Radio Daze

In a recent column, I mentioned having once worked as a radio personality. Several people have since approached me to inquire about my time in that particular field. It’s something I rarely talk about, and for good reason. If the pinnacle of YOUR radio career occurred in Skowhegan, Maine, you wouldn’t talk about it either.

    My interest in radio began in the fall of 1992 when, while slinging Bye-Bye Bambi Burgers at the Road Kill Café, I unknowingly waited on the general manager of WHMX-FM, a 50,000 watt station in Lincoln, Maine. With the presidential election just weeks away, I’d recently begun incorporating impressions of political figures like Bill Clinton, Ross Perot, and George Bush into my waitering schtick. My myna bird ability apparently impressed because a week or so later I received an unexpected call from Mike Dow, WHMX’s program director. Mike asked if I’d like to come to the studio and record some station promos using my various impersonations. I answered with an enthusiastic yes and we recorded the bits a few days later. Thrilled by my good fortune, I told everyone I knew to listen for me on the station. To my astonishment, some peoplerefused to believe that the voices they heard were mine, so accurate had been my mimicry. For the first time in my life, I began to believe that I might actually possess at least a modicum of talent.

    My little taste of broadcasting left me wanting more. WHMX had no job openings but they kindly invited me to intern with their evening DJ—an offer I eagerly accepted. The position paidnothing but allowed me to learn a few basics and ultimately produce a demo tape. The demo completed, I called WTOS in Skowhegan and talked my way into an interview for 10:00 o’clock the following morning.

    From an early age, I’d been taught to “dress for success,” so I arrived for my interview wearing a double breasted suit and leather wingtip shoes. I could not possibly have looked more out of place. T-shirts and jeans all around. I learned later that the entire staff had initially mistaken me for a consultant. This was not a compliment.

    A receptionist led me to a cramped, wood paneled office where Bill Schissler, AKA “Dino” greeted me. He looked like the actor Paul Giamatti, if Paul Giamatti wore concert shirts and had all but given up on personal grooming.

    “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a metal folding chair against the wall. Piles of CDs, some as tall as two feet, crowdedhis desk and the floor beside it. The desk--what I could see of it, anyway--looked like something from a goodwill store. You’d never find his chair in a goodwill store, though, because no goodwill store would have accepted the thing.

    Dino looked my outfit up and down. “How was church?”

    “I skipped it to come here.”

    “You’re quick; I like that.”

    “Thanks.”

    “You know rock and roll?”

    “Sure,” I said.

    “Name the four members of Led Zeppelin.”

    My heart sank. “I don’t know it that well.”

    “No problem,” he said. “That’s what liner notes are for.”

    Dino reached for the boom box at the back of his desk and popped open the cassette deck.

    “Got a tape?”

    “Ye sir.” I pulled it from the inside pocket of my suit jacket and handed it over.

    He popped the tape into the boom box and pressed play.

    My demo had a run time of about three minutes. Dino listened to roughly half of it and pressed stop. He pursed his lips and bobbed his head in contemplation.

    “This, uh…this is not very good.” Then he said, “When can you start?”

I worked weekend overnights. The job proved not nearly as glamorous as I’d imagined, but it nevertheless impressed people. Friends and family were forever saying, “Wow! You work at WTOS? That must be so awesome!”

    “Yes,” I’d deadpan. “You wanna know what it’s like? Go home tonight and lock yourself in your closet from midnight until five. Talk to yourself non-stop. Listen to a bunch of CDs you don’t like. And for an added little touch of reality, have a bunch of drunk rednecks from Bingham call you ever three minutes requesting The Charlie Daniels Band.”

    “Frankly,” I’d tell them, “I’d rather cut brush.”

    Chatting with people had always come easily for me, so I expected that I’d thoroughly enjoy talking to radio callers. Not so much. One caller in particular drove me nuts. Mike from Augusta was his name. Mike called me every night, religiously—I’m talking five, six, seven times a shift—always asking the same thing: “Hey dude, can you play some Vince Gill? Hey dude, can you play some Vince Gill? Hey dude, can you play some Vince Gill?”

    Finally, one night I snapped and dialed star 69 and said, “Hey dude, can you listen to a different radio station? This is The Mountain of Pure Rock, not The Hill of Gill.”

    I learned quickly that Maine radio differs tremendously from radio in larger, more metropolitan markets. One of the biggest differences is this: when a disc jockey gives away stuff on the radio in Maine, it’s stuff that nobody wants. If you live in a place like Boston, you might hear a DJ say, “Be caller number five right now and score two backstage passes to see the Rolling Stones live tonight at TD Garden.”

    I was on the radio in Skowhegan saying stuff like, “Be caller number five right now and win two complimentary passes for the fourteenth annual Skowhegan Black Fly Festival…and qualify to win a case of Deep Woods Off, compliments of Big Ed’s Woodsman Supply in Corinna.” Caller number five? Yeah right. I’d sit there all night and wouldn’t even get caller number one. Finally, I’d call Mike in Augusta again. “Hey dude, you just won a bunch of crap.”