Author Note: Many years ago, before corporations took over the media, it was possible to enjoy local television and radio stations. Yes, the TV stations would often be affiliated with major networks (ABC, CBS, NBC), but you could easily tune into a local radio station to hear music and news and other forms of entertainment. AM radio was the predominant form of broadcast. At one time, in the late 1970’s to early 1980’s, when there was a spring in my waddle and not as much grey in my feathers, I worked at a small radio station in upstate New York. It served the rural area of the state between major cities, and focused on local news for the community as well as providing music. The characters in this story are based on people I knew and worked with at the time. This includes “Lisa” who often listened to me when I was on the air. Names are changed for obvious reasons, and you get to decide what is “fact” and what is not. “Request lines are open!”

June, 2010

Grabbing my luggage from the conveyor belt, I made my way through the airport and down to the car rental area where I had a vehicle reserved. Even though it was early April, the weather in the greater Buffalo area was still a bit nippy. But that was how it was in upstate New York. I had traveled from Florida to help commemorate an astounding milestone. An old colleague of mine was retiring after nearly 35 years of employment at the same company. Sort of.

Back then, we fancied ourselves as renegades and square pegs who were going to lead the listeners into a new concept of radio. Right. More like a bunch of half-wits and dreamers. Please allow me to clarify.

It was the late 1970’s and I had just graduated with a degree in communications engineering. It was a small college in upstate New York, roughly halfway between Buffalo and Rochester. I had enjoyed the college experience (bars, girls, parties) and still managed to graduate on schedule, much to the delight of my family. I had minimal student loan debt, because this was still a time that you could afford tuition and not be forced to mortgage your soul for half a million bucks to get a degree.

Since I enjoy silly things like food and shelter, I started looking for employment.

Answering a listing in the local newspaper, I was soon interviewing for a position at a radio station that was in the start up phase. They needed someone who was multi-talented in that the candidate could keep the equipment running, help with productions (like commercials) and had a clear voice, in case they were needed behind a microphone. Either they were crazy, or desperate, but I was hired. (And, like the old joke goes, “I had a face for radio!”)

06:30, July 1st, 1977. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. You’re listening to 630AM – WFLR, serving the Finger Lakes Region of upstate New York. We’re thrilled to have you join us today as we make something wonderful happen. Music will start after the news.”

We were ‘flying by the seat of our pants’ dealing with local business’ and the FCC to make sure we did everything correctly. We were on probation for a year and at the end of that time, our broadcast license would be reviewed and if we passed muster, renewed. Weekly meetings were held to remind us that this was NOT the TV show WKRP. No turkey drops, no smooth voice jazz guy at night, and no slightly insane morning host. We did have a really cute receptionist, though.

We dealt with the little surprises that popped up. For example, one of our antennas was up on the roof of a six floor building, and at random, yet frequent times, the signal strength would suddenly drop and return. Took us close to a week to figure out that the electrical stuff in the elevator motor room on the roof was the cause. Every time someone used the elevator, things (as Sheila the cute receptionist would say) “Went Wonky!” You really don’t want to know all the bullshit that goes into requesting an increase in the height of an antenna to correct that situation. We even had to clear it with the FAA because of the microscopic risk of poking up into aviation airspace. Hell, if a plane was going to hit the antenna, just say goodbye to the whole building! We did have warning lights on the damned thing!

But in spite of these, and other situations, we made it through the initial growing pains.

Besides myself, we had ten full time people working there and a dozen or so unpaid college interns. It was easy to find them because what teenager was going to turn down the chance to play with a giant multi million dollar stereo? We helped them fill out some simple paperwork and got them ‘provisional’ licenses to broadcast on the air with us. It was amusing to see someone all starry eyed and ready to be Walter Cronkite Junior, ready to read news copy from the UPI feed.

Good times.

“Tommy, I have some concerns about your playlists,” my station manager sighed. “You know that Arbitron says we have to play certain songs on a daily basis, and yet, you seem to be ignoring a few. Especially one.”

“Let me guess, REO Speedwagon.” The High Infidelity album was out and the airwaves were saturated with “Heard it from a friend, who heard it from a friend, who heard it from the old dog down the road (or something along those lines) that you were screwing around on me.” I mean, shit, you couldn’t plug in your toaster and not hear that song. “Look, Arbitron says that we need to play that song once every 2 hours. Look at the other jockies lists. That song is played an average of 14 times daily. I think we’re okay.”

“Fine. I won’t push is because you’re on the overnights and for reasons I can’t figure out, you always seem to have a high number of requests.”

My schedule was midnight to 6:00am, Tuesday to Friday. I loved it. The weekends were mine and I enjoyed the fact that while I was getting popular on the air, my face was pretty much unknown. I could go out and live life normally. When I wasn’t behind the microphone, I was usually making sure that everything stayed running or I was working in productions on commercials for local customers. One business owner was so tickled by out ‘outside the box’ thinking that he gave us a blank check for anything odd we could come up with.

(Cue French horn and symphonic music.) “Taco-Rama presents ... The Undersea World of Jacques Taco!” (Sounds of a creaking old boat on the water with people in the background talking in French and English. Elderly sounding man with French accent speaks.) “Bon jour everyone! Welcome to the Undersea World of Jacques Taco! That’s me! Today we are searching in shark infested waters for elusive Burritofish! My son, Jean-Luc will be the diver because I’m smarter than he is.” (Splash and bubbles.) “And over he goes to explore! Wait! Oh no! That shark has seen him and is coming to get a snack! Hold on everyone! Jean-Luc is opening up a bottle of world famous Taco-Rama hot sauce! It’s been known to remove the rusted paint off the hull of our ship, The Insane Chihuahua! I don’t believe it! The sharks are leaving! Jean-Luc is safe! Oh well, we didn’t find the Burritofish here today, but you can come down to Taco-Rama for yours! Locations at...”

They were pretty good tacos.

Lots of good times and concerts. But there were also sad times. I remember my phone ringing on December 8, 1980, waking me up. “Tommy! Get in here as fast as you can! It’s a national tragedy!” John Lennon had been shot and killed. The man was 40 years old, leaving behind a widow (Yoko Ono) and his children (Julian and Sean). We had grown up on his music, with the Beatles and solo. The newly released Double Fantasy album was played, start to finish along with other music he created that we knew and loved. We cried.

I pulled off the highway and into town. I had reservations at a local hotel and I would be staying there for a few days. My ex wife had primary custody of the offspring and she was nice enough to say that she would pop in at my apartment to make sure everything was okay. Yes, she had a key. I was planning to stay through Monday and then go back home to Florida.

I had to smile as I recalled our ‘cast of characters’ at the station. Warren ‘Captain Koz’ Kozlowski was the general manager who did his best to keep his thinning hair from being pulled out as he dealt with us and the assorted stuff that running an independent radio station entailed. Shelia Potter, the receptionist had a ‘Mary Ann’ look to her, sweet, wholesome and quiet. Until you either got a few drinks into her, or sat her down at the microphone to read the news or spin a few discs. No nonsense and ready to verbally spar with anyone foolish enough to try. Keith Markowitz, a Journalism guy who kept the news department on a tight leash, but had a sense of humor that helped in productions. If he ever looked at you and said “Trust me!” you knew you were screwed.

Getting out of the rental car, I went to the front desk to sign in. The young man paused when he read my information.

“Is there a concern?”

“No sir. It’s just that your reservation is flagged for an upgrade. But Mrs. Martin has to be here to set it up to go through.”

“Mrs. Martin?”

“Hotel Manager, sir. Let me get her. I’m sorry for the delay.”

I stood off to the side and waited. A few minutes later, I head a voice call out. “Tommy Gun! You made it!” I turned to look at a woman about ten years younger than me, red-blond hair that came past her shulders, gray eyes and a figure that said “I’m an upstate New York farm girl, and I know you think I’m hot!” She was. Standing at 5’6” with a nice figure that was mature but not dowdy, with what looked to be high, firm, B cup breasts.

I blinked. I was at a total loss as to who this woman was.

“You don’t remember me?” (I shook my head and started to apologize.) “It’s me! Lisa!”

Many radio people who are on the air a lot will often create a name for when they work. Examples would include ‘Wolfman Jack’ (Robert Weson Smith). My given name was Thomas Gunnerson. I don’t recall who started it, but when I was first introduced, that person just called me ‘Tommy Gun’ because it sounded good. I didn’t care so I kept it. “This is Tommy Gun and you’re listening to WFLR, 630 on that AM dial! Request lines are now open. You want to hear something? Let me know!”

Remember, I was broadcasting to rural farmland in the middle of the night. As long as I played specific songs during the course of the night (with the exception of REO Speedwagon) I had about 30 minutes every hour to play whatever I wanted. Sometimes, I would pull an album from the shelf that I didn’t know, just because the album cover looked interesting, so I figured ‘why not?’ Just who is up in the middle of the night, going to the wee hours of the morning? Farm Kids. They would be up for one reason or another. Chores, helping when an animal was giving birth, or nursing a sick critter. There’s a reason those giant combines have enough lights on them to light up a football stadium. The harvest would go non stop, start to finish, when it was time to bring it in. They knew that they could call me and if I had the album with the song they wanted to hear, I would get it played for them. We called the show ‘The All Night Laundromat’ because you never knew what would ‘come out in the wash’ that night. Abba to Zappa. Frank Sinatra followed by Ozzy, then after a commercial break, a quick journey down the Country Roads of West Virginia with John Denver.

Sometimes for fun I would record a conversation with someone who called in, or even have them live on the air (with the 7 second delay), telling me what was happening and why they were calling me. A few dedications (like that broadcasting icon Casey Kasem would play on American Top 40) also got snuck in periodically.