Bearing a Gift Beyond Price (Part 4 of Radio Daze)

I had been applying regularly at WXRT, Chicago’s Fine Rock Station (still a radio icon to this day after forty years on the air) and was down to one of the finalists for new openings on two occasions—but it just wasn’t to be. So, with funds so thin from being woefully underpaid so, I decided to take a job as the Marketing Director for a cool music chain in the northern ‘burbs of Chicago, Dog Ear Records.  But WJKL, “The Fox,” broadcasting from the western edge of Chicagoland, did offer me another weekend gig: the graveyard shift of midnight to six AM on Fridays and Saturdays. 

This was a progressive format as well, and many of the jocks who worked there ended up at some of the other top rockers in Chicago.  So, I felt if I kept my foot in the proverbial door that perhaps something might happen at XRT eventually.

No real snafus to speak of during those long, lonely shifts—other than the misfortune of choosing to utilize the “water closet” while playing The Outlaws’ twenty minute epic “Green Grass and High Tides.” It was common practice in those days to void one’s bowels while playing a long cut so as to not feel overly rushed.  As fate would have it, however, the record started to skip on the line “high tides for-ever-er-er.”  It repeated a good fifty times before I could hastily clean my bum, flush, and race back down the hall trying to pull my pants up as I galloped. Careening into the studio I then gently nudged the needle forward to get past the bump and finish out the guitar army anthem.  Without another soul in the building, there was no embarrassment in my unkempt cavorting.

In fact, that was one of the benefits to working the all-nighter—freedom to jump around when I would get groggy, run the stairs, do push-ups—anything to keep the blood and adrenaline coursing (I don’t do caffeine because it gives me migraines).  I would end up having long chats while songs were playing with callers who wanted to talk about music or sports or comedy.  I got to know some of them fairly well.  Many were folks who worked third shift at area warehouses and factories.  Some were cops.  Some were students cramming for exams. A few were just night owls who dug the great variety of music we offered.

I was tuning in the shine on the light night dial
doing anything my radio advised
with every one of those late night stations
playing songs bringing tears to me eyes

(“Radio, Radio” by Elvis Costello from This Year’s Model , 1979)

I had always enjoyed listening to “The Fox” because it was a slightly harder-edged version of WXRT.  There was an abundance of rock you wouldn’t hear elsewhere (they were the first station in Chicago to play Rush for instance), and the jocks were encouraged to push the envelope with creative blends of music and commentary.  The overnight shift was a truly fun place to get my ya-ya’s out.

We had a Music Director there, Frankie, who was really enamored with the punk movement (this was the late 70s).  She was also becoming frustrated with other forms of rock, and hence there was some definite disagreements brewing between her and the rest of the air staff about how much of the “new wave” to be playing.  If she had her druthers, it would’ve been “All Sex Pistols All the Time.”  The rest of us thought it had its place, but certainly didn’t want to see it overrun the format.

On each album that was in the library there was a tracking sheet taped to the cover.  That way we would know the last time/jock who played a particular cut so as not to repeat anything that day, and to be careful not to play anything from that album in the same hour anytime within a week (boy, would that frustrate the heck out of all these tightly-wound programmers and their infinitesimally controlled rotations now).  There was also room on the tracking sheet for us to write comments about the artist, album, etc. that might be of interest to other jocks.

Frankie felt it was her duty on these little editorial sections to trash every album she thought was bad (but somehow still worthy of being on our play list).  She also heaped unadulterated praise on lousy “artists” like The Buzzcocks, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, Nina Hagen, Destroy All Monsters, etc.  Some friendly jibes would go back and forth. But, as it turned out, she didn’t appreciate being disagreed with—especially by a weekend overnight jock like me.  It didn’t stop me however—I was part of the team, and my opinion counted too.  I think she just couldn’t stand it that I was a lot funnier in my banter about the musical skill (or lack thereof) demonstrated by The Stranglers, The Vibraters, The Undertones, The Saints, The Slits, The Damned, The Flying Lizards, and The Cramps (what was the deal that seemingly every punk outfit needed that definite article to mark a proper noun?  I remember a post-punk band in the early 80s known as The The, which was pretty funny). 

Most of these acts had little musical training, let alone talent.  They relied on anger, rage, self-mutilation, and copious displays of disrespect for anyone and everything.  Their medium was their message, and it was none-too-pleasant for most people to tolerate, and few that I knew of gained any sense of enjoyment from them.  Bands like Suicide, The Dead Kennedy’s, Gang of Four, Throbbing Gristle, Stiff Little Fingers, Sham 69, and Siouxsie and the Banshees were just downright grating to the ears, and are all rightfully forgotten all these years later for musical contributions any of them made.  They were just pissed (or at least acting that way to get attention). 

Take The Dead Boys, for instance. What a bunch of losers.  Towards the end of each concert, lead singer Stiv Bators would challenge any girl from the crowd to come on stage and give him a blow-job as they “performed.”  Unfortunately, some skanky git would nearly always take him up on it.  This, I would contend, had very little to do with rock‘n’roll, and everything to do with sensationalism and appealing to the most base of instincts.  Frankie heartily argued with me on these topics.

Invisible airwaves
Crackle with life
Bright antennae bristle
With the energy
Emotional feedback
On a timeless wavelength
Bearing a gift beyond price ---
Almost free...

(“The Spirit of Radio” by Rush from Permanent Waves, 1980)

One frigid early Sunday AM in December, I was feeling particularly playful.  I had just heard the new Cheech and Chong piece about a slick manager trying to get a punk band signed at a label because of their unique take on “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.”  By the end of the skit, the poor A&R representative was cowering under his desk.  I thought it as the time of year for a yuletide set, so I dove in:

“The season is upon us where we all enjoy hearing those Christmas classics that warm the cockles of our hearts—whatever those are exactly.  I’ve been humming some of those familiar strains over the past few days, and it made me wonder why we don’t hear more contemporary versions for the young people of this generation to better relate.  So, with that in mind…”

I then played the aforementioned comedy piece, and as it faded with the record executive fretting in a catatonic stupor, I then segued into The Dickies’ incredibly tasteless rendition of “Silent Night.”  After about forty-five seconds of that ear-bleeding wank splash, I then faded over to the beginning of a Monty Python album where Michael Jones starts screaming at the top of his lungs, “Not this record! Not THIS record!  NOT THIS RECORRRRD!” and then there is the sudden horrific screech of a stylus being dragged diagonally across the vinyl for about five seconds.  That unceremonious dismissal of those Richards then segued tightly into Pat Travers’ feisty “Life In London” which lamented the decay of the British music scene—especially the posing of the punk underground--in syncopated rifle-rock mastery.  Upon its climactic power chord ending I cued-up the crunching, frenetic “Let There Be Rock” from AC/DC’s sweaty If You Want Blood You Got It: Live, where Bon Scott and Angus Young shredded their voice and guitar respectively. The same simplicity of the punks, but with so much more actual rhythm, back beat, and ability.

If I do say so myself, the set rocked like a freakin’ big dawg.  Even though it was 2:55 in the morning, the phone lines lit up.  “Now this is rock’n’roll!” was the basic sentiment of most calls.  “I’m sick of hearing that pathetic punk shit!  Keep it up, buddy!”

My shift continued with the renewed vigor of an involved listenership.  I played many of our progressive staples ranging from Tom Waits to Yes, from Graham Parker to Bob Marley, from Crack the Sky to Wishbone Ash, from Queen to B.B. King.  The fun mixes were flowing, and the synergy of vital rock radio was palpable.

As I drove the hour back to my home into the sunrise at the end of my shift, I was reminded once again of how great it was to help people along with their lives by blending music that invigorated and even surprised them.

I slept soundly that morning, but was awakened just after noon by a call from Tom, the Program Director.

They say you better listen to the voice of reason
But they don't give you any choice
'cause they think that it's treason.
So you had better do as you are told.
You better listen to the radio.

(“Radio, Radio” by Elvis Costello from This Year’s Model, 1979)

Apparently Frankie had been listening to my shift (obviously she had very little in the way of a life), and was incensed that I had dissed her beloved genre.  Tom asked for me to explain my side, and I told him what tunes were in that particular set, what I had said, and the kind of response it got on the phones. He actually chuckled, and thought it was creative and fun.  “But,” he paused, “Frankie is livid and feels you should be dismissed for trashing a core element of our format.”

All this machinery
Making modern music
Can still be open-hearted
Not so coldly charted
Its really just a question
Of your honesty

(“The Spirit of Radio” by Rush from Permanent Waves, 1980)

“Tom,” I reasoned, “do you really think having a little fun at the expense of a savage rendition of a Christmas carol by talentless hacks like The Dickies is worth this kind of rage on her part?” 

“I’m with you, Mark, but I think if I don’t make an example of you, she will feel threatened in her ability to guide the musical integrity of the station.” Tom then proffered,  “Maybe if you were to call her and apologize, she would look at things differently.”

“It appears that maybe she’s wearing the pants there, Tom.  Aren’t you the one in charge?” I responded.  He chuckled nervously.  I continued, “Listen, I’m not about to atone for something which was clearly intended to be funny.  She’s just threatened because someone on the staff demonstrated how flawed so much of the punk trend is in comparison to where many of your listeners are.”

“So, you’re not going say you’re sorry to her?” he queried. 

“I see no reason to.  You hired me for my knowledge of music, and my wit on the air.  You admitted you don’t see anything wrong in what I did…”

“You’re right,” he interrupted. “In fact, it sounds like it was good progressive radio to me.  But, I’m gonna have to let you go in order to keep the peace here.”

You either shut up or get cut out;
they don't wanna hear about it.
It's only inches on the reel-to-reel.
And the radio is in the hands of such a lot of fools
tryin' to anaesthetize the way that you feel

(“Radio, Radio” by Elvis Costello from This Year’s Model, 1979)

Tom went on to explain that he hoped he could work with me again somewhere down the road.  We brought it to closure on good terms I suppose, and Tom was always kind to me when we’d see each other as the years went by. 

Isn’t it odd that I got fired for casting comic aspersions on a movement that prided itself on taunting the status quo…that I was released because I ruffled the feathers of someone who wanted to rattle the cage of the boring radio industry?  That frigid evening that I tinkled on the punk movement was the last time I slaved over some hot turntables and a sizzling mic.

One likes to believe
In the freedom of music
But glittering prizes
And endless compromises
Shatter the illusion
Of integrity

(“The Spirit of Radio,” by Rush from Permanent Waves, 1980)

My Favorite U2 Story

As the excitement builds here in Nashville over U2’s July 2nd appearance (their first since playing MTSU in ’87), I’ve been reminiscing about one of my favorite concert experiences from the sixteen times I have seen this stellar band.

It was early spring of 1985, and The Unforgettable Fire Tour was sweeping across America, much like the burgeoning sales of the album of the same name. Fueled by the massive success of “Pride: In the Name of Love” on MTV and radio waves, the band’s popularity was moving well beyond the collegiate market. That single, an ode to the power of activism draped in love, was given more focus than any previous U2 song that had addressed the same theme because it was about the ideologies of a single man: Martin Luther King, Jr.

Upon arriving at the Omni Arena in Atlanta with a carload of friends from central Tennessee, I needed to verify if we were to get our backstage passes. I went to a bank of pay phones outside the coliseum to call my contact inside the building. While I was placed on hold, I turned to the person who was trying to make a call to my right. I say person, because for a few moments, I couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a guy. Wearing bib overalls, combat boots, blackened nails, heavy black eye liner, dozens of piercings about the eyebrows, nose, lips, tongue, and ears, sporting a 15 inch black-spiked Mohawk with shaved sides and tattoos too numerous to count covering neck, temples, arms, and Lord knows where else. This was one fierce looking soul.

As they were fumbling to find sufficient change, I offered a few quarters. Establishing eye contact, my gesture was met with a grunt, and the coins were grabbed out of my hand without the slightest hint of gratitude. I love to “people watch,” and was fascinated. I finally realized this was woman, perhaps early twenties, when she began to talk with the person on the other end of the receiver. I didn’t want to appear to be eavesdropping while I was still on hold—but I could tell she was vexed about something. A few times our gazes would meet, and she would glare at me as if I was representative of everything she scorned.

She was growling numerous invectives towards her caller and her circumstance, and then she was placed on hold. I asked if everything was OK, and she just frowned intensely and turned her back.

She wore her anger not only on her sleeve, but on and in her skin. I wondered if all the pain she went through to make these statements even came close to what she really felt even deeper. She didn’t have to say “I’m pissed and fuck you for noticing”…her entire being radiated it.

As I continued to wait, I thought, how on earth can anyone break through with someone this distraught with themselves and their lives? We are all given numerous divine appointments each day to show something of Christ within us to others, or for Him to reveal Himself to us through someone else. Even though this woman was a complete stranger, and she rejected my meager efforts to be kind, my heart went out to her. I prayed something along the lines of “Lord, I know you love this girl. But she sure is making it hard for anyone else to. Whatever you can do to reach her, please do it…she seems so mad at everyone, and I’m afraid she’s even angrier with herself. Please help her, ‘cause I sure know I can’t.”

Finally my band management contact got back on line, and I finished my business. The punk chick resumed her argument on the phone, and I nodded at her one final time as our eyes locked. Once again, she growled and turned around.

Upon returning to my group about twenty feet away, several mentioned they had never seen such an intense looking person in all their lives. I concurred and, to my chagrin now, condescendingly laughed that “only God could reach someone like that.”

After a great opening set from Lone Justice, U2 proved they were indeed ready for the transition from theaters to massive structures. The starkest of light shows gave all the more power to Bono’s gift of breaking down that invisible wall between performer and audience. The crowd was on their feet for the duration, bopping along, dancing, pogoing, and swaying, holding lighters aloft by the thousands during “MLK.” And singing--Lord Almighty, were we singing. Many times louder than the band’s tens of thousands of watts could produce.

The band seemed particularly energized by special guest Coretta Scott King, Martin’s widow, that evening. She had hosted them at his Peace Center and her home earlier that day. It was obvious they wanted to show her their best as a way of honoring her husband’s legacy.

Bono had flown his father, Bob, over from Dublin for this gig, too. It turned out it was his birthday, and he wanted his dad to celebrate it for the first time outside of Ireland. Bono even introduced him to the audience at the same time as Coretta King as they sat by the soundboard in the center of the hall, and they were warmly greeted by the diverse concoction that made up the gathering.

About an hour into their set, Bono shared one of the most heart-felt introductions I’ve ever heard from him:

“We are so humbled that so many of you came out to see us tonight. No one thought we could fill 4,000 seats at the Civic Center here last year; let alone what has happened tonight. We are so thankful to be this little rock band with a dream. We come from the lower middle class in Dublin, and while we’ve been so blessed with success, we know that many of our friends are still stuck in bad situations back home.”

“Take my mate, Benny, for instance. Benny was the smartest kid in our neighborhood. Good lookin’ too. He got all the girls. Funny. Even a way better singer than me. But, like so many in a country torn by political strife and an unforgiving economy, Benny just didn’t catch a break like we did. He’s been struggling with unemployment for the last few years. His confidence was shot. Benny, who had once been so full of life, was now giving in to depression…anger...resentment. He had given up hope. He started getting involved in booze, and other shit that sucks all hope out of your soul.”

“A few weeks ago, Benny had his 23rd birthday. We were all hoping it would help get him out of his funk. Unfortunately, his girlfriend gave him just enough heroine---as his gift---to kill him. This is for Benny. This is “Bad”.”

Edge began the contemplative, pulsing staccato tones that frame the building emotion of one of U2’s most powerfully empathetic songs, and Bono began the painful recollection of his friends’ plight as he sang…

If you twist and turn away
If you tear yourself in two again
If I could, yes I would
If I could, I would let it go
Surrender, dislocate

If I could throw this lifeless
Lifeline to the wind
Leave this heart of clay
See you walk, walk away
Into the night
And through the rain
Into the half-light
And through the flame

If I could through myself
Set your spirit free
I'd lead your heart away
See you break, break away
Into the light
And to the day

If you should ask then maybe
They'd tell you what I would say
True colors fly in blue and black
Bruised silken skies and burning flack
Colors crash, collide in blood shot eyes

If I could, you know I would
If I could, I would let it go

This desperation
Dislocation
Separation
Condemnation
Revelation
In temptation
Isolation
Desolation

Let it go, uh-huh
And so fade away….

Bono’s yearning wail hearkened to those thoughts of the Apostle Paul, who longed so deeply for his readers when he claimed he’d be willing to take on their infirmities, doubts, and fears in order for them to find freedom in God’s acceptance and grace. As the song was churning upward into one of its many crescendos, Bono held his hand behind him to signal the band to bring the volume down, quietly vamping on the rhythm and chord changes as he paced the stage.

He was looking for someone—he wasn’t sure whom—but he was surveying the crowd. Many on the main floor had their arms outstretched as if to say “Me! Pick me!” He suddenly stopped his search and pointed towards a cluster of people about seventy feet from the stage and signaled for a particular person. The crowd grabbed a guy, and hoisted him up and were going to “hand pass” him over the sea of people to the stage.

Bono wildly signaled No! No!...not that one. Then pointing again as if to say Yes, THAT one! Suddenly, pushed up over the throng, I saw a spiky punk. As she was being shuttled by enthusiastic hands towards the stage, I looked at my friends down my row, and we all simultaneously said, “it’s that punk girl from outside at the pay phones!”

Once she was pushed up over the barricades onto the stage, it became apparent to everyone in the building that Bono had chosen the most undesirable person he could find. Someone that most would turn away from. Someone who would choose that alienation as opposed to being vulnerable.

As the band continued playing the throbbing riff over and over, Bono took her by the hand, meekly whispered in her ear, and then, like a complete gentleman on prom night, he began to slow dance with her—his right arm around her back, and the other holding her right arm aloft so sweetly. Slow, unhurried, tiny lock steps between the two moved them in a small circle. She slipped her arms around his shoulders and leaned into his neck. He embraced her so tenderly, and they rocked quietly back and forth to the somber beat. After about thirty seconds, it became obvious that she had started crying…her shoulders heaving, her whole body vibrating in deep sobs. She was now leaning heavily into Bono, and he kept them gently swaying.

I looked through flooded eyes at others in my row. All of my friends were crying, too. I looked behind me to see people wiping their cheeks and chins. I surveyed everywhere around, and it was the same. I looked out to the sound/light riser where Bono’s dad and Mrs. King were seated, and they were weeping and dabbing their faces with handkerchiefs. It is twenty-six years later, and I’m still reduced to tears as I type this.

That was one of the holiest moments I have ever experienced. The crowd, which had been a surging cacophony of rock celebration just a few minutes earlier, was utterly hushed—enraptured by this redemptive dance.

After perhaps another minute, Bono stopped their movement, and placed his hands on her shoulders, holding her out at arm’s length in a strong, admiring, kind gaze. Again he pulled her close and whispered into her ear. Having gotten to know Bono during those early tours, and from what I gleaned from other associates who know him well, I imagine he told her something along the lines of “You know, you don’t have to try so hard. I love you, and so does Jesus. There are others who want to love you. Let ‘em…it’ll be alright.”

He then took her hand like she was royalty, and led her regally over to the side of the stage where he instructed the stage manager to get her safely back to her seat. The charismatic singer turned to Edge, Larry, and Adam cranked his fist several times and they launched headlong back into the primary rhythm. He exclaimed with all the power he could muster, and we joined in full-throated accompaniment…

Let it go
And so fade away
To let it go
And so fade, fade, fade away

I'm wide awake
I'm wide awake
I'm not sleeping
Oh, no no

This wasn’t a dream. We witnessed God in action. We all sang along through tear streaked faces, many of us with a catch in our throat. But we did sing. I believe the Holy Spirit was so thick in the Omni that night that you could almost reach out and touch it.

God most certainly did something wonderful for that girl. I often wonder how her life changed from that point forward. As for the other 17,000 in the arena, I wonder if they are still impacted by that moment as I am.

As for me, I do know this—I will never forget how God reminded me that even the most off-hand prayer that I offer can sometimes have dramatic consequences. He wanted me to know that even half-hearted intercessions for strangers are sometimes part of the fuel needed for His redemptive energy to spark into action. I need to remember this always.

It was indeed a divine appointment that I will treasure. It causes me to be wide awake—not sleeping—in anticipation of what He can and will do if I make myself available.