I Think I STILL Wanna Be A DJ
(NOTE: For context's sake, read "I Think I Wanna Be A DJ" first, as the following is part two)
I'm not really sure what I noticed about him first, as there was a lot to take in.
His tone suggested he was the man in charge, that things were nearly always black and white with no room for gray. It also suggested he knew what he was doing and had been doing it for a long, long time. All that, plus he genuinely seemed interested in me. As the words came from his mouth, I knew he meant every word he said. Yes, it was gruff at times, but still reassuring.
"I'll tell you what," he began, "You seem like an on-the-ball kid. You come in three afternoons a week after school, and I'll make you a professional radio announcer."
The best response I could muster was underwhelming at best. Mister Wilson had just made an offer that would change my life, and if I remember correctly, I responded "Uh, OK." I don't recall the rest of the conversation, but we, in essence, set-up an appointment for me to come down to the radio station and get acquainted with my future radio mentor.
It was the longest school day ever. I know for a fact that I wasn't paying attention in class that Monday in February. While the jocks discussed basketball, the girls talked about a movie they saw over the weekend, and I sat solely focussed on 2:45pm. That was the time I'd jump in my red Toyota pick-up, and drive 4 miles out Lower River Road. I do remember one conversation in school that day. One of my friends (whom I think was trying to invite me on a date) asked me what I was doing later that day. I told her I was driving out to KAJO to meet the station's owner. She uttered an "Oh, my grandma listens to that station," managed to throw me a very strange cross-eyed look, then turned and walked away. I didn't really think much of it then, other than I probably could have sold my date with destiny a little better.
"Hi hun, can I help you?" she asked.
I would quickly learn that Carol called everyone "hun." She was there at the front counter as I walked into the station.
"I'm here to meet Mister Wilson," I responded.
"Which one? she fired back.
Again, the intelligent responses were on rapid-fire. "Uh" was again the best I could do.
"Hang on, hun," Carol said as she picked up the phone. As I was waiting, I began to glance around the small lobby. A picture on the wall was the first clue in the case of "Which Wilson." In the center was an older man, flanked on each side by a younger man. Carol saw me looking at the picture and offered the rest of the story.
"That's Jim Wilson, the station's owner, and his two sons Carl and Matt," she said. "Carl is the General Manager, and Matt is the Sales Manager."
By my brilliant powers of deduction, I quickly realized that it was Jim Wilson I was to meet.
"I'll send him over," Carol said as she hung up the phone.
She pointed me in the direction of an adjoining mobile home. The heart of the station was a small brick building, and as the years went by, it was expanded, not by brick, but by trailer. A mobile home was connected to the back of the main building (which served as the sales office), and a second mobile home sat to the right of the main building (this was the home base of station management). I began my trek out the front door of the lobby, made a sharp left, walked a few steps, then up the stairs to the door of the brown house on wheels.
Mr. Wilson met me there at the door, and after a quick exchange of pleasantries, guided me into his office. In my mind, this was an interview, but as my first, I didn't know what to expect. I guess I did expect Mr. Wilson to ask me a few questions about my history, and was a little disappointed when he, apparently, was ready to get right to work. He handed me a piece of paper, and asked me to read it out loud.
"Portland," I began, then was abruptly cut-off. The elder broadcaster was leaning back in his chair laughing.
"No, don't read that," he corrected. "This is a piece of AP wire copy, and 'Portland' is the dateline, or where the story comes from. That's just for your information. You begin reading here."
He pointed to the second word, and I was off, stumbling my way through my first news stories. I'm not sure what was more nerve-wracking...me screwing up every other word, or Mr. Wilson sitting at his desk making notes at a feverish rate. I hadn't even made it through my second story when he flipped the page on his pad and began jotting down thoughts on a second, legal-sized page. After what seemed like all afternoon, I finally completed my task and put down the script. He was still finishing a few thoughts on paper. Then, he looked me in the eye.
"It looks like they failed you too," he said with a sigh.
The context of his statement wasn't immediately clear to me, so you can imagine the instant anguish pulsing through my body. Was I really that bad? Did I just blow my one shot at getting in the radio? Is he giving up on me? He didn't let me flounder there in the chair very long before coming to the rescue of my racing emotions.
"Schools today are missing the boat when it comes to teaching proper diction, grammar, and phonics," Wilson said. "I haven't met anyone in recent years who could write a proper sentence, let alone speak clearly. Looks like I'll have to teach you the basics."
The resigned laugh at the end of his sentence reassured me that he wasn't made at me. He was disappointed in the system. Mr. Wilson then told me that's all the time he had for our meeting. He looked at me in the eyes again before we went our separate ways.
"Are you willing to work hard for this?" he asked.
"Yes, I am," I answered confidently. Well, as confidently as a 17 year-old kid sitting next to a giant of a man could be. Mr. Wilson easily eclipsed 6'4" with shoulders as broad as a mule. He had garnered the nickname "Big Jim" not only due to his size, but to his disposition and stature in the community. He was in charge, and wasn't afraid to let you know. It's no coincidence I use "mule" to characterize his build, as it also adequately described his demeanor at times.
"I've always wanted to be a DJ," I continued.
With a rattler-like snap, his eyes bulged as he offered his first of many stern corrections. "No!" he nearly shouted. "A DJ plays music and come up with a clever line or two between songs. I'm teaching you to be a professional radio announcer. A professional radio announcer can do the job of a DJ plus read the news effectively and intelligently. A professional radio announcer is credible and is trusted by his community. As a professional radio announcer, you will stand out as one of the best in the business."
While these are likely not the exact words he said to me in that moment, the constant use of the phrase "professional radio announcer" is no exaggeration. He was in the business of being among the best. In a future conversation, he would tell me the reason he wanted me to work so hard. "People will like you," he told me. "They won't really know why. Sure, you're a nice kid, but the real reason they'll enjoy you is because they can clearly understand every word you say." He was referring to me learning everything I could about diction, enunciation, and good pacing.
I had no idea how to respond. I nodded my head in compliance, and he stood up and showed me to the door.
"See you Wednesday at 3," he said as I was leaving.
I remember saying, "Thank you, Mister Wilson."
"Just call me Jim," he responded.
On the truck ride home, I remember feeling intimated by the entire afternoon. Tomorrow morning, I would return to Grants Pass High School as a senior, back to all my classes and friends. But something would be different. Even though I was a high school student, I was also now Big Jim's student, and I had just made the deal responsible for the professional success I enjoy to this very day.
I'm not really sure what I noticed about him first, as there was a lot to take in.
His tone suggested he was the man in charge, that things were nearly always black and white with no room for gray. It also suggested he knew what he was doing and had been doing it for a long, long time. All that, plus he genuinely seemed interested in me. As the words came from his mouth, I knew he meant every word he said. Yes, it was gruff at times, but still reassuring.
"I'll tell you what," he began, "You seem like an on-the-ball kid. You come in three afternoons a week after school, and I'll make you a professional radio announcer."
The best response I could muster was underwhelming at best. Mister Wilson had just made an offer that would change my life, and if I remember correctly, I responded "Uh, OK." I don't recall the rest of the conversation, but we, in essence, set-up an appointment for me to come down to the radio station and get acquainted with my future radio mentor.
It was the longest school day ever. I know for a fact that I wasn't paying attention in class that Monday in February. While the jocks discussed basketball, the girls talked about a movie they saw over the weekend, and I sat solely focussed on 2:45pm. That was the time I'd jump in my red Toyota pick-up, and drive 4 miles out Lower River Road. I do remember one conversation in school that day. One of my friends (whom I think was trying to invite me on a date) asked me what I was doing later that day. I told her I was driving out to KAJO to meet the station's owner. She uttered an "Oh, my grandma listens to that station," managed to throw me a very strange cross-eyed look, then turned and walked away. I didn't really think much of it then, other than I probably could have sold my date with destiny a little better.
"Hi hun, can I help you?" she asked.
I would quickly learn that Carol called everyone "hun." She was there at the front counter as I walked into the station.
"I'm here to meet Mister Wilson," I responded.
"Which one? she fired back.
Again, the intelligent responses were on rapid-fire. "Uh" was again the best I could do.
"Hang on, hun," Carol said as she picked up the phone. As I was waiting, I began to glance around the small lobby. A picture on the wall was the first clue in the case of "Which Wilson." In the center was an older man, flanked on each side by a younger man. Carol saw me looking at the picture and offered the rest of the story.
"That's Jim Wilson, the station's owner, and his two sons Carl and Matt," she said. "Carl is the General Manager, and Matt is the Sales Manager."
By my brilliant powers of deduction, I quickly realized that it was Jim Wilson I was to meet.
"I'll send him over," Carol said as she hung up the phone.
She pointed me in the direction of an adjoining mobile home. The heart of the station was a small brick building, and as the years went by, it was expanded, not by brick, but by trailer. A mobile home was connected to the back of the main building (which served as the sales office), and a second mobile home sat to the right of the main building (this was the home base of station management). I began my trek out the front door of the lobby, made a sharp left, walked a few steps, then up the stairs to the door of the brown house on wheels.
Mr. Wilson met me there at the door, and after a quick exchange of pleasantries, guided me into his office. In my mind, this was an interview, but as my first, I didn't know what to expect. I guess I did expect Mr. Wilson to ask me a few questions about my history, and was a little disappointed when he, apparently, was ready to get right to work. He handed me a piece of paper, and asked me to read it out loud.
"Portland," I began, then was abruptly cut-off. The elder broadcaster was leaning back in his chair laughing.
"No, don't read that," he corrected. "This is a piece of AP wire copy, and 'Portland' is the dateline, or where the story comes from. That's just for your information. You begin reading here."
He pointed to the second word, and I was off, stumbling my way through my first news stories. I'm not sure what was more nerve-wracking...me screwing up every other word, or Mr. Wilson sitting at his desk making notes at a feverish rate. I hadn't even made it through my second story when he flipped the page on his pad and began jotting down thoughts on a second, legal-sized page. After what seemed like all afternoon, I finally completed my task and put down the script. He was still finishing a few thoughts on paper. Then, he looked me in the eye.
"It looks like they failed you too," he said with a sigh.
The context of his statement wasn't immediately clear to me, so you can imagine the instant anguish pulsing through my body. Was I really that bad? Did I just blow my one shot at getting in the radio? Is he giving up on me? He didn't let me flounder there in the chair very long before coming to the rescue of my racing emotions.
"Schools today are missing the boat when it comes to teaching proper diction, grammar, and phonics," Wilson said. "I haven't met anyone in recent years who could write a proper sentence, let alone speak clearly. Looks like I'll have to teach you the basics."
The resigned laugh at the end of his sentence reassured me that he wasn't made at me. He was disappointed in the system. Mr. Wilson then told me that's all the time he had for our meeting. He looked at me in the eyes again before we went our separate ways.
"Are you willing to work hard for this?" he asked.
"Yes, I am," I answered confidently. Well, as confidently as a 17 year-old kid sitting next to a giant of a man could be. Mr. Wilson easily eclipsed 6'4" with shoulders as broad as a mule. He had garnered the nickname "Big Jim" not only due to his size, but to his disposition and stature in the community. He was in charge, and wasn't afraid to let you know. It's no coincidence I use "mule" to characterize his build, as it also adequately described his demeanor at times.
"I've always wanted to be a DJ," I continued.
With a rattler-like snap, his eyes bulged as he offered his first of many stern corrections. "No!" he nearly shouted. "A DJ plays music and come up with a clever line or two between songs. I'm teaching you to be a professional radio announcer. A professional radio announcer can do the job of a DJ plus read the news effectively and intelligently. A professional radio announcer is credible and is trusted by his community. As a professional radio announcer, you will stand out as one of the best in the business."
While these are likely not the exact words he said to me in that moment, the constant use of the phrase "professional radio announcer" is no exaggeration. He was in the business of being among the best. In a future conversation, he would tell me the reason he wanted me to work so hard. "People will like you," he told me. "They won't really know why. Sure, you're a nice kid, but the real reason they'll enjoy you is because they can clearly understand every word you say." He was referring to me learning everything I could about diction, enunciation, and good pacing.
I had no idea how to respond. I nodded my head in compliance, and he stood up and showed me to the door.
"See you Wednesday at 3," he said as I was leaving.
I remember saying, "Thank you, Mister Wilson."
"Just call me Jim," he responded.
On the truck ride home, I remember feeling intimated by the entire afternoon. Tomorrow morning, I would return to Grants Pass High School as a senior, back to all my classes and friends. But something would be different. Even though I was a high school student, I was also now Big Jim's student, and I had just made the deal responsible for the professional success I enjoy to this very day.
Posted by Brian Calvert at Tuesday, June 29. 2010 
Categories: Radio, Journalism
Tags: Broadcasting Radio Writing Journalism
Categories: Radio, Journalism
Tags: Broadcasting Radio Writing Journalism
LOVED the story! Can't wait to read more, Brian.
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Great job, Brian! Just discovered your blog, and thoroughly enjoyed this post.
You did an incredible job of describing your first "interview" with Big Jim. My experience was almost identical. It was Spring of 1981, my Senior year. Big Jim stopped by our family restaurant, the Cave In, as he often did, for an ice cream cone. This time, Dad mentioned to him that I was getting ready to graduate from high school, that I wanted to be a DJ, and asked what kind of advice he would give me. Big Jim asked me a couple of questions, then told me a time to meet him out at KAJO. My first meeting with him in the trailer went down pretty much word for word like yours. (Except this was pre-Carol...Lori was the receptionist at that time.) Several training sessions in the trailer followed. ("It's not 'gIt', it's 'gEt'...let me hear the 'D' at the end of 'and'...there's no Q-sound in the middle of 'nuclear', it's pronounced the way it's spelled, say 'presidEnt', not 'presidUnt', etc.") I was given reams of old AP copy to take home and practice with. After graduation in June, when Big Jim was satisfied with my progress, he turned me loose on the Evening Serenade. What a life changing experience that was!
He was an amazing man. Truly larger than life, not only in stature, but in heart, personality and in his impact on the community. We are blessed to have had his influence in our lives!
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