Just Tuning In
When Jerry Williams brought talk radio to Boston in 1957, it was comment and controversy” from the start. Even at its beginnings, the power of the new format was undeniable.
THE STUDIO AUDIENCE AT 70 Brookline Avenue in Boston saw this: down in front of rows of uncomfortable chairs, host Jerry Williams at one end of a splinter-ridden table, dressed in a very sharp suit with a very nice tie, a pair of ugly black headphones wrapped around his carefully groomed hair. On the table, an old Graham McNamee-era RCA microphone for him, a little worse for wear, a couple of other mics for his guests, a little audio board, and, to start with, just one black telephone in front of him.
Jerry prepped them before the show. Don't applaud, don't ask questions. Only he could hear what people on the phone were saying, but audience members who wanted to listen in could take turns with a set of black plastic headphones, hard as little round rocks, available at the far end of the table.
He was always amazed at the crowd that showed up, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Who would come in from the night to watch a guy talk to people and answer the phone? People would wander in and out during the broadcast. They'd stare at him as if he were an exhibit in the Museum of Radio. Sometimes he felt a little apprehensive. What would prevent some nut from coming in and taking a swing at him?
Each show began with a stentorian warning: "The views and opinions expressed on the following program do not necessarily constitute the views and opinions of the management or its sponsors. It's time for the new Jerry Williams show, for comment and controversy."
In those first few shows in 1957, he did little setup monologues, using stuff from the many newspapers he read every day, to introduce himself and the concept. The rest of its broadcast day, WMEX pumped out Top 40 pop music. Jerry tried to chase the rock 'n' rollers away, or at least to weed out the ones who couldn't think. He'd have guests a couple of times a week – nobody special quite yet. And every night he'd say, "Let's open our phone lines now and take some of your calls and comments on the new WMEX."
Taking a call was more than just picking up the phone. He had to throw a couple of switches and coordinate with the engineer-producer up in the booth. And there was a Moment of Truth. He'd listen to a caller's voice and make a split-second decision about whether or not there was any point in putting the person on the air.
He got to know the voices of kids or pranksters in half a heartbeat. "Don't waste your time, sonny! Next call!" He'd bang the receiver down, wait a beat for it to ring again, pick it up, and say "Jerry Williams. Hello!" Sometimes this would happen two or three times before he'd bring up the volume. Then the game would begin.
"Jerry!"
"Yes. You're on the air."
He almost immediately put an edge on his voice. The caller had to know that this was showtime, and there was no room for hesitation.
"Jerry!"
"Go right ahead."
"Jerry! I can't hear myself."
"We're using a delaying system, sir."
When he said "sir," everyone could hear his annoyance. "You'll have to turn down the radio. You're not going to hear your own voice. Just go right ahead."
"Oh. Well, just a minute."
This stuff drove him crazy. He wanted to get to the substance, what the person called about. He'd fill time waiting for the person to get back to the phone: "You're on the new WMEX in Boston, 1510, Commonwealth 6-2525 is the number."
"Jerry! I want to say somethin' about this plan to tear down all them West End apartment buildings."
WHEN HE FINALLY GOT SOMEONE WITH something to say, a different kind of game would start. He'd ask questions to get a feel for the person on the other end: Where do you work, sir? Do you have kids at home, ma'am? Do you live in the West End yourself?
He could prompt, probe, prod. And if nothing was happening, he could wipe the slate clean with "Next call!" Then the bang of plastic on plastic. Then, "Jerry Williams. Hello!"
Listeners could hear him hang up. The receiver would clatter into its cradle 15 or 20 times a night. The noise became a signature sound. He learned to make it loud or soft, as a punctuation mark at the end of a call, a sound effect that added to the drama.
Almost from the start, he wasn't polite or impartial. Instead of The Jerry Williams Show, the words "Comment and Controversy" appeared on the station's official log. Jerry also occasionally called it "New England's Town Meeting of the Air." He wanted people to understand that this was a place where regular people could have their say and their fellow citizens could listen. It would be noisy at times, like a real town meeting, but something worthwhile would come out of it.
When he agreed with a caller, he often rephrased his or her words more eloquently as a way of moving the conversation ahead. When he disagreed with someone, he gave the person a hard time – often much more than the caller had bargained for. A lot of people couldn't believe how tough he was. He wasn't a nice man at all. They called the station and complained. Others saw him as a progressive crusader, and they began to call the station to comment on his importance, to thank the station's owner for bringing him to Boston, to say how much the city needed him. His audience began to divide into partisans: people who loved him and people who hated him.
At 1 a.m., three hours after the station disclaimer, Jerry would wrap it up. "Good night. Good luck. Good morning." Then there'd be that same ominous voice, closing the door: "The views and opinions expressed on the preceding program did not necessarily constitute the views and opinions of the management or its sponsors." And WMEX would sign off for the night.
Excerpted from Burning Up the Air: Jerry Williams, Talk Radio, and the Life in Between (2008, Commonwealth Editions), by Steve Elman and Alan Tolz. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.
