FM BLAH, Enoch Light, and that big band sound

The other evening I was flipping around the TV channels and came across one of those fundraisers for public television. For whatever reason, the powers-that-be in public television always trot out the worst kinds programs for their membership drives. That evening’s feature presentation was a two-hour “look back” at the history of big band music. All of the usual heavy-hitters were on board–Duke Ellington, Harry James, Benny Goodman. I didn’t bother to watch but was pretty sure that the program would omit a certain name from the proceedings–the name, Enoch  Light.

  If Enoch Light doesn’t sound familiar to you, you’re not alone. I imagine only diehard fans of big band or popular 20th century music have any firsthand experience with the late maestro. Light  became known for his fascination with mastering  “stereophonic sound,” and was the owner of  Command Records, an early 1960s record label that specialized in a type of lounge lizard music that mistook velvet robes, light dimmers, and round beds with being cool.

Light started out as a violinist who went on to form his band, The Light Brigade, in the 1940s. The Light  Brigade covered numerous hits of the big band era–Begin the Beguine, Satin Doll, Chattanooga Choo Choo– but any legitimate comparisons between Light and the major  artists of the era pretty much end there. At least they do for me, thanks to my experiences as a DJ at a college radio station.

 I had already worked in radio for a little over a year when I got the part-time job at the station. I had learned the hard way that no matter how made-for-radio your voice, you didn’t just walk into the local FM rock station and get a job. Dues-paying was a requirement. In my case, that entailed driving approximately 25 miles at 4:30 A.M. on Sundays to sign on a small town Mom and Pop country music station. Although I had some memorable and unique experiences there, when I got the chance to work at  the college station–it was FM for crying out loud–I couldn’t wait to get started. The way I looked at it, I had paid my dues trying to sound enthusiastic as I introduced cringe-inducing songs by The Oak Ridge Boys and Barbara Mandrell. I was more than ready to share my passion for rock and roll, for Bob Dylan and Chrissie Hynde and Lou Reed with, well, not the world, but at least the 20 people who listened to the station.

But that didn’t happen. Oh, no, it did not. The free form style (meaning the disc jockeys played whatever music they wanted) of my college radio dreams had been dumped. And there was more bad news: Some mean ol’ administrators had wrested control of the station from the students. There was to be no Dylan or Hynde.  No old rock and roll or new “alternative”  music.  Instead, Enoch Light and his Light Brigade were coming.  Big band was the station’s new dominant format.

The students were understandably angry. They staged a protest. Meetings with university higher-ups. They managed to wrangle two late night hours (11 to 1 A.M., Monday through Friday), devoted to the rock or “alternative” music of their choice, but that was all. The few remaining hours not consigned to big band would be filled by canned classical music programs.   

By the time I started my 9am to noon shift, the protests were over and gloomy expressions of defeat and bitter acceptance were plastered across the faces of the student staff. Haggling over the coveted late night slots had already started.  Being a newcomer, I knew my chances of getting any of those shifts were nil, at least for a while. Queue up Enoch Light.

I went in an hour and a half early for my first shift. I wanted to check out the big band library (most of which was newly acquired) and get an idea of just what I would be dealing with. It didn’t take long to find out.

The station’s rock music albums lined the tops of two long shelves that sat against the front and back walls of the studio. The shelves were filled to capacity, with newer albums piling up on the floor beneath.

“Where are the big band albums,” I asked. Mitch, the morning DJ,  hunched over the control board. Having signed on the station at 6 A.M.,  he had subsequently managed to endure three rousing hours of “light classical” (let’s put it this way, Pachelbel’s Canon in D was in heavy rotation).

Without raising his head, Mitch pointed.

“Over there.”

 I turned around and saw a small stand-alone bookcase.  I counted about  forty albums inside.

“This is it? How am I going to fill three hours?”

“Beats me,” said Mitch.

I took a record out of its sleeve. Jackie Gleason Presents: Music for Lovers Only. 

Mitch continued to be helpful. “You can only play the songs that are checked.”

I read over the album’s song list. My Funny Valentine. Check. In the Mood for Love. Check. Jealous. Check. Three songs out of ten. For unknown reasons, Body and Soul and I’m Thru with Love didn’t measure up.

I began flipping through the other albums on the shelf. 101 Strings Orchestra. The Ray Coniff  Singers (wow, I could play all the songs on their album). Perry Como. I picked up another record. I didn’t know much about big band music, but I knew that  Andy Williams’ Sings Steve Allen wasn’t it.

“Who picked this stuff?”

“Dunno. Some guy on the board.”

Who had probably bought most of it at a local garage sale. I could see some young homeowner trying to get rid of his musically disinclined parents old  record collection.

I checked the program “clock,” which instructed me at which points to play music, give the weather report and make various promotional announcements. Most of the songs on the “approved list” were no longer than two and a-half minutes. I was going to be busy.

About halfway through my shift, as I started growing used to the rhythm, so to speak, of my job’s demands, I was able to actually listen and pay attention to some of the dreck coming out of the speakers. Very little of this music came anywhere near qualifying as big band. There was no Artie Shaw or Woody Herman. No Ella Fitzgerald and Chick Webb. To be fair, there was one Duke Ellington album but the record was in such poor condition that it gave the needle something akin to a bad case of the hiccups when any of the DJs tried to play it.*  The sound of these faux big band records was flat, soulless, and completely devoid of the swing which defined much of the genre’s style. Foisting Enoch Light’s version of One O’Clock Jump on the listening audience when we should have played the Count Basie original was no different from decades previous when early rock and roll audiences craved Little Richard but were instead tortured with Pat Boone. To further mix musical metaphors, Enoch Light and the Light Brigade were the Stars on 45 of the big band era minus the aerobics class.

As ticked off as my co-workers and I were at the absurdity of forcing this kind of crap on a student-based audience, what really angers me when I think back on this time was the complete lack of concern or passion on the part of the administration for any kind of real authenticity in the music. I mean if you’re going to change it up, do it right. Give people the real deal not some puerile imitation. When I come over to your house for Christmas dinner, I want roasted turkey and homemade dressing not some Swanson’s TV tin.

When the powers-that-be at FM BLAH ordered students to play faux big band music instead of the artists genuinely affiliated with the genre, they were not only sending a message that taking the cheap, easy way out was okay, they were teaching the students that artistry and originality don’t matter, that it’s okay to insult your audience and make fools of your employees.

 Still, being that we were kids hungry for radio experience, we had to take what we could get, so we logged our hours and honed our skills, and as a result, many of us went on to find jobs in professional broadcast media.  But between our shifts as college DJs, a group of us often fantasized about meeting at the station in the middle of the night,  rounding up all the “big band” records, and carting  them out to the beach of a popular nearby lake. Once there we would toss back a beer or two, say a few words and bury those vile discs of acetate in the sand. However, since none of us was radical enough to be willing to go to jail for artistic freedom (not even close), we satisfied ourselves instead by occasionally queuing up Led Zeppelin II and  dropping the needle onto the opening riffs of Whole Lot of Love. By the time Dave, the station manager–in full panic mode–arrived in the on-air studio, the Romantic Strings and their version of Polka Dots and  Moonbeams were safely revolving on the turntable, Led Zeppelin nowhere in sight–or ear shot. 

(Wonder if Dave ever had to see a therapist?)

*To those of my readers (if there are any) who have never played a vinyl recording on a turntable, I realize some of the terminology–needle, for example–may be unfamiliar.  If you’re at all interested, this might help: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Record_player