Once in anger…once in love…

                        Both at I.

It occurred to me that our sight is misaligned.

            We’re searching for something that’s easy to find.

                        If we look ahead and not behind.

So, on those tears I make this vow,

            To forge forward and love you in the now…

                        Anyhow.

Enough with tears…let’s have more fun

            Fewer clouds and much more sun.

                        We’ve just got started, we’re not done.

I love you through the good times and bad,

            Happy and sad,

                        Even when you’re mad.

So if you’ll follow, I will lead

            Just one more line for you to read.

                        Remember the weed.

I love you.

And sorry I could not travel both.

And be one traveler, long I stood

 And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

 Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

 Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

 In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

 Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

 I doubted if I should ever come back.

 I shall be telling this with a sigh

 Somewhere ages and ages hence;

 Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

 I took the one less traveled by,

 And that has made all the difference.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

There was a man, now please take note,

There was a man, who had a goat.

He loved that goat, indeed he did,

He loved that goat, just like a kid.

One day that goat felt frisk and fine,

Ate three red shirts from off the line.

The man he grabbed him by the back,

And tied him to a railroad track.

But when the train hove into sight,

That goat grew pale and green with fright.

He heaved a sigh, as if in pain,

Coughed up those shirts and flagged the train.

Robert Frost

 2/17/1995

My daddy said, “Son, put your guitar down. We’ve got to build some fence, got to plow some ground.” I told my daddy, “Try and understand, this John Deere tractor don’t fit my plan.” And I hit the road, chasin’ down a dream and I need a little help. I’m trying to get to New Orleans. 

New Orleans…it’s more than a place. It’s a feeling…with atmosphere so thick you can almost touch it…a total sensory experience.

New Orleans…Gay ’90s hackney coaches minded by sleepy, ancient handlers who guide the old mules almost as well as they tell tales that weave the real history of the Vieux Carre with the legends handed down through generations and sometimes made up on the fly to fit the mood of the clientele. 

New Orleans…Jackson Square and the flagpole in the park that marks the meeting place of pirates who once visited this mystical place years ago and now where lovers circle hand-in-hand in a ritual mating dance in between the winos who stagger or sleep at will. The Cathedral of St. Louis, King of France, looms over the entrance as it did when Walt first visited and later modeled the Disneyland Castle after its architecture.

One can lean against the huge, bronze statue of Andrew Jackson and breathe the very lifeblood of the French Quarter…the damp smell of the river that wafts across your face with the ocean breeze that seems to blow constantly, except in the late summer, when nothing moves. With the breeze comes the exciting aroma of Cajun cuisine that boils daily…the sweet basil, thyme and oregano accentuated by the bit of the red, white and black pepper…and the ever-resent Tabasco Sauce that’s made on an island just around the corner. There’s the crisp, mouth-watering scent of the special donuts made at the Café Desmond and covered with enough powdered sugar to induce an instant diabetic coma to even the most healthy individual. Add a strong cup of chicory coffee and you’ll have a rush that can last for weeks. 

The most powerful smell, of course, is of stale beer.

Past the café is the famous market in the French Quarter where you can purchase almost anything. It was started long ago by the French and Spanish, then continued by the Cajuns for generations. Now it is almost exclusively the territory of Indians and Arabs…the international traders. It is one of the few places, however, where you can still thump a melon before you buy. If you don’t know the benefit of that practice, never mind. 

Sidetracked up in Illinois, I’m not that smart, I’m an innocent boy. She called me baby, she called me Honey, she called a cab and took away my money. On the road again, somewhere south of Moline and I need a little help, you see, I’m trying to get to New Orleans.

New Orleans…home of the French Quarter…possibly the most unique place in the world. A leisurely walk across the cobblestones and you’re immediately transported into another world…or perhaps all the world wrapped into one. The lilt of different dialects filters through the air as tourists and natives amble down the sidewalks. Artists of all kinds fill the streets. Those with brushes paint pictures of Elvis in front of a wrought-iron fence, houses surrounded by wrought-iron fences and just wrought-iron fences. All are hung for potential customers on the wrought-iron fences that line the streets. 

There are mimes of all kinds, jugglers, clowns, magicians and bums with attitudes. These are, after all, French Quarter bums who demand a noble acknowledgement of their status.

Don’t know why I gotta go. If I don’t try I’ll never know about e’touffe and Cajun Queens. I need a little help, you see, I’m tryin’ to get to New Orleans. 

And the sounds. Ah, the sounds of the French Quarter. The bleeting, billygoat grunts of the barkers enticing the tourists inside to see all kinds of abnormality set the natural rhythm of the music that spills out of nearly every doorway. In the French Quarter, Jazz rules…and Dixieland Jazz is King. The famous Absinthe House, where Louis Armstrong learned his trade is the central point, manned by great, mostly black masters nearly as old as Satchmo. The Duke of New Orleans coaxes magical sounds out of his sax outdoors in the Mediterranean Café, his tempo measured by the house-drawn carriages that clip-clop down the narrow street.

Past the Jazz is the thrill of excitement and danger. Venture too far down Bourbon Street and the beautiful, painted ladies aren’t ladies. Venture further into the darkness and, if you’re lucky, you can view a pagan, Voodoo ritual and watch a live chicken being sacrificed. If your luck turns, you’ll be the chicken. 

It is on the far end of Bourbon Street, deep in the bowels of the Vieux Carre, where one can find the den of the famous Miss Rudolph…Queen of the Witch Doctors. Richard Prior paid homage to her on one of his early albums. As one who can testify from experience, you don’t want to go there. Miss Rudolph is a hefty woman of unknown age with the tattoo of an eye on one, huge breast. After you drink one of her potions, that eye will wink. She has a three-legged monkey that bothers everyone who enters…except Miss Rudolph. The fourth, withered monkey-foot dangles from her neck. Miss Rudolph will tell you she can grant you magical, sexual powers. Trust me. She can, but the downside is a bitch. I suffer from spells ever since she scratched me with that monkey-foot at age 16. Years later, I still see the blinking eye.

If you go to New Orleans, you need to remember a few, loose rules: Don’t kiss anyone you aren’t absolutely, positively sure about…remember, this is the place where the Queen of the Mardi Gras is a King. No matter what they say, six raw oysters are enough. Don’t throw Hurricane glasses into the fans at Pat O’Brians. Don’t attempt a morphine buy, no matter what the girl says. And steer clear of the Voodo dens and panel discussions. The ultimate sacrifice isn’t worth it. 

I hocked my watch, bought a burger and fries, tried to pretend it was red beans and rice. Midnight in Memphis, hello to Graceland, next stop…Louisiana. I’m on the road chasin’ down a dream. And I need a little help, you see, I’m tryin’ to get to New Orleans.

 5/19/1995

It is that time of year when everyone is fighting to be #1. The good news is that someone will be in the top spot. The bad news? Everyone else won’t be. 

I’m not talking about the NBA playoffs where 12 multi-millionaires will try and hide their grief when they lose the playoffs and drive into the sunset in their custom cars. I’ll save any feelings of remorse for programmers when the down book hits their desks with an awful thud.

I programmed more than my share of great radio stations, and those of you familiar with my career know I was lucky to have more than my share of success, but I can say, without reservation, no other emotion can come close to the empty feeling of a down book. 

Programming is weird science at best. Let’s face it…none of us really knows what we’re doing. It’s a complex crapshoot with the odds favoring the house. Although we all like to brag and pretend we know it all when the book goes up, the truth is, everyone breathes a sigh of relief when the numbers jump. With the possible exception of Steve Smith (who might actually know what he’s doing), can anyone say they haven’t experienced a down book?

Three Dog Night sang, “One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do,” and they were right. If you ever pull a “one” in the book, you will be the loneliest person in the station. It won’t last long because you’ll soon be out on the street, but for a brief, frozen moment in time, you’ll find depressing fascination in total isolation. 

I speak from experience. I am the genius who tubed WAPP New York down to that magic number and managed to live to tell about it. (Actually, it was a 1.7, but when it starts with a “one,” it doesn’t really matter what comes after the decimal point.) I couldn’t find anyone who would look me in the eye. My secretary went home sick, the jocks came in just minutes before their airshifts, the sales staff holed up in the local bar and the general manager refused to take my calls. I phoned my girlfriend for solace. She left a message on the answering machine that she was moving out…she got a job at Z100 answering Scott Shannon’s request lines.

You’ll only get comfort (for a while) from record company promotion people. The good ones will call immediately to tell you not to believe Arbitron, that everyone they know listens to your station. They close by hitting you up for an add, hoping they’ll get one more shot before you get blown out. 

So, what do you do when you tube it? Conventional wisdom tells you to straighten your back and find the silver lining in that otherwise dark cloud. As much as we curse Arbitron, we can be thankful for the tonnage of data the company provides. Look closely and find those demos that show promise. Bolster the air staff. They’re as scared as you and need you to be strong in the face of imminent danger. March into the general manager’s office and provide an instant game plan to turn the ratings around. Accept the responsibility and take it like a champion.

Of course, that’s all conversation. It’s the right thing to do…probably the most professional way to approach it…but it won’t matter. 

As a veteran of many down books, I had the time and talent to develop a strategy to face the beast and breathe fire in its face. I call it, “The 10 Tenents of Tubing.”

#1:       Blame it on a bad drop. Arbitron is famous for seeking out the exact households that hate your station. For this book, they managed to find them all. They have a personal vendetta to make sure you fail. Blame it on them. 

#2:       It’s all of those terrible sales promotions you had to run. If it weren’t for the clutter, you would have been in double-digits.

#3:       Your competition out-spent you 10-to-one. If you had the budget they had, you would have gone up. Absolutely. 

#4:       Demand a trip to Beltsville to personally study the diaries. You’ve heard at least three other stations had diaries and those entries tainted the results of the entire sample. All you need is three days and you’ll have the whole book recalled. (If you’re lucky, by the time you return, the bad news will have blown over and you can slink back into your office and avoid the bullet to the brain.)

#5:       It was the consultant’s fault. (My personal favorite.) Say this with a great degree of animosity and self-confidence. Blame everything on the consultant, from the music to the promotions to the format. But make sure you do this quickly. Rest assured the consultant will do the same to you. Strike quickly before you’re hamstrung. 

#6:       Tearfully blame it on your evil, twin personality. Explain that there are two people inside of you…the good one and the bad one. Unfortunately, the bad one took control at the start of the book, but promise it will never happen again.

#7:       Don’t mention the book. Do, however, bring up the young thing the manager has been seeing on the sly. Explain that you would never share your knowledge with the GM’s spouse. 

#8:       Leave on an extended vacation, the thought being that if they can’t find you, they can’t fire you. If you take this action, clean your personal effects from your office. They might not find you, but they can find your replacement. Six of them are already sitting in the lobby.

#9:       Immediately enter a drug and alcohol rehabilitation clinic. It doesn’t matter whether you need to, but it buys you at least 30 days, the company has to pay the bills and they can’t fire you until the treatment is complete. 

#10:     Quit. Be loud and be proud about it. Accept no blame or responsibility. Say the station is screwed up, the business sucks and you’re leaving to spend more time with your family. Then take the first job that is available.

If none of these work, you’re on your own. It is healthy, however, to remember we work in a business of intangibles. Much of our success depends on particulars out of our control. Don’t take too much credit when you’re doing well or you’ll get an equal amount of blame when it all goes to hell. Also, another book and another chance to succeed is only three months away. 

It might be in your best interest to remember the old axiom: “There’s never a horse that couldn’t be rode and never a rider that couldn’t be throwed.” You aren’t a genius until you win the Nobel Prize.

Even with it, you’re going to be in trouble after a down book. Ask Jimmy Carter.

 12/18/97

Twas the week before Christmas and all through the nation,

Record companies shut down and stopped calling stations.

Stock options were hung on the chimney with care,

In hopes a bull market soon would be there.

I was excited, Gary was calm,

We just had come back from a bite at The Palm.

When out in the atrium there came a loud moan,

Gary said, “What in the hell’s going on?”

We dashed through the doors and what did we see,

But reindeer and Santa crashed into the tree.

We rescued the S-Man and brushed off his face,

“I can’t make it,” he said, “you must go in my place.”

“Line up the elves,” Gary yelled, getting mad.

“Come Dina,” I shouted, “Get Stephanie and Brad.”

Michelle will coordinate, Art, come along,

And Kris will be happy to say we’re all wrong.

Tiff claims a window seat so she can say,

“Bye-bye” when she throws Jeffy out of the sleigh.

EMT Greg-boy will keep us alive,

And we’ll all hear Kristen as she backseat drives.

“Don’t worry,” said Gary, “We’ll let her rip.”

We jumped in the sleigh and he cracked the whip.

“On Lazy, on Stupid…is that how it goes?”

“And Rudolph, you showboat, turn off your nose!”

“What’s in the bag?” Gary asked with a smile.

“Presents,” I answered, “for all those worthwhile.”

For Andrea and Danny, a Siamese Cat.

For Kilgo, a comparison with that of a gnat.

More money and power for cool Phill Costello.

And Father Palmese will be a rich fellow.

Curb’s crossing Country with our dear boy Ric,

A new watch for Blair…will that make him tic?

A lion for Boulos so he will be brave,

Chocolates for Lisa to help with her Crave.

A new staff and new hits for our man, Catania,

For Tipp and Reprise, another Platinum Enya.

One more big box set and a smash for Greg Thompson,

A partner for Darus so he won’t feel lonesome.

A new Island President so Joe has a boss,

More adds for Geslin, no matter the cost.

For Brenda, a baby, oops she’s got that already.

In ’98 Nancy will find her a steady.

Air conditioning for Ellis, the Mercury’s rising.

A way for Steve Leeds to stop the conniving.

For Michael, a virgin, and no, that’s not funny,

Look what’s for Stuey…the head of a bunny!

A turn that is worth it, for Ritchie-boy Bloom,

Get well to Becce, it can’t come too soon.

A computer that’s not Jive for our friend Jack Satter,

For Burt and the WORK Group, the rest of the platter.

For Karmen, our sister, an antique Whurlitzer,

And I’m going to get the coveted Pulitzer!

“That’s all well and good,” Gary laughed with much glee,

“But there’s one big question…what’s in it for me?”

I searched in the bag for any more riches,

But all I came up with was ashes and switches.

“You don’t have to worry,” through the wind Gary called,

“I don’t have a gift? Why I’ll just take them all.”

Gifts or no gifts, may I say on this date…

“Merry Christmas to all…and a great ’98!”

It’s over.

In the past few days, the fax machines at Radio & Records have been working overtime. Last week, Joel Denver and the other editors sent out missives to the minions asking reporting stations to “predict” the “plays per week” current records will receive. (See this week’s Conference Call to see how Top 40 programmers are reacting to this misguided request.)

This week, no less an authority than Bob Wilson, longtime publisher of R&R, tries his hand. In a letter to the industry entitled “R&R: Looking Forward While The Rest Look Back,” Wilson states that “Most programmers…have already agreed that plays per week is the way to go.”

With all due respect to Bob Wilson, who has been a friend of mine for many years (at least until I came to The Network Forty), R&R is still looking back.

The Network Forty first began using the term “Plays Per Week” in the Spring of 1992. We began compiling at “PPW” chart shortly thereafter. We coined the phrase. Radio programmers spawned the idea.

R&R is using t he oldest radio trick in the world…taking another station’s positioning statement and trying to use it as their own. All of us have done it…or had it done to us in the past. But those of us who are in touch with “today” understand that the audience knows who “owns” the phrase.

The Network Forty began basing its charts on “Plays Per Week” over a year ago. Billboard bases their chards on BDS. Why? Because it is reality. And both radio stations and record companies want reality. Finally, R&R sees the light.

Hey, better late than never.

To show our spirit of cooperation, compassion and brotherly love, instead of trying to prevent R&R from using our term “Plays Per Week,” we’ll allow it. In the months we’ve been trumpeting “Plays Per Week,” it has become an industry standard. What’s good for the industry is good for us.

So, Bob, you have my official permission to use the term “Plays Per Week.” Since you’re having a problem with many reporters supplying you with the information, you may even reprint The Network Forty PPW Chart. (As a personal favor, I would ask that you wait a while before ripping off “Overnight Requests” and the monthly “Promo Calendar.”)

As a matter of fact, we’ll allow any and all trade and other magazines to use our term “Plays Per Week” as a description of actual airplay. (Except Hitmakers…it’s a personal thing!)

Many misguided individuals have misunderstood our stance regarding R&R. Some have thought it was a personal attack. Not so. Joel Denver and I have been friends for many years (at least until I came to The Network Forty). Our criticism has been directed at the policies and politics of Radio & Records, not necessarily the personalities. If R&R has finally decided to work with the industry and not dictate to it, then we welcome the opportunity to help them open a dialogue with the individuals they’ve turned a deaf ear to for so long.

Long before I came aboard, The Network Forty worked with radio to reflect their ideas. We continue to network toward that aim. So do many of the others. If R&R would listen to the industry before deciding what’s “best” for us, then these editorials would be much harder to write.

In Wilson’s letter, he also states that “Our reporters will no longer simply be categorized by the 20-year-old Parallel 1/2/3 system.” Welcome to the 90s! For years, that archaic system has been degraded by both the radio and record industries. We’ve been editorializing about it for months. Now, according to Wilson, it is no more.

Thank you, Bob. I take back all those things I said about Joel.

However, Wilson’s letter stops short of including in the sample “all” radio stations that feature current music. The Network Forty includes all stations.

What will happen to those P-2s and P-3s that currently depend on promotional support supplied by independent promoters…support that is implied and in many cases written into contracts as being dependant upon a station’s Parallel status? Will R&R finally let all stations report and put an end to a system that lends itself to manipulation? Or will they simply redefine the parallels as A, B and C and continue to decide what stations they “allow” to report?

Common sense and conventional wisdom make the choice simple. History predicts R&R will opt for the latter.

Whatever the outcome (and isn’t it fun to try and predict), The Network Forty salutes R&R for finally recognizing the error of its ways. If it’s just by name only, R&R has ended the Parallel system. R&R has recognized that Plays Per Weeks is the way to go. And as a reward, The Network Forty will allow them to use our term.

All we ask, Bob, is that when you knock a picture off the wall, remember where it came from.

(1^st Editorial To Appear In Network 40)

Long ago and far away, in a land of unlimited Hitbounds and Shotgun Jingles, all record companies were successful, most radio stations were number one and every record was a smash. Each year, massive bonuses were awarded to ever-expanding record companies, programmers garnered huge incentives every six months with the publishing of Arbitron ratings, several friendly trade magazines published weekly, and the hits just kept on coming every day.

Back then, promotion and radio people actually hung out…discussed music…spent time together. Record companies wanted to sell records and build acts. Trade magazines were interested in reporting news rather than making it. Information from any music radio station was openly courted and gladly accepted. Radio stations were concerned with staying one step ahead of their audiences’ tastes. It was the age of Aquarius, when peace ruled the planets and love steered the charts.

Right.

After a while, it turned ugly. The entertainment business became more business and less entertainment. Promotion people stopped hanging out and programmers started hanging up. Record companies made cutbacks and radio got monthly Arbitrends. The incentive was just keeping your job. The friendly trades became more cut-throat. Deregulation altered radio ownership from long-term investments to short-term financial windfalls. Budgets were slashed, priorities were switched almost as often as call letters, consultants were the rule and, as research became the buzzword, programmers were reduced to being music mixers.

Then it go mean. One trade magazine garnered power and became a “restraint of trade” publication as it renamed formats, demanded strict adherence to its tyrannical policies and turned into the “Big Brother” of the industry. Suddenly, “Breakers” were more important than sales. Field staffs were cut and independent contractors added. A little radio station in East Jesus, Nebraska…a town with no record stores…became famous overnight because of its reporting status…a status that was not earned, but anointed. And two airline companies added daily flights to East Jesus to answer the increased demand.

Formats have fragmented and Mainstream Top 40 is being squeezed, not just by the music, but by a system that demands playlist additions dictated by rules and regulations that have nothing to do with audience tastes. To make data simpler to process and easier to control, radio has been reduced to the lowest common denominator. Innovation, imagination, creativity and style, once characteristics most sought in our business, have been stifled because there’s no chart for them. We can’t make them a “Breaker.”

We’ve all, in one way or another, become victims of this archaic process.

This must end.

Record companies must discontinue the practice of rewarding chart adds and focus instead on actual airplay and sales. Paying bonuses for paper adds is like an oil company compensating a contractor for drilling a well that hits water. In the long run, they’re all wet. So, too, could be some relationships. Private conversations with individuals close to the Federal Communications Commission told The Network 40 that the promotional arrangements made between radio stations and some independent promoters will come under close scrutiny in the Clinton administration.

Programmers must begin making playlist decisions based on what’s right for their audiences (instead of promotional considerations) or suffer long-term damage. Sales executives have to find innovative ways to sell the younger demos. If radio just continues to follow the boomers up the demographic scale, in another 10 years, we’ll be hearing nothing but ads for Geritol and Depends. Commercials during the Super Bowl, which sold for $28,000 per second, focused almost exclusively on the young and young-at-heart, from Pepsi, Nike and McDonalds to the automobile manufacturers. To super serve the 25-54 demo, radio has lost the automotive, soft drink, beer and fast-food franchises to TV. If radio spent more time creating specialized campaigns for these advertisers to entice them back to radio, medium as a whole, and particularly Mainstream Top 40, would be healthy again. In the advertising world, where youth and sex are used to push almost every product, it’s amazing that Mainstream Top 40, which epitomizes these traits, consistently abandons its strengths in a vain attempt to be older and more mature. Mainstream Top 40 is the perfect vehicle for advertisers. We have to sell this fact.

And industry magazines must begin to report the news, not make it. We need to accept radio’s definitions, not force them to conform to ours. We are the product of the radio and record industries. We must serve their needs, not dictate our desires to them.

For years, the complaints have been mounting. Everyone is griping, but no one has done anything about it. Now, however, the mood is different. The climate is ripe for change. A new administration has taken over based on its promise to alter the status quo. It is time to find innovative and improved ways of accomplishing our goals.

With the mandate for change comes responsibility. It is one thing to sit on the sidelines and complain about the way the game is being played. It is another to become a player and influence the outcome. To affect change, you must participate in the process. You have only two choices: to be a part of the problem or a part of the solution.

We at The Network 40 are dedicated to affecting change. And we seek your help. We want to reposition our magazine within the framework of the radio and record industries according to your definitions. We need your input. Write or call toll free at (800) 443-4001 and tell us what you want and what you don’t want. Tell us what you like and what you don’t like. Our measure of success depends on you. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the coming weeks, you will watch the suggestions you make become a reality. We will become the industry magazine you design. Together, we can make a difference. The Network 40 makes this commitment to excellence…to supply, our readers, with accurate data and important information to enable you to do your jobs more effectively. We ask for your help and trust. In return, we promise to reflect your interests…not dictate our desires.

We will join those who want to be a part of the solution. Those who continue to perpetuate the problems need to know they belong to a minority tthat is quickly shrinking. The tide is turning. The time to act is now.

Viva La Revolution!