It was 40 years ago, yesterday, when Robert F. Kennedy died. The night before he was at the Ambassador Hotel in downtown L.A. RFK and his supporters were there to celebrate his victory in California's primary. Jim Mitchell (left) was KHJ Radio's 25-year-old news director. He lives in Fort Collins, Colorado now. (Mitchell went on be a TV news anchor, attorney, taught journalism law at Arizona and had his first novel published in 2002). I recently asked him to recall what happened during those historic 24 hours:
"Everyone was on duty for the June 4, 1968 election results. I arrived at the hotel just after midnight. RFK had left the stage and began to walk through the kitchen pantry," Mitchell says. "Suddenly there was screaming. A crowd had gathered when I arrived. Word drifted out: He'd been shot. An ambulance screamed off to Central Receiving, a few blocks away. I followed them in a KHJ 20/20 News Cruiser. I saw Kennedy's face and I thought he was dead. Then to another hospital where brain surgeons were standing by. Our news staff staked out the place, one reporter replacing another, until the morning of June 6. Word came: Robert F. Kennedy was dead. The Democrats were doomed. Nixon would be president. How could I predict what a pivotal moment in U. S. history this would be?"
Most of us loved Bobby like we had loved his murdered brother, Jack, "our" president. I was at KMAK, Fresno, when JFK was killed. There was no "format" for what to do. The same was true in 1968. RFK's California campaign headquarters were across Melrose Ave. at Lucy's El Adobe, one of our hangouts. Bobby truly did have "an aura about him." It was snuffed out that night four decades ago in "Boss Angeles." Mitchell's small but tough news crew won awards for their coverage of the murder; it was of little consolation. Nothing was the same from that day on.
Dion, leader of the Belmonts, wrote the anthem that became a #1 hit on KHJ and across the country. He asked, "Anybody here seen my old friend Bobby? Can you tell me where he's gone? I thought I saw him walkin' up over the hill, with Abraham, Martin and John." The Viet Nam war escalated, race riots raged, Watergate happened. Nothing would ever be the same in our lifetime.
The photo on the left is one of the last pictures taken in Senator Robert F. Kennedy's lifetime. There he is, at the podium of the Ambassador ballroom, in a room full of ecstatic supporters. He won the Big One and was on his way. His wife, Ethel, is at his right. And there, in the black horn-rimmed glasses, holding the mike is L.A. radio reporter Andy West. He was covering the event for a small station outside of town.
All this happened before there were cell phones, laptops, video cameras, cable news networks, satellite coverage. All that remains is grim, grisly black and white footage of Kennedy's body lying in a pool of his own blood. Blurred hands and arms push others forward or away. RJK's crew that night included athletes Roosevelt Grier and Rafer Johnson. We see it now in endless replays that evoke the horror. And we hear a voice yelling, "Rafer, grab the gun!"
The voice belonged to Andy West, who had followed Bobby into the pantry. I first heard that voice in 1959. Back then he was known as "Jumpin' George" West, original Poi Boy at Hawaii's first Top 40 station, KPOI. I hired him as midday DJ, a few years after he arrived from Kansas City. West did OK on the air. His personal life was another story. Back in those days there were no high rise condos on Ala Wai Boulevard, where the station was. Only a few cottages amidst the hale koa. It was a day when West didn't show. He was shacked up in back of KPOI, or some such scene. It got freaky when I confronted him, and ended with his chasing me with what seemed to be a gun. He didn't fire. I fired him.
It's 1963. I'm the programming VP for our small station group. My dream had come true, I was in the big time, Hollywood, hiring a staff for our new station. But it was in a small time area, San Bernardino. The "talent pool" was the deejays, out of work, most of whom hung out at the Gaiety Deli on Vine Street. In the group? You guessed it: West, now calling himself Andy.
I was young, desperate and naive. He talked me into a second chance. And so it was that West and I joined forces at KMEN. This turned out to be nothing but a blockhouse in a muddy cow pasture on Baseline Avenue, Southern California drab. Waikiki this was not. We ran the drill that worked at KPOI. Jocks were the KMEN. In the noon slot was West. He did OK on the air and the station also shot to #1. Not more than a year had passed when a farmer, in overalls, stormed into the lobby. Carrying a shotgun, the man shouted, "I'm lookin' for the damn disc jockey who's been sniffin' around my sweet little darlin' daughter." I told the man that the DJ would be gone by nightfall. I fired West, again, then I headed for home.
Home was KPOI, in Honolulu. I went back on the air. That began a series of events that put me in emotional orbit for more than a year: A scouting trip to Kowloon and Macao to check on the chances of a "pirate station" succeeding there. Arrested for the possession of three milligrams of marihuana [sic]. Marriage to my first wife, Lenore. A one month stay in Halawa Jail, to go with a $1000 fine. Return to L.A. with little self-esteem and less money.
Then, within 10 days, I was KHJ's new program director. It was March 1965. One talented person I brought aboard was Jim Mitchell, who had been with me at KPOI, KMEN and KMAK. And so that brought us together, on the phone, that night in '68, discussing how we would handle the breaking news of the Bobby Kennedy shooting. Then I headed to the airport to complete an assignment.
On this day 40 years ago, by a twist of fate, I was in New York City to give the keynote address at Billboard Magazine's first Radio Forum. Our last great hero, Robert F. Kennedy, lay in repose at St. Patrick's Cathedral, a few blocks away on Fifth Ave. KHJ promotion director Mitch Fisher and I were being driven to meet Allen Klein, then the manager of the Rolling Stones. We drove right by the majestic church. Once again Bobby was in the building across the street. We said goodbye to him that day, four decades ago. He will be in our hearts forever.
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