RANDY RADIO by Randy Reynolds, 01-04-2019

Have you ever heard of a country radio station that played only love songs?  I confess (or should I apologize?) I did that.  WLBA. Gainesville, Georgia, late 1970s.

Have you ever heard of a morning show that was a combination of Oldies and humor from the friendly deejay, and real investigative reporting delivered by a fictitious character? Guilty. My split-personality co-starred in that show. KEZP-FM. Alexandria, Louisiana, late 1990's, early 2000's.

Can you believe that one station in a 13-station market was so loved that people listened to white noise on its frequency while it was off the air?  Yep. It's provable. It happened. Add that one to my resume'.  KNAN-FM. Monroe, Louisiana, 1982-1988.

I am thankful for the creative latitude I was given by the owners of those stations; for the talented co-workers who made every day such a stressful joy, (and, yes, 'stressful joy' is a thing); and for the audiences who gave us top-of-mind attention and gleefully participated in everything we did. 
            
(Below: a goofy but entirely true ad from KEZP-FM after a police chief tipped us off that the mayor we had been roasting for highly questionable activities had ordered an investigator to compile a dossier on my background in order to intimidate me into backing off.  We had a few laughs on the air and published our own Top Secret background file on me.)


LOCKED AND LOADED


by Randy Reynolds

The mayor pulled his gun, crouched behind his car door and yelled at the people in the car ahead of him, “Get out with your hands up! This is your mayor speaking!”

The mayor pointed a gun at people on many occasions, including at least once at city hall when he threatened a councilman.

Early in the mayor’s term, a city councilman who often voted against him was shot to death through the screen door of his motel—no robbery involved. The killer shot him down and left. Nobody was ever accused of that crime, but never again did a councilman stand up to the mayor. Whatever the mayor wanted, they voted for it unanimously. And when he spoke, the councilmen nodded non-stop like bobble-head dolls in the back window of a moving vehicle. On my morning radio show, I dubbed them “The bobbing-head city council.”

He ran roughshod over his police department, too. When he told a cop in the city parking lot to stop whistling, the cop disobeyed. “You just ended your career,” said the mayor, who subsequently had the sergeant fired. (No wonder cops and ex-cops became my best anonymous sources of stories about the mayor!)

He liked to prove to his policemen that he was tougher than they were, so he challenged them to impromptu wrestling matches behind the police department and beat all comers.

The mayor and his sons often tailed police officers through the night to make sure they were making their rounds. To prove this was happening, some off-duty cops took me with them and we tailed the mayor’s sons tailing the cops for more than four hours.

He required the police department to do a safety check of his property each night at 2 a.m. He called his home “The Eagle’s Nest” and the inspecting officer was expected to call in, “The Eagle’s Nest is secure.” If the mayor didn't hear this call at the expected hour on his bedside scanner, he'd get on the horn to the police department and berate the officer on duty.

Such antics from the gun-totin’ mayor were great fodder for my morning radio show (and occasionally for the front page of the newspaper.) But the cops warned me that he was a violent and dangerous man, and that I had better be prepared for a confrontation. When I tried to laugh this off, a prominent local businessman who was an ex-cop, brought me a handgun and told me to keep it with me at all times. An officer from a neighboring jurisdiction gave me some basic self-defense lessons because he was certain the mayor was going to take me down the next time he saw me.

I was handling all this in good-humor until the morning on the bridge when the mayor’s son pulled up beside me and pointed a pistol at me through his window. I pointed the borrowed Glock at him and he sped up and disappeared into the pre-dawn darkness. 

From then on, a “locked and loaded” routine was the opening of my morning show. My co-host and I would go through a checklist: “Headphones… check.” “Microphone …check.” “Oldies…check.” “Walther P22…check.” (Here we’d noisily shove in the clip.) “Glock 9…check.” (More noise.) “12-guage…check.” (We’d chamber a round right next to the mic.) “All right! We’re locked and loaded, let’s get this show on the road!”
That was just to let the mayor know we were ready.

When my co-host left on vacation, my father-in-law sat at the front desk each morning with a loaded shotgun. Just in case.

Though the verbal war stayed heated—me holding the mayor to account, the mayor insisting we were lying about him—no physical altercation occurred that year except for the mayor’s son kicking me in the shins at a banquet… someone slashing three of my car tires… and the mayor yelling at me outside a courtroom.

My show got a big boost in the ratings, the 7-term mayor was beaten in the next election, and—after an ad agency executive commented on the gun in my belt when she dropped in to visit the morning show—the station owner suggested we stop bringing guns to work.

A couple of years later when the Legislative Auditor made some untrue allegations about the ex-mayor, I came to his defense. Although I’m sure he never forgave me for exposing and ridiculing his foibles, and I certainly never turned my back when I was in the same room with him, on the air we carried on like long-lost friends.

Some folks didn’t understand how I could be so friendly to a character I had derided for being so bad, but that explanation was easy: I was just sticking with the truth wherever it led.

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WHEN NEWS IS COMEDY

by Randy Reynolds
Like Wolfman Jack eating a popsicle while his voice was going out over the airwaves in American Graffitti, I pre-recorded my voice in advance of the Randy Reynolds Show each morning in the late ‘90s and early 2000’s on Oldies 104. Unlike the Wolfman, though, I didn’t sit there eating popsicles while my pre-recorded voice was entertaining the audience. I used the recording as a second entity on the show—the cartridge-tape and I talked back and forth to each other.
I came in early each day, usually around 2 a.m., to write and record my imaginary character I.B. Flyin' in a wild voice with a Cajun accent. By showtime—6 a.m.—I’d have downed the first two of the ten pots of Community Coffee I would make each day.  (Most of it got cold in the cup as I got distracted by my show prep, so I threw out more than I drank, hence the ten POTS of coffee per day, 250 or more pots per month.  My boss, Mark Jones, may have paid for more coffee service than any business of equal size in the world; but, hey, it got him a TOTALLY-LOCAL crazy-funny most-talked-about highly-rated workaholic morning show that was easy to sell except for the occasional boycott or cancellation so he bore the expense gracefully. )


I.B. talked about real things--expose's that I got from tipsters and whistle blowers from all walks of life and from every level of government in Rapides Parish, especially my many close friends in the police departments of Alexandria, Pineville, and surrounding municipalities. Practically all my friends back then were cops. For reasons sometimes selfless, sometimes self-serving, they and my other sources flooded me with tips, many of which—the ones I could verify--ended up on the air.
I spent almost all my waking hours for several years verifying-- making sure that every word out of I.B.’s mouth was true, hence the 10 pots of coffee per day and the nights of writing till midnight and going to work two hours later to record our expose's as humorous skits.  

I started each report with a helicopter sound-effect, under the pretense that I.B. was my "traffic reporter" even though he never actually got around to doing any traffic reports. Then came I.B.'s trademark yell, "Aaaaiiiyyyiiieee! " and we went into our schtick and exposed another boondoggle… 5 days per week, 51 weeks per year, (52 weeks one year.)

A few examples: 
When the mayor says, "Alcohol has never touched my lips", I.B. says, "That's because he drinks it through a straw." And when the water pumps malfunction at a city water tower, I.B. jokes about it, says the tower is filled with Miller Lite and the mayor must be going there to drink because there's straws all over the ground. The mayor and city council then bestow legitimacy upon I.B. by passing (and publishing in the newspaper) an official resolution denying this cartoon character's "accusation" that the mayor has been drinking Miller Lite from the water tower with a straw!

Newspaper coverage of the city council's fight with I.B. causes our audience shares to grow. Advertising revenues for the station increase dramatically. And the phone starts ringing off the hook with people calling in news tips for I.B. Flyin'. Some are jokes, like the "bit" that started it all--a water-tower filled with Miller Lite. Other tips concern real issues that don't get reported by the timid local news media --or "news meteors" as I.B. calls them.

When four hard-partying off-duty Alexandria, Louisiana, cops on a beer-run drive their pickup onto a sidewalk and get out to beat up a small time drug user and then charge him with carjacking, assault, attempted murder of a police officer, and about 7 other things, I.B. has a field day! All the other "news meteors" buy the official story that an unarmed young man tried to carjack a vehicle with four cops in it. I.B.'s laughter (and commonsense) fuel so much public outrage that it's the police, not the accused carjacker, who get bound over for trial on assault charges. When the guilty verdict comes in, the whole courtroom explodes with applause, shouts and prayers. That young man would likely be in Angola State Penitentiary today if I.B. hadn't refused to bite on the official story.

In the I.B. voice, I announce 75 reasons why a 21 year old Leesville, Louisiana, murder suspect held for three years without a grand jury hearing could not have committed the gruesome crime he is accused of. The young man (Joey Hilton) is released from jail on Christmas Eve after a deal between I.B. and the District Attorney. The deal is simply for I.B. to "lay off" the D.A., (that is, stop making jokes about him,) and the D.A. will release Joey Hilton. (I.B. may have been the first cartoon character ever to make a deal with a real D.A. ) On Christmas Eve, 1998, after three years behind bars for a murder he didn't commit, Hilton is released. He and his mom come to the station and I interview them live on the morning show. It's the most emotional show I've ever been involved in...the kind of stuff 60 Minutes and 20/20 are famous for. What Joey and his mom really want is to meet I.B. Flyin' and thank him in person, but I tell them he's up in the chopper and will have to call them later.

When a state senator's daughter uses his office to run a pyramid scheme, when city government cuts and sells the timber on state-owned property, when a mayor's wife brokers a secret deal for the city to buy some church property at ten times the going rate, when the police chief's sons commit crimes, when the city council buys a fire engine that's too big to fit inside the fire station, when the city dams up a National Scenic Waterway to increase property values in a favored subdivision, when a city crew hooks up sewage pipes to a drinking-water main, when a mayor gets caught having sex in his office, and another mayor spies on his police department, and a cop's drug dog dies in a hot patrol car while the peace officer is having some afternoon delight, and two police horses get electrocuted because their riders take a coffee break and leave the horses tied to a metal light pole in a thunderstorm, when the school board and city spend millions on unnecessary "studies"...

I.B. blows the whistle on them. It sounds like comedy, but it's all true. As I.B. demonstrates every morning, News IS Comedy in Central Louisiana.

The types of things that I.B. fought with ridicule and laughter are happening in your town, too. But they aren't a part of anybody's official record. The kinds of things I.B. exposed usually go unrevealed and unpunished because, in most places, there is no investigative reporting, no public ombudsman to connect the dots. But, for a while, in Central Louisiana, there was.
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DEACON'S BLADE

by Randy Reynolds



5:45 a.m., my fingers hover near the mic button. I'm about to punch it and go live on the air to talk about the next song and to promote Shirley Q. Liquor, the nurse's aide who's going to tell us one of her funny stories--this one about the Holy Ghost Revival, Catfish-fry and Liquor Throwdown coming up at her church. I'm groovin' to the Al Green song that's about to end, when--suddenly--the worst thing that can be heard on a morning show fills my earphones....

.....silence!

I rip off the headset and lurch out of my chair yelling, "Crap! Not again!"  (I think I said 'Crap.' I'm not sure.)

I burst through the soundproof door to the other studio, startling the almost-naked man standing on a folding chair with his head above the frame of the drop-ceiling.

"Deacon, you did it again!"

The groggy d-j who, except for his baldness, is a dead ringer for Samuel L. Jackson, bends down from the crawl space and says, "Whassup?"

"You messed with the wiring again!" I yell. "You gotta quit doing this, man!"

Deacon, one of the best deejays I have ever worked with, waves an open switchblade. "Thought it was a snake."

"I told you there's not any snakes in that ceiling! There's nothing up there but wires!"

"I hid sumpin' up here. Lookin' for it. Saw a snake."

"You've got to quit hidin' stuff in the station, Deacon!"

"Sumpin' important. And I turned around and it was a snake."

"Why don't you go to the roof, man? Get ready for your space ship?"

Deacon becomes animated, nearly falls off the chair but catches  a loop of wire and steadies himself. "You seen it? You seen it, man? It's really there! Between two stars and gettin' bigger every night. It's comin', man!"

"Well, go wait for it then. And be careful climbing up the drain pipe."

"You comin', too, Randy? You a good man. You deserve to get out of this place."

"Yeah, I'll be there a little later."

"And I.B? And Plucker? And Mr. Winky? And Shirley Q. Liquor?"

In Deacon's state at this particular time, it would do no good to remind him that I.B. Flyin', Plucker and Mr. Winky are all just different versions of me--figments of my imagination presented on my show as separate individuals--and that Shirley Q. Liquor is an Internet comedian.

"You think there's enough room for all of us, Deacon?"

"I'll make room, man. You good folks. You deserve to escape."

"Thanks, man. We'll be there. But first you've got to get your clothes on."

"I forgot where I left 'em."

"Well, I'll help you look after I call the engineer to come see what you did. Now give me your knife before you fall and cut yourself."

"Nobody gets my blade, man." Deacon closes the switchblade against his pubic area and steps off the chair. "Nobody gets my blade."




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MAGIC

by Randy Reynolds 
On a spring night in 1986 Louisiana State Police get a strange call. There’s a traffic jam, a big one, on a remote stretch of highway in a sparsely-populated area between Lake D’Arbonne and Arkansas. There are only 3,000 people in the nearby town of Farmerville, Louisiana—but there are more people than that partying at the lake with a radio station from West Monroe.

For two days and one night during the Magic 106 “Weekend On The Lake,” Lake D’Arbonne seems more like a Florida beach during spring break than a lake in the woods in North Louisiana. The State Police send reinforcements to handle traffic.

Magic 106 is the station people listen to even when it’s off the air. (Before we pull the plug to install a new antenna and transmitter, we promise a free camcorder to the first person who calls when we go back on the air. Days later, the moment we resume broadcasting, the phones start ringing... proof that people were listening to our static--waiting for us to come back on the air-- rather than listening to our competition!)
We have a 1961 Pink Cadillac named Gertrude. “When you see Gertrude in traffic, if you roll down your window and yell, 'My radio sticks to 106!' the deejay driving Gertrude will give you $50.” Drivers follow Gertrude everywhere. Every time we take her out, it’s like a parade! People drive down the street trying to get our attention, leaning out their windows yelling, "My radio sticks to 106!"  

We send housewives, librarians, preacher’s wives and the like to rock concerts. We call it our “Wild Women’s Tour” and they eat it up.

We bring the rock group Cinderella to town just to have lunch with a girl who wins a Magic 106 contest. We get a gold record from 10,000 Maniacs for being the first station to play their hit “In My Tribe.” We’re the first station outside of Florida to play “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” and other stations nationwide follow our lead.

Even after I become General Manager, I continue my old job of programming the music for Magic 106. Unlike other stations, we play no slow songs. My secret formula, never before revealed: I play music to please one person--the lonely, bored housewife that my wife Sherry used to be when she would call me while I was on the air and beg me to "play something fast." Common wisdom was that "housewife music" was the smooth, slow, calming, middle-of-the-road stuff, but Sherry had taught me different. She'd say, "I feel so bad. Play something to get me going. Play Crocodile Rock." And I'd play one fast song after another. She said that always helped her through the day. So, all these years later, when I am in charge of KNAN's music, I select the songs we play based on how I think the 'old' Sherry would have responded. 


We play only the fastest, funnest dance tunes, the hot hits. No oldies! No soft stuff! We grab the listener, pick her up, squeeze her, shake her, never let her go. (Figuratively, of course.) Roger, the owner, hates it. He calls me into his office and berates me for playing “Oh, Sheila" (by Ready For The World) and says he never wants to hear anything like that on his station again. The next morning his wife and daughter come to the breakfast table singing “Oh, Sheila” and Roger comes to work and apologizes to me and never interferes with music selection again.

I convince him to subscribe to the ratings, which cost more than the salary of a fulltime employee. When he doesn’t see an immediate increase in advertising revenue, he calls me in for an ass-chewing. “We haven’t made one red cent from national advertising because of these ratings. I was stupid to take your advice and I promise you it won’t happen again.” At this moment—this very moment—our lovely red-haired secretary pops in and says, “Randy, Lay’s Potato Chips wants to buy some advertising. Do you want to call them back?” Roger never reins me in again.

When I’m spending $19,000 per month running his station, we're bringing in $40,000 in sales. When I spend $40,000 per month, we make $60,000. When I increase spending to $60,000 per month, our income rises to $165,000 per month.

January is the toughest month for selling ads. But, in consecutive Januarys, we bill $19,000, $42,000 and $126,000. These increases aren’t due to Monroe being a thriving, growing market, because it isn't. We succeed because of our creative ideas and winning attitudes –which are the main ingredients in the “magic” of Magic 106.

One of our January campaigns is “A Winning Attitude Is Magic,” in which we talk about business owners’ winning attitudes and then run their ads. “Joe Sixpack started with a wheelbarrow and two shovels and now he owns shops in six states….” Followed by, “Shop at Joe Sixpack’s store today for….” whatever. That one idea results in a 150% increase in business in one month.













I hire a country disk-jockey, Chuck Redden, for the morning show. He thinks he’s supposed to be laid-back, sophisticated on an Adult-Contemporary station. I tell him to be himself—act a fool. He does. Which makes him a phenomenon. Chuck can talk like Governor Edwin Edwards, writes a song about Edwards (“The Edwin Shuffle”) and we sell hundreds of copies of it on cassette. “The Edwin Shuffle” gets noticed as far away as Dallas. The Dallas Morning News does a story about it.


Imagine a little station in a converted laundry building in West Monroe, Louisiana, getting press coverage from the Dallas Morning News! Damn! Geez! What’s going on?

Our news guy Clifton Riley writes news that flows like poetry.

Clifton does a perfect imitation of Ronald Reagan. So does Steve Cannon, my midday host. Together, they become the Reagan brothers, pretending that Ronald Reagan is twins. They do hilarious spoofs of the bumbling old President.

Our night man, Paul Piro, sounds like a fire-and-brimstone preacher. We name him the Piro-maniac and he sets the night-time on fire with the highest ratings on the station--more than 40% in all age-groups.

Tom Ross (Tom Gombossy) is a Hungarian refugee with a Psychology degree from Louisiana Tech. I hire him as a deejay but he’s so good at making people like him that he drifts into sales and makes the transition from $6.00 an hour to (sometimes) hundreds of dollars an hour, from the slums to a big house in a fine subdivision in less than a year.

I first hire Tripper Lewis (Louis Lowentritt III) when he’s 17. The kid does superb production, runs a tight show and has incredible sales abilities. He does so many different things so well, I sometimes have trouble deciding which slot to use him in, but—one way or the other—I’m counting on him for the long-haul. The kid’s practically a genius. How could I go wrong with a genius? His one big drawback is insecurity—constantly asking if I’m going to fire him. Fire him? Hell, that’s the farthest thing from my mind. I’d never fire him in a million years. Except for the power of suggestion.... except he never lets up. Before I realize it, I'm thinking about it as much as he is so I have to fire him. Seven times in six years. However, I hire him eight times in those same six years and he’s still there when I get fired by new owners.

Although I’m GM and don’t have an air shift, I write and produce many of our commercials. (My record is 136 in one day.) (Steve did 35 that same day.)

We develop a “sharp angle” sales pitch in which our sales rep says, “Mr. Businessman, if I can get a commercial for you in the next five minutes that makes you laugh or gives you chill bumps, will you spend X amount of dollars with me next month?” To prove there’s no pre-recorded spot, we let the customer—not my sales rep—call and give me a few details. I write and produce the spot and call him back within five minutes. If he laughs or gets chill bumps, we get the sale. It never fails.

We’re good at selling our customers. We’re even better at selling OUR CUSTOMERS’ customers. Some examples, from one of our brochures at the time….

IDEAL APPLIANCE: “The remote we ran on 106 DOUBLED the largest day we ever had!” (Martin Thibodeaux)

ARCTIC SCOOP: “More than 1100 people came in and asked for our special IN ONE DAY, after 21 ads on Magic 106!” (Don Spatafore)

TRENTON HOUSE BRIDAL REGISTRY: “After 16 spots on Magic 106, over 700 people attended on Saturday, when normally about 40 come in!” (Martha Rogers)


SUBWAY SANDWICHES: “Our customer count increased by 125% when we did the remote with Magic 106. The following day doubled!” (Shane McOmber)

TWIN CITY HONDA: “Spending $2,000 per week on a Magic 106 promotion, we did over $415,000 of business 
in 4 weeks…doubly impressive since it occurred during and after the stock market crash.” (Lannie P. Henley)

No other station before or since has ever gotten results like this. Because no station was ever as exciting as Magic 106—the station people listened to even when it was off the air.

When I find out that Roger has secretly sold the station, after promising me throughout the past five years that he’d never do so, I tell him how disappointed I am. Then I get the biggest break of my life when Roger gets sued by some former employees, forcing him to postpone the sale until he settles the suit. He tells me if I’ll stay till the sale goes through, he’ll let me do everything my way. And he keeps that promise. He goes back to the tire business and I run the radio station. 

I do everything I ever wanted to do in radio—with billboards, giveaways, hot music, fun-loving deejays, commercials that are so good they’re part of the entertainment, not an interruption of it, huge promotions (like the afore-mentioned Weekend On The Lake.)

We toss 10,000 wooden nickels from our float in the Monroe Mardi Gras parade. The nickels are numbered and one is worth a new car, which we give away a week later at Pecanland Mall. The giant mall is swamped with Magic 106 listeners. There’s standing room only—barely breathing room—around the Magic 106 stage where we announce the winner of the car. There are so many people in attendance that mall merchants close their doors and lock their grates to keep our crowd from standing in their stores. The whole event is broadcast on live TV.

In the first ratings period after Roger has given me complete control of the station, something incredible happens: the ratings company (Birch Radio) refuses to release the survey on the announced date because one station’s ratings are so high they can’t believe it. They review the data, double-check with respondents, re-calculate and, finally, announce that Magic 106 has scored the highest ratings ever tabulated in a 12-station market: 37.2% .
















In those days—Chuck, Tom, Tripper, Steve, Clifton, The Piromaniac, me and (most of all) Sherry, who started with no accounts, making calls on her lunch break at her day job, and ended up outselling all the rest of the 13-station market COMBINED—walked on water. We were magic.





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http://reynoldswriter.blogspot.com/2015/09/country-love.html

COUNTRY LOVE

By Randy Reynolds 

















When four women bought a radio station in Gainesville, Georgia, in the late 1970’s, the local newspaper ran a story about how unusual this was. There was a lot of gossip about whether women would do such a thing on their own. Sure, other women owned radio stations inherited from a husband or father. But women going into the radio business for themselves? From scratch? In Gainesville? In the 1970’s? This was unheard of! Surely, according to the coffee-shop chatter, there was a man behind them.

Yes, there was. Me!




The four women and I were equal partners, with each of us owning 20%  of the station. 


I did the morning show, managed the station, helped with sales, handled the promotions and, of course, selected the music.

Aaah, the music.

We named the station “Country Love” and played only country hits and country oldies that had “love” in the title or in the lyrics of the song: no train songs, beer songs, prison songs, fighting songs, hound dog songs, death songs or other typical country fare. It was nothing but love songs. Country love songs.

How did that format sound?  Think "nonstop wedding reception at the Holiday Inn featuring elevator music with a country twang married to teenaged angst."  All day every day, every song we played was a song to...trigger the imagination; get mushy over; slow dance to.  Even by the Psychedelic '70s norm of turning on and tuning out, Country Love was weird. But popular.

A ratings service showed we were number one with women in the morning. My head swelled.

Actually, my head swelled in more ways than one: I went to the beauty shop and got an Afro (it was the 1970's, after all, and experimenting was in!) The Afro made my head look as big as a watermelon; and TWICE that size in one particular photo in which the flashbulb threw the shadow of my hair onto the sheetrock wall behind me, creating one gigantic Afro!





It was fun—being owned by four women; five, counting my green-eyed wife, who thought I was enjoying Country Love so much she decided to get into radio herself!When four women bought a radio station in Gainesville, Georgia, in the late 1970’s, the local newspaper ran a story about how unusual this was. There was a lot of gossip about whether women would do such a thing on their own. Sure, other women owned radio stations inherited from a husband or father. But women going into the radio business for themselves? From scratch? In Gainesville? In the 1970’s? This was unheard of! Surely, according to the coffee-shop chatter, there was a man behind them.

Yes, there was. Me!


The four women and I were equal partners, with each of us owning 20%  of the station. 

I did the morning show, managed the station, helped with sales, handled the promotions and, of course, selected the music.

Aaah, the music.

We named the station “Country Love” and played only country hits and country oldies that had “love” in the title or in the lyrics of the song: no train songs, beer songs, prison songs, fighting songs, hound dog songs, death songs or other typical country fare. It was nothing but love songs. Country love songs.

How did that format sound? 

Think "nonstop wedding reception at the Holiday Inn featuring elevator music with a country twang married to teenaged angst."  All day every day, every song we played was a song to...trigger the imagination; get mushy over; slow dance to.  Even by the Psychedelic '70s norm of turning on and tuning out, Country Love was weird. But popular.
A ratings service showed we were number one with women in the morning. My head swelled.

Actually, my head swelled in more ways than one: I went to the beauty shop and got an Afro (it was the 1970's, after all, and experimenting was in!) The Afro made my head look as big as a watermelon; and TWICE that size in one particular photo in which the flashbulb threw the shadow of my hair onto the sheetrock wall behind me, creating one gigantic Afro!

It was fun—being owned by four women; five, counting my green-eyed wife, who thought I was enjoying Country Love so much she decided to get into radio herself!

























More episodes of Randy Radio will be added from time to time.