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"The World's Greatest Radio Station"
News Staff > Alan Walden > Archive
Origin of the Species
I know that title has been used before. But, so what? Since it fits the subject so well I decided to borrow it.
I was about fifteen years old and a student at Thomas Jefferson High School in Brooklyn when I decided that I wanted to be on the radio. Television was still in its infancy; besides, I had (and have) a face made for radio. Blame it all on an English teacher who decided to use a tape recorder to demonstrate pronunciation and regional accents. He was from Milwaukee. When I heard my voice played back I thought I sounded pretty good and, since I liked to talk, figured, why not?
The next step was to determine how the pros did it, and my favorites were all on one station: WNEW. These guys weren't just good: They were great. From the zany antics of Klavan and Finch in the morning, to the wit, wisdom and drollery of William B. Williams, to the "hail fellow, well met" humor of Ted Brown, to the off-the wall quirkiness of Al "Jazzbo" Collins. They were head and shoulders above everyone else in the business. And the news staff was every bit as good. John Dale, Bob Howard, and Mike Rich were the best newsreaders I ever heard. There were others, too: Freddie Robbins, Dick Shepherd, Jack Lazar, and Pete Myers to name just a few. But some of them came later; therefore, we may get to them later.
After high school and a miserable and unproductive six months at Brooklyn College it was time to find a job, preferably in broadcasting. With the assistance of the Help Wanted section of the Sunday New York Times I became by far the youngest and most junior employee in the mailroom at ABC at 7 West 66th Street in Manhattan. After all, everyone has to start somewhere. My immediate supervisor, one Chester Belairs, wasted no time in delivering what I inferred was his standard lecture. "Listen, kid. If you have any ideas about ever going on the radio lose 'em. You're here to pick up and deliver the mail. That's it. Nothing else. Understand?" "Yes, sir," I replied, and promptly consigned his admonition to the dustbin of my memory.
For the next six months or so, as I dutifully delivered the mail, I also spent as much time as I could with the staff announcers one of whom, Walter Herlihy, was both helpful and encouraging. I also attended the School of Radio Technique, a trade school for broadcast neophytes, where the marquee player was Pat Kelly, at that time the chief announcer at NBC. "You're going to be a good one," he told me, "but it won't be easy. When I finished the course it was goodbye mailroom, hello microphone.
Not at ABC, of course, but at WPAC, a thousand-watt daytimer in Patchogue, Long Island with a frequency so high on the AM dial you needed oxygen to work there. But I was on the air and that's all that mattered.
From 1955 until 1961 I was in small market radio (Patchogue, Riverhead, Trenton) when I wasn't in the army to the point where I was serious thinking about doing something else. Then, in the fall of '61 I answered an ad in Broadcasting magazine for a news job at WERE in Cleveland and, thanks to some creative writing in my resume about my news credentials and a wonderful reference written by Stan Allan, the WPAC station manager, I got it. The pay was good, about thrice what I was earning on Long Island, the station was a solid performer located in its own building at 13th and Chester, and I had a nice little house in Fairview Park. But one day, in the early spring of 1964, the phone rang. It was Jack Sullivan.
John van Buren Sullivan was the near-legendary Vice President and General Manager of WNEW. He'd been driving through northeast Ohio, had heard me on WERE, and wondered if I'd be interested in moving to New York as a member of the WNEW news staff. I was so stunned I must have sounded like a five-star idiot. But he was apparently willing to make certain allowances for my youth and inexperience because, a week later, I was on a plane headed for LaGuardia and an audition at the one radio station for which I'd always wanted to work.
The offices and studios of WNEW, 1130 on the AM dial, were located in an office building at 565 5th Avenue in midtown Manhattan. The call letters, in burnished steel, loomed over 5th Avenue and were virtually impossible to miss as you walked by. But the entrance was around the corner, on East 46th Street. There you walked through double glass doors and up an angled staircase above which was a sign that read "You Are Now Entering The World's Greatest Radio Station." I can't recall who said it but I once heard that "If it's true it ain't braggin,'" and it was true. WNEW did not have the highest ratings in New York or the biggest audience. But it was so influential and its reputation so powerful many media buyers would decide how much to spend on WNEW before they considered anyone else. I had been told by Mr. Sullivan to seek out the chief announcer. But it was Saturday, the weekend, and when I reached the top of the stairs there was no one around. I started down the hall and, within a few steps, came to small room the walls and ceiling of which were covered with maps.
Within were a seat sprung couch, (I found that out when I sat down) a couple of beat up chairs, and small table, and, with his back to me, a tall, bald, cadaverous looking fellow wearing a pair of wrinkled corduroy slacks, a ratty looking cardigan over an equally disreputable oxford shirt, and a propeller beanie!
"Excuse me," I said. "I'm looking for John Dale." "Well," he responded? "Are you Mr. Dale," I asked? "Yes," he replied, and we stared at one another for about ten seconds. I then decided that he wasn't going to volunteer anything else and explained that I had been asked by Mr. Sullivan to undergo an audition. "Oh," he said, and he asked me to wait while he found a news script. I was then taken to a studio, seated at a table with a microphone and other assorted equipment, and asked to read the newscast. When I asked where the microphone switch was located, he replied, "We don't do that here," and he pointed at a technician behind a slanted double pane window. "He does." Wonder of wonders: I couldn't even turn on my own microphone. There was something else that surprised me about that studio. It had a crystal chandelier.
When I finished reading the script Mr. Dale, who had by then rid himself of the strange headgear, told me that I sounded very good. But, he added, the audition was not over. I would have to meet with Lee Hanna and he would make the final decision. Hanna was the news director, soon to leave for a job in television, and it was under his direction that, the following Monday, I was required to (1) write and record a complete newscast and, (2) write an analysis of the situation in Vietnam without referring to notes or other research material. WNEW was, at that time, making the transition from writers who prepared scripts for announcers to read to writer-readers and writer-reporters. WNEW already had two of the best: Reid Collins and Jim Van Sickle.
There followed a long interview concerning my background and credentials (By then I actually had some) after which Hanna asked if I'd be willing to work a split shift as a news anchor, two late afternoons and evenings followed by three overnights. I said I would and he then asked if I'd be willing to work for a salary that was about four-thousand dollars a year less than I was earning in Cleveland. Had I not been married and the father of a little girl I might have taken the job for nothing so badly did I want it. In any case I accepted the offer and in late May of 1964, having settled my affairs in Cleveland, arrived at 565 5th Avenue ready to join the elite.
That first day was pretty much of a happy blur. The evening news editor, Jack Laurence, who years later became a first-class television news correspondent, made only minor changes to my scripts and I managed to avoid making a fool of myself on the air. But there is one moment of that day that I always recall more vividly than any other. I was in the hall and passed Willie B., the one and only William B. Williams. "Good afternoon, Mr. Williams." I said, "How are you?" "Very talented," he replied, as he opened the door to the studio with the crystal chandelier. Of course, I thought: The Make Believe Ballroom.
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