in the rolling Kettle Moraine hills of Wisconsin, or were curious about how the scandal surrounding the Chitown radio debut for Women and Children First came to pass, well those rock ‘n’ roll mysteries can now be moved into the verities column.