My life was saved by Chico Alvarez, Stan Kenton’s great trumpeter. It goes like this. I had failed in my attempts to reclaim my KLAC gig after the army, and dropped down to San Diego where I successfully auditioned for a job at pre-Bartell KCBQ , and went to work nights 6p till Midnight. 

            I presided over dinner music, from 6p till 7p, and intro’d and outro’d four hours of middle of the road music, then drove home to Solana Beach, north of  San Diego.

 Two years in the army, then being rebuffed in Hollywood had slowed me down. I took the money, shut up, and did what they told me.

            It wasn’t like me to hold back. When I did, I was okay as a straight man. I had a basic network quality delivery that enabled me to get away with a straight style but it was not me, It compressed my free spirit, and put a perpetual frown on my face. I had seen other jocks, smothered by a format that didn’t fit their personality, wither and die spiritually. That wasn’t going to happen to me, if I could help it.

 I arranged with my easy-going PD to tape the fifth hour of my show, In this hour, I morphed into the real me that I knew and loved. Gags, shtick and more upbeat music. I even played  the forbidden Stan Kenton, which would have resulted in instant beheading had management known about it. Luckily, they were asleep at 11pm.

 On the way home one night, I had programmed Kenton’s “Peanut Vendor” midway into the hour, and was at the crest of US 101, Torrey Pines Road, north of La Jolla when it came on. First, the rhythmic vamp, then the multilayered brass ensemble that kept building into a climactic fortissimo blast..

There was no I-5 in those days. The highway north from San Diego  was U.S. 101, that  began above La Jolla, and snaked downhill on a  long and winding road to my home in Solana Beach. I cranked Kenton up full blast, as I began the descent into the valley south of Solana Beach.

I was fried, because accommodating two combating personalities in one mind is exhausting. This inner conflict caught up with me. Not even Kenton could keep me from sinking into a deep sleep.

Fully comatose, I drove toward a sharp turn in the road that would send me plummeting into a thousand foot crash into the wetland. In the grand climax  of “Peanut Vendor” Chico Alvarez’s wild trumpet stabbed into my  brain like a cattle prod, shocking me into an instant realization that I was prophetically and in actuality, nearing the end of the long and winding road. Chico was Gabriel trumpeting the end.

 I lunged at the brakes, which squealed  in unison with Chico’s trumpet.  His fortissimo finishing blast in “Peanut Vendor” ended simultaneously, in split second timing with the end of my long terrifying slide ….just yards from the precipice.

Years later, I met Chico on the street in L.A, told him that incredible story  and thanked him for saving my life. He had had a crash of his own. While reaching for a high note in “Intermission Riff,” he leaned back too far on an elevated bandstand, fell off, and broke his leg. His temporary replacement was Maynard Ferguson. Chico was not asked back..            .

Within a few days after my near death experience on Torrey Pines Road, Stan Norman the genial owner of KCBQ asked the staff to show up at the station meeting room. This sent a ripple of anxiety through the station. He had never called a meeting before so we figured no good could come of it And remember, I was depressed anyway, so I thought the worst.

It was early evening when we all assembled to see Stan Norman  in the front of the room standing with three men, whom he introduced  as the Bartell brothers, Gerald, Lee and David, all expensively dressed and smiling their best professional grin. For Gerald and David, that was a radiant smile. For Lee, it looked more like he had a gas pain.

 “Meet your new owners,” announced Stan.” I have sold the station, and they will take over immediately.” God help me, I thought.. I was back on the street again.

I had heard about them. They were rock operators who specialized in a high energy top 40 format, and if they had heard me doing 7p-10p, they would blow me out before I had a chance to holler, “Hey! Wait a minute. That’s not the real me!”

I always pray when I run out of moves. Short on time, I prayed the short version. “God help me!”

The meeting droned on with pleasantries back and forth between Stan Norman and the new owners, then Stan  told us how he had enjoyed being with us, thanked us for being a good staff, turned and went to the door.

Gerald interrupted his exit. “Thanks Stan, he said with a sardonic tone, “for the reasonable price on the station. Stan laughed, “Anytime, at those prices.” That was supposed to be a topper, but I later heard that the Bartells had bought KCBQ for $75,000.

Now it was Gerald’s turn to speak.   He was the president and spokesman of the family. His smile vanished while telling us that they had definite plans for how the station should go, a coded message for saying, “Some of you are toast.”

 “How many of you are familiar with rock and roll music?” he asked. I was the only one who raised his hand. Well I wasn’t  lying. I  had heard Elvis once or twice so I guessed that qualified me. He smiled on me. “Good,” he said, “That is what we will be playing.”

The “meeting” abruptly ended when Gerald Bartell strode toward the door without ceremony

I watched him exit, leaving an imperious wake, and was surprised to feel a hand tug at my shoulder as I turned to follow.

“I’m Lee Bartell,” he told me.  I’m going to be the manager here. Let’s talk.” 

“Uh oh, this is it,” I told myself.  I fought for survival. “Misterr Bartell,” I blurted out. “I have a good background in personality radio.“

I dropped  the KLAC  story on him and began to babble on when he smiled and interrupted. “Are you schizoid?” he asked. “What do you mean?” I blurted..

“My brothers and I came into town yesterday  We are still on Eastern time.  We heard you last night, You changed personality in the last hour of your show. Why was that?  I forced a laugh.   

           A Hare Radio Rule: If you are caught screwing around, try bravado. 

I frankly told him that I was not the straight man he had heard earlier and that I was really a personality jock who was giving management what they wanted from 7p till 10p, but that I was turning myself loose that last hour in order to keep my edge. I gave him the short version of getting out of the army and being rebuffed by KLAC and that I needed the job and was giving them….”

“What they wanted,” he interrupted. “I like the last hour guy, not the other one.” He said crisply. “Are you really that crazy?” he asked sincerely. “Crazier,” I replied, sincerely matching his sincerity.

He smiled broadly for the first time. “Great!” He pronounced. “You are the new morning man….only I want you crazier.”

I almost slumped into his arms. “Mister Bartell, I managed to choke out, “I am the craziest bastard you ever met.” .Lee smiled and said, “You are already hired.. Now, I want to know the truth.”  “Yes sir,” I said, hoping he meant it about being hired.

“What do you really know about rock?” he asked in a confidential tone like this is just between you and me. I was tempted to give him something profound like. 

“Countless eons ago, Mister Bartell, when the universe was pure energy,

mankind flew around the cosmos, a free spirit.

Then when the universe exploded (The Big Band Theory)

 he coalesced into primordial ooze,

 then in time, hardened into a rock (The Hard Rock Theory)

and finally, a sentient man.

This explains man’s love for rock, himself.” 

Instead I said, “Nothing, really.” That crucial moment bonded us. 

I inherited a 3 Hooper and took it to a 9 the first book. I felt at home, even though I  knew “nothing really” about rock and roll. Mechanically, it was the same thing I had always done: intro over the music and nail the post. I have been one of the best  post nailers ever, so it was no stretch.

It still wasn’t right. We needed  a programmer, and I knew just the man. Lee had grown to trust me, so I intercepted him in the hall, and asked if he had anyone in mind for PD. He frowned and said.” We have some candidates, but no one really satisfies me.”

I said, “I have just the guy for you.” I told him about Al Heacock, my army buddy, who knew as much about radio as anyone I knew, based on talking radio with him every day in the army.

.Lee always spoke in simple declarative sentences when he made a decision. Without skipping a beat, he said,” Call him.” He and Al hit it off, a relationship that lasted through the next five years at KCBQ, and the year at WADO in New York.

Lee brought me back when WADO folded, and used his juice to get Al a position running programming at WBZ in Boston.

Back in San Diego, I was greeted by a sensory overload of offers, including KLAC.   KLAC! Are they crazy?

I thank Lee Bartell, whose spirit is now flying around the cosmos, for giving me a wilder ride than the one on Torrey Pines Road, and for saving my life when he and his brothers bought KCBQ.