Radio

By Catherine Snodgrass

This is certainly a funny old world – you can think you know “all about a person,” and then suddenly you discover that he or she possesses a hidden talent which you never even dreamed of.

Now take Russ Walker, for instance. He’s been on WIL for a long time. We knew Russ had gone to college – had a flare for dramatics – been salesman, announcer, continuity writer, and what have you. We even knew his favorite melody, type of feminine beauty, and that he preferred grey suits and blue ties. Well, in fact, we thought we had that “six foot, two” young “he” man thoroughly catalogued.

Then one day a friend of mine remarked that she had read a poem by a Mr. Russell Walker of WIL. I immediately rushed for the station and accused Russ of holding out valuable information.

At first Russ denied the accusation then blushing like a bad little boy, very modestly owned up that he had endeavored to write a few verses, but that he didn’t know how to write good poetry.

Upon insistence he finally fished out of the bottom drawer of his desk a little brown leather book in which was stored some of his typed verses. Naturally, I borrowed that book, much to Russ’ disquietude.

The verses and poems are a credit to the young author, they reveal a love of the beauties of nature.

(Originally published in Radio & Entertainment 10/28/1933.)

By Meryl Friedel

If you’re statistically minded, here are a few numbers to keep you busy:

—To cool the 35,000 watt tubes that are used in the 50,000 watt KMOX transmitter, distilled water is circulated around the anodes (an anode is the plate of the tube) at the rate of 108,000 gallons each broadcast day, which makes 90 gallons a minute.

—To dissipate the heat absorbed by the water, it flows through mammoth radiators, through which four large fans force 18,000,000 cubic feet of cool air each broadcast day and that means 15,000 cubic feet per minute.

—The anode of each tube carries 17,000 volts.

—Each 35,000 watt tube costs $480 and a 50,000 watt radio station has to have eight of them. —1200 feet of messenger cable, of which 600 feet is in horizontal suspension, supports a 279 foot antenna between two 300 foot towers. One end of the messenger cable hangs free and is coupled to a 2700 pound block of concrete which acts as a counter balance to the combined stress exerted by the 279 foot vertical portion of the antenna and the 1200 foot messenger cable. The concrete block also takes care of the contraction and expansion and is a safety factor during all kinds of extreme variations of weather.

(This seems to have turned into a description of the physical mechanics of a radio station transmitter. As clearly as this simple layman can get it, the above towers, antenna, etcetera, are what actually send out sound on our prescribed airwaves.) But to get back to the statistics:

—342 miles of special telephone wires are used to broadcast KMOX programs that originate outside of the studios.

—5,068,000 watts of electrical energy are consumed each broadcast day by the KMOX 50,000 watt transmitter. That energy, if used to light a 60 watt bulb, the size generally used in homes, would light more than 91,088 such bulbs for an hour. Which gives you an idea of the electrical energy necessary for a radio station which is as powerful as is allowed in the country.

Not being a statistician, these figures have made us dizzy. Hope you have fun with them. Graham L. Tevis, KMOX Chief Engineer, is responsible for these facts, so you may be sure they’re both true and authoritative. Hope this has also answered some of your questions about what makes the wheels go ‘around in this thing called “radio.”

And if you’re still interested in statistics, why not try to figure out what you could do in your home if you had all this light, water, money and so on, to use? We’d like you to tell us what you figured out, if you do.

(Originally published in Radio & Entertainment 09/23/33.)

​Back in the days of radio’s infancy, every station used live musicians on the air. Technology changed all that, but the average listener isn’t aware of what happened during the transition. Here in St. Louis, all the stations had to make some changes in hiring, thanks to a man named Petrillo.

James Caesar Petrillo was elected president in 1922 of the American Musicians’ Union and then became president of the American Federation of Musicians in 1940. Within months of this second election, the nation went to war, but that didn’t stop him

His battle with broadcasters had begun in the mid-1920s. In an effort to discourage the frequent use of records by radio stations (a practice that meant no money for the musicians who recorded them), Petrillo pressured the stations to hire in-house musical groups. He later took a challenge to court saying the playing of recorded music on the radio violated copyrights, but that was thrown out by judge Learned Hand in 1940.

Cost cutting became a way of life for everyone during the war, and radio stations cut back on the use of their live musicians, occasionally bringing in amateur groups to perform. Petrillo put pressure on the stations and a new national contract was negotiated requiring the stations to keep a minimum number of hired musicians and pay the professional musicians even when amateurs were used.

This practice caught the eye of the federal government, and the F.C.C. passed the Lea Act, making it illegal “to threaten or compel a broadcaster to employ more persons than it needed…and pay for services not performed.” But as the war wound down, stations began introducing disc jockeys into their program mix, and that meant there was less need for musicians.

Here in St. Louis, a couple well-known singer/musicians made the transition with ease. Skeets Yaney and Roy Queen both got their own disc jockey shows. But most of the radio musicians were relative unknowns, especially those who didn’t sing. Petrillo had already laid the groundwork for their futures by pressuring stations to hire their former musicians to handle the technical end of record playing, making them platter spinners.

For many years, union radio stations had separate staffers, usually former studio musicians, who did nothing but set records on turntables, put the needle on the record, cue the record to the proper musical starting point, and activate the turntable when the announcer signaled.

As disc jockeys flourished, stations began to tout not only their personalities but also the depth of their record libraries. An article in the June 16, 1949 issue of the Globe-Democrat described KWK’s record library as “one of the most complete in the nation,” containing “11,000 single records and 700 albums.” Five people worked in the station’s music library, previewing every new record received to check “for any lyrics that might be offensive to listeners.” And since recording tape was not widely used at that time, commercials were also recorded on acetate discs. These were also filed and maintained by the record library staff.

The lower expense of a disc jockey playing records soon meant there was no need for live musicians on station payrolls, but a few stayed in various jobs at St. Louis stations well into the 1970s.

(Reprinted with permission of the St. Louis Journalism Review. Originally published 3/05)

For generations radio listeners have twisted their dials with renewed fervor in April when baseball season begins. It St. Louis for over a half-century, those dials were tuned to KMOX, but the Cardinals’ play-by-play has been heard on other stations here too.

St. Louis baseball was actually first heard on the radio in 1926 when the Cardinals were in the World Series. It was the club’s first appearance in the post-season classic, and play-by-play man Graham MacNamee’s voice was heard on a primitive network hookup originating at WEAF in New York and picked up in St. Louis on KSD. (A published report lists Lester Arthur Benson as the originator of baseball broadcasts in St. Louis, but there is no documentation to back this up.)

The next year Cardinals’ owner Sam Breadon granted permission for the team’s home games to be broadcast on the radio, and according to Curt Smith in the book “Voices of the Game,” Garnett Marks was the first local announcer to broadcast the Cardinals. The station was KMOX. It’s notable that Marks didn’t use his name during that first full season, instead calling himself “Rhino Bill” at the behest of his sponsor, Rhino Tire Stores. Midway through the season, his sponsor changed and so did his name, to Otto Buick.

KMOX didn’t have a monopoly on the broadcasts, but the station’s managing director, Thomas Patrick Convey, took credit for being the pioneer of local baseball broadcasts. The Globe-Democrat published an article in 1949 crediting Convey with originating “the first baseball broadcast from inside Sportsmen’s Park.”

The reality, in Convey’s own words in a letter written in May of 1929, was, “In March, 1926, as managing director of KMOX…I secured permission to install facilities in the press box…For two weeks in April, 1926, I sat in the press box and gave the scores, runs, hits and errors over the air. During the third and fourth weeks another employee of KMOX gave the score.

“…This broadcast was discontinued as the officials figured it was costing too much money.”

Over the years, announcers and stations changed:

Following the 1947 season, Breadon announced the creation of a six-station radio network for the next year, meaning outlying stations would be carrying the same broadcasts heard in St. Louis, sponsored by Griesedieck Brothers’ Brewery.

(Reprinted with permission of the St. Louis Journalism Review. Originally published April, 05. Original article updated 2022)

In the 1930s in St. Louis, every kid knew who Tom Dailey was. They knew him as that guy on the radio who was called “Kuzzin Tom.” Their parents knew him too. They’re the ones who took the kiddies to Crystal Room at the Chase Hotel, the site of KWK’s 10:30 Saturday morning broadcasts.

Globe-Democrat writer Edna Warren wrote a glowing feature about Dailey in January of 1938 (preferring the proper spelling of Kuzzin): “Twenty-six years old, handsome and smiling, Cousin Tom is as personable a young man as ever crooned into a microphone and set feminine hearts palpitating around the radio. Just why he should choose to devote his talents to the very young is one of those mysteries older sisters will never understand.” If she could have flashed ahead several years, she’d have found Cousin Tom appealing to a completely different audience – their mothers.

Tom Dailey began his radio career in Rockford, Illinois, right out of high school. At his next stop, Birmingham, he hosted his first radio kids’ show. By the time he got to St. Louis, he was a natural for the slot. The station soon boasted a Kiddie Klub membership of over 250 thousand from all over the Midwest, making his sponsor, Uncle Dick Slack of Slack’s Furniture, very happy.

For a man of 26, the show must have been the ultimate test of patience. Most of the entertainment, it seems, came from the kids’ performances. Many would sing, some played musical instruments, and others would recite, provided they weren’t overcome by stage fright. Warren’s article describes the performance of a youngster named Herbie, who “trotted up with all the sangfroid of three years to hold up his arms for Cousin Tom to lift him up to the mike and say hello to daddy.”

And KWK’s management never missed a chance to promote the popular host. They even sent out a press release on May 17, 1935, stating “Tom Dailey, member of the KWK staff and conductor of the very popular Kiddie Klub, is a firm believer in ‘realism.’ In his role as Kuzzin Tom of the Kiddie Klub he is in close contact with hundreds of children daily, and has developed a very popular children’s disease. Tom Dailey is confined to his home with the measles.”

Like the staff of the cult television hit “Remember WENN,” KWK employees were expected to wear many hats. Dailey was appointed to the position of chief announcer in 1936, did broadcasts that same year from Sportsman’s Park, was host of the nightly “Gentleman of the South” program and was involved in on-the-scene news accounts of southern Missouri floods in 1937.

It was truly an exciting time to be in radio. Each station had a stable of talent who quickly became celebrities. Some moved from city to city, lured by offers of better wages. A few moved from station to station within a market. A select few like Tom Dailey, moved away for better wages and then were brought back by their former employers. Nine years after leaving St. Louis, he was lured back by his old employer.

His second stint at KWK began in 1947 as host of an afternoon music show, also helping Johnny O’Hara with play-by-play duties for the St. Louis Browns. It wasn’t long before Dailey got the chance to become a big star with the adult audience.

Aimed directly at the area’s housewives, Tom Dailey’s “Recall It and Win” was a midday Monday through Saturday quiz show giving listeners at home a chance to win money. He became a huge star by simply helping his listeners enjoy themselves and play along with the show’s contestants.

The gist of Recall It and Win was simple: People were picked randomly from the phone book, called, and put on the air with Dailey, where they were asked to identify musical selections from Dailey’s collection of obscure recordings, some dating back as far as 20 years. Even if they guessed wrong, the magnanimous Dailey would mail them a dollar bill and a sample of Old Judge Coffee, one of his sponsors. Those who had the correct answers got more money and a chance to identify the mystery song, which was worth $100. It takes a quick-witted host to pull off a show like this, and Tom Dailey was the perfect choice. A studio audience was eventually added, and soon the show was booked solid several months in advance.

Columnist Ed Keath wrote in the March 25, 1951 Globe-Democrat: “Consistent good ratings on Tom’s show and others here show that radio can hold its own against TV.”

That said, the lure of TV, especially a co-owned station, soon put an end to the big radio show. Dailey took the show to KWK-TV in 1954 and later to KTVI. Tom Dailey’s son Terry was later heard in the market now as Frank O. Pinion’s sidekick. He was justifiably proud of his dad’s work as one of St. Louis’ premier radio announcers in the ‘30s, ‘40s and early ‘50s.

(Reprinted with permission of the St. Louis Journalism Review. Originally published 05/2005)

When Columbus Gregory first walked through the doors of KATZ in St. Louis, his only goal was to sing on the air. In the half-century that followed, he did a lot more.

Gregory had been raised in the South and had been assigned to Korea for his military service. While he was there he heard a friend talking about this Negro disc jockey in St. Louis who had become a major celebrity. When he rejoined civilian life, Gregory headed toward St. Louis to hear the man everyone called “Spider.”

Spider Burks was, indeed, a celebrity, spinning jazz records on the radio and making personal appearances at local clubs almost every night of the week. Columbus Gregory got a job with the railroad, and, in his spare time, began singing gospel with a local quartet called the Victory Airs. In conversations with other gospel singers, he became convinced that their groups would draw better crowds to their performances if listeners could hear them on the radio.

Gregory organized eight of the groups and arranged to buy a half-hour time block on KATZ every Sunday morning. Two groups would sing each week and every group would put $5.00 in the pot to cover the $40 weekly charge. The process worked, but, one-by-one, the groups dropped out, leaving Columbus Gregory with the contract to purchase the time.

The railroad job was not working out, but Gregory’s skills at packaging radio time and at entertaining were developing. In 1959 he got word that the station was looking for a man who can handle engineering work for disc jockey remotes and promotions for the station and he jumped at the chance. Soon he found himself in local grocery stores during the day, promoting products advertised on KATZ, followed by late night work at local clubs supporting the DJs. It was a seven-day-a-week job.

“I did that for three years, “says Gregory. “I was Dave Dixon’s engineer at night. George Logan did some Saturday afternoon things and I was called in to do all his remotes. When Dave Dixon passed, his brother Jerome took over and I was his engineer. I was Spider Burks’ engineer over at the Blue Note Club. In 1963 I decided to try to become an announcer.”

It was a logical goal because the life of an engineer wasn’t particularly glamorous. “Back then we were playing 45s and lps and I had a remote mixer. I’d always sit in the store room of the club and they had a microphone in the front for the disc jockey. I had to work off their cues. Dave Dixon’s vocal cue was ‘Night Beat Down Rhythm Street.’ When I heard the word ‘street’ I let the record go.”

Things were different in those days, according to Columbus Gregory. “The radio announcers today aren’t nearly as popular as they were back then. In the ‘50s and ‘60s in the Black community, if a person wore a military uniform, they were looked up to as really being somebody special. Radio announcers then were held in the same high regard.

“Today’s disc jockeys are searching for popularity. Back then, they weren’t searching for it. They were popular just being themselves.”
Gregory has worked with many disc jockeys over the years, but his most fond memories are of Dave Dixon. “Dave was a real guy. He wasn’t phony. If you weren’t doing your job, he’d tell you, and that’s the way to help a person. You don’t help a person by telling him ‘Oh yeah. You’re doing great. You’re great.’ “Dave would take time to tell me how to do things better, and that made me a better engineer. He was one of the nicest guys I worked with.”

In 1963, Columbus Gregory went to KXLW as a gospel announcer. GM Richard Miller doubled his salary to bring him over. Before he knew it, Gregory was holding down a six-hour shift Monday through Friday mornings. “I always included the audience in the program. I’d even take requests from callers and let the callers talk on the air. Richard Miller loved that.”

KXLW played secular music as well as gospel, and Columbus Gregory says Miller really had a knack for getting the best talent. Guys like George Logan, Jimmy Bishop and Steve Byrd were on KXLW, but one day, they were all gone. A forward thinking programmer by the name of Bernie Hayes had hired all of them away to go to work on KWK.

In response, KXLW went gospel full time, and Gregory was appointed program director. “I brought in Leonard Morris, Louis Bates and Hosea Gales. That was back in 1968. I was with Richard from 1963 to 1979, even though I began working on WGNU-FM full-time in 1976. I’d do an hour or so at sign-on for Richard before going to the WGNU studio in Granite City.

“WGNU-FM had a lot of gospel music that I had overlooked. It had string sections and bands and I said ‘Wow!’ I was on from 10 – 2 Monday through Friday, and I had people calling the station to buy advertising time.”
He later worked for over 25 years as a gospel music on disc jockey on KIRL.

Columbus Gregory’s quest to minister through gospel music on the radio kept him on the air well past the standard retirement age of 65, and he prided himself in the fact that people who listened could never tell how old he was.

(Reprinted with permission of the St. Louis Journalism Review. Originally published 6/05)