When Little Bands Were Big (June 1974 | Volume: 25, Issue: 4)

When Little Bands Were Big

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Authors: Earl Clark

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June 1974 | Volume 25, Issue 4

It may seem incredible now, but there really was a time when radio stations featured live programming almost all the time, albeit that was nearly a half century ago. The term “disc jockey” had not yet entered the lexicon, let alone the studios. Instead, stations in those days had “announcers,” and, true to the title, their duty was simply to announce the next number, then stand aside.

Such a personage greeted ten jittery young musicians who entered the broadcasting studio of Station WCAH in downtown Columbus, Ohio, one spring evening in the late 1920’s. He seemed genial, sophisticated, and suave, and the suggestion of a mustache decorated his upper lip, while a bright boutonnière sprouted from the lapel of his double-breasted suit. He may also have served as the program director, possibly even the station manager. At least no one else was in the studio that night, save for an engineer, seated in a glassed-in booth, who was surrounded by an awesome array of dials, switches, and flashing lights.

“Come in and make yourselves at home, fellas,” our dapper host greeted us cheerily as we hesitated at the entrance, weighted down with instruments, music stands, and packets of music. “You got plenty of time before you go on the air, so take your time to get set up.”

We found ourselves in a carpeted, windowless area about the size of a large living room. The only furnishings were a piano and a microphone surmounted by the station’s call letters and perched atop a pedestal. A speaker above the engineer’s lair softly relayed a network broadcast that was going over the air.

“My daughter says you guys have the best band in her high school,” our newfound friend assured us. “Ever been on radio before?”

“No,” I confessed, warily eyeing the impressive microphone.

“Nothing to it,” he assured me. “Not nearly as bad as playing for a dance with all that noise and confusion. Got your program ready?”

I handed him a paper with the titles of ten selections written on it—ample, as we had worked it out in feverish rehearsals, for a half-hour broadcast.

“Fine!” he said, and left to confer with the engineer in his glass cocoon The hands on the clock above his booth read 7:40. Twenty minutes to go.

Working intensely, we set up folding chairs, uncased instruments, spread arrangements on music stands, and tuned up, accomplishing all this in what for us was record time. But it was really a waste of energy. Vor now the clock read 7:48—which left twelve minutes still to go.

We stared at the mike around which we were grouped, and it stared back impassively at us. We were dressed in our Sunday finest for such a historic occasion, but soon the room seemed unbearably hot. I could feel beads of perspiration dribbling down my sides, and my collar was choking me. We