I was nervous. My dad had prepared a cassette tape of the first two weekly episodes of the Jesus is Lord Broadcast—a half hour brokered time preacher’s show on local 5,000 watt WEAS-AM in Savannah, Georgia. In a scene reminiscent of the 1987 movie Broadcast News, the tape was rushed—hand delivered— to the station just in time for the 12 noon airing that first Saturday we went to air. It was a small miracle that I got there in the first place.
Finally finding it, the station was not at all what I expected: located in a residential neighborhood, a fairly large two story clapboard house. A large wide wooden staircase led up to a screened porch and an unlocked front door to the reception area. Somehow I found myself on the upper floor having been misdirected outside around the obvious studio by a musical commotion.
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| My WEAS Photo ID |
Inside I heard loud music from a direction that I assumed was emanating from the studio. I never forgot the song playing: Indeep’s “Last Night a DJ Saved My life”. “Please,” I thought, “Somebody save me, I can’t find the studio!” It was a ghost town in there. Now clear as crystal, I realized the music and disembodied DJs were from a stereo cabinet the FM used to monitor their air. But, where was the studio? I tried a couple doors that opened into empty offices. Nothing! Time was wasting. I felt like a cat-burglar. Had all the DJ’s, like Elvis, left the building? Maybe I could steal all those gold records and certificates of live remotes promoting something called a “Budweiser Beer Bash” proudly displayed on the office walls. What sort of Christian station allowed such vulgar trophies in the first place? In the mind of a conservatively raised 17 year old, Bud and Gospel Preaching did not mix. But, I digress.
All I knew at the time was that Gospel 90 and its 100,000 watt FM were sister stations in the same building. Obviously, the FM dominated the decor choices. Had my dad seen what I saw that day he would have turned tail and run. But our sponsor—Manning’s Discount Furniture—was counting on us to deliver a product. So, I resumed my search. It was one minute to show time when I discovered stairs leading down into a pit of ugly brown carpeting; both on the floors and the walls located inside a haphazardly constructed addition encased in cinder block and plywood. The place reeked of cigarette and God knows what other type smoke, both legal and not. To the right was the FM control room. In the middle was the “Production Room.” And to the left was my future work home, WEAS-AM, “Gospel 90.” The doors were unlabeled; my ears had to determine which studio to enter. I chose wisely.
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| The Former WEAS studio |
3, 2, 1, cue tape! Jesus is Lord was broadcast via 5,000 watts from the AM side. Our premiere went on without a second to spare—literally. Dennis; the DJ on duty, sighed relief as he politely waved me away returning to conversation with another visitor, presumably his wife. I was happy. Then I questioned, “How do I get out?”
My first misadventure with finding the studio behind me, I returned to thoughts of life after high school. I was wrapping up the 11th grade supposedly college bound needing some sort of diversion for the coming summer vacation. Driving home from one of our—probably last minute—tape delivery runs to the radio station that spring, my dad and I began listening to and critiquing WEAS-AM, Gospel 90.
We noted that the DJ was running a phone-in contest involving listeners guessing the number of eggs contained in his imaginary Easter basket. They would offer a guess then he played a self-voiced tape of a presumably randomly generated number. The DJ was prone to stammering and often at a loss of the right words that he delivered with a slight lisp. Knowing of this DJ’s skill with the English language my dad asked, “You think you could do that, Neal?” It was a loaded question for sure. I didn’t know whether to be honored or insulted. He obviously lacked the repartee of the FM DJ’s I was accustomed to. “I guess so,” I replied weakly. “Well, if you’re interested, then I can talk to the ‘acting’ station manager for you.”
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“If Neal wants the job, then it’s his,” the manager later phoned Daddy, “So I can [honestly] tell this other guy that the position’s filled.”
That May of 1983 she had listened to my voice-over introduction I had taped for the Jesus is Lord Broadcast and she claimed to like it. Retrospectively; rather than a golden voice, I was the cheaper button pusher alternative. The Easter Basket DJ trained me. Much of what he taught took me years to unlearn, especially apparent when I moved to the Atlanta market 3½ years later. Only the basic mechanics of radio were part of his dubious curriculum.
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| "New" WEAS Studio 1988 |
We became fast friends, though. Over the years we could talk shop for hours visiting each other at work alternately. I last saw him while touring the long overdue new studio facility in 1988 then considering a return to my original radio home. I never saw him or any of the AM jocks equal to our counterparts at our sister, E-93.
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Magic E-93, as it became known, was the consistent number one radio station year in and year out. Its music format appealed to the market’s predominant population featuring songs by the Gap Band, The O’Jays, James Brown, Marvin Gaye, The Commodores, and Prince, E-93 brought soul to all Savannians.
In those days prior to the invasion of Rap and Hip Hop, I actually listened—something I never did voluntarily of my own station. The initial appeal of working with Gospel 90—ironically, a mostly white Southern Gospel outfit—was that it shared quarters with a station I secretly tuned in at home.
I witnessed firsthand the likes of Elliot “E-Man” Neely, Don “Casanova B” Jones and “Stormin’ Norman” Wright weaving word tapestries of Funk, Rhythm and Blues. Seeing them doing their own thing in person was surreal for me. I was star-struck teenager peeking in their control room. Their uncanny knack for matching cadence with the music, blending its rhythms with the words they used was enlightening. It was almost like poetry. Rap “music”—a ghetto poets’ medium—seldom appealed to me; these jocks showcased soul music, which they loved. There was a vast talent deficit between the AM and the FM. Our respective worlds might have met occasionally—even collided—but, there was a vast gulf separating us; more than just a tiny production room.
Like the famous reveal in the Wizard of Oz, I eventually saw behind the curtain. But, that’s another story.
Stay tuned.
©2010 Neal Rhoden,Gospel Aircheck. All rights reserved.
