Free FM by Richard Neer Page B

be unprofitable requirements that detracted from their main goals. But perhaps the real reason lay in the simple law of supply and demand. The cash cow AM stations might be devalued by an influx of FM outlets, especially if it meant new competitors who would eat into AM profit shares. Many companies petitioned the commission for waivers, but the only thing that accomplished was to postpone the start date of the new dictum from July 1, 1965, to January 1, 1967.
    Again, imagine the businessman of today, faced with a deadline for introducing a new product, realizing that his competitors were under the same time constraints. One would think that enterprising broadcasters would race to get there first, establishing their product in the audience’s consciousness before their rivals. But most companies lingered until the very last minute and even
then
their attitude was similar to the mom-and-pop operators: Put out a cut-rate product showcasing their AM talent in prime listening hours, while consigning the rest of the day to cheaply produced filler. After all, weren’t all the good format ideas already taken?
    The answer might lay in the antiformat: free-form radio. A revolutionary idea, but by 1966 America was ready for a revolution.

Meet the New Boss
    An unwitting contributor to this cataclysmic shift away from AM was WABC radio king Rick Sklar, whose tight format and unrelenting promotions were starting to be out of step with the changing times. With the Beatles leading the British Invasion, America was liberated from the pop confections of the early sixties. The movement spawned an awareness of challenging musical innovations that couldn’t be heard on conventional radio. Scott Muni saw this happening and was increasingly at odds with Sklar on how to better serve the still substantial WABC following.
    Scottso had always been a big fan of music. At age fifteen, he had wangled his way into a Fats Domino recording session. He watched in awe as the producer explained to Domino how the song went, since no one there read music. He hummed the melody and patiently mapped out the phrasing.
    “You made . . . me cry . . . when you said . . . good-bye . . .”
    He then talked to the sax player about how to play the instrumental bridge. Take after take, they rehearsed until they were able to perform the song flawlessly. There were no multitrack recorders in studios then; the musicians all sang and played into one central microphone. The slightest mistake by any of the players meant the whole song had to be rerecorded, unless it happened at a spot where an undetectable tape splice could be made. There was a bottle on the floor that the musicians passed around occasionally, a fringe benefit to the twenty-dollar session fee they each received. “Ain’t That a Shame” became a huge hit, and Muni felt that he’d witnessed history.
    In any case, he was hooked on rock and roll music, quite unlike the sentiment he attributed to his boss. Muni thought that if polka music suddenly became fashionable, Sklar would be equally comfortable programming it.
    Tensions escalated between the two men, and things came to a head when Sklar accused Muni, in front of his peers, of receiving payola. On that Tuesday in the spring of 1964, Muni came to the now pro forma music meeting excited by a new record. It was the latest single from his friend Frankie Valli, whose group was one of the few American bands to stay on top through the British onslaught. The Four Seasons, led by Valli’s soaring falsetto leads, retained the flavor of the old doo-wops, while incorporating more inventive production techniques. But this one was a little different: plodding, almost dirgelike, and very slow getting to the hook. It was called “Rag Doll.”
    Only Muni realized that the song was special and submitted it for approval at the music meeting. But now his boss was implying that the only people who would appreciate “Rag Doll” were those who had a financial stake in it.