I had just gotten out of Halawa Jail, arrived in L.A. and learned that Don Berrigan was working there on some teeny-bop magazine. Berrigan and I went back to 1953, when I started as a deejay at KHON-Honolulu and Berrigan was there at the creation of Boss Radio in the spring of '65. He created some giant promotions, the kind where the heavy lifters get little billing. He was my wing man on all the madness we concocted in that fortress on Melrose from which sprang such legendary Top 40 Radio promotions as THE BIG KAHUNA.
In this slice of UNDER THE HOLLYWOOD SIGN, his autobiography in progress, Berrigan tells of how we shanghaied Mr. Tiny Tim from KRLA in what turned out to be a first, and probably only, promotion of its kind. As big a success as this adventure was, the highest satisfaction was how superior we felt, outwitting and then nailing down the coffin of the station we came to town to annihilate.
GOD BLESS TINY TIM
On most weekday mornings I‘d dive into the four-lane frenzy on the Ventura Freeway in my massive black ‘66 Olds Toronado, weaving South across four lanes of near bumper-to-bumper, Robert W. Morgan’s show on KHJ Boss radio blasting on one of the best stereos GM ever put into its high-end cars. Eventually I’d take a right onto the Hollywood Freeway, and drop off on Gower, destination the station on Melrose next to the Paramount lot.
All the 45 minute run in from Granada Hills I’d be thinking up new promotions, imagining how much fun they’d be to do, and how bitchin’ they would sound on the air. The better my idea, the more it would yank Jacobs’ chain when I began to provoke him to hear about it. If, in spite of himself, he liked it, he’d be conflicted by all the other work he had on his plate.
I would start by sending in a note with a general description of the idea. If he didn’t like it, he’d send me back a note on his “A Reminder from Rogue Jock” note stationery scrawled with a simple “Nawp.” When that happened, there was no use discussing or thinking about it anymore. When I’d come up with a really good one, at first he wouldn’t admit he liked it. That was when the fun began.
Turning on my Toronado radio one morning, I heard KRLA promoting a new contest. They were giving away a hundred pairs of tickets to a Tiny Tim concert at Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. I asked myself, was it soft, or what we called a sleeper, a surprise hit?
The more Tiny Tim voice-overs and promo spots I heard, the more it got to me. Tiny had gotten some good exposure on Johnny Carson and Laugh-in which gave him a recognizable visual image, and an intriguing curiosity about his personality. He was, in Hollywood parlance, an “unusual type.” But would anyone care?
It often happened that KRLA would get lucky on choosing a personality or band to promote with, but they never seemed to know the right thing to do to maximize it. Or they didn’t have the budget to do anything hot like we did. I was starting to believe I was a pretty good idea man, but I also knew without lots of money behind them, most of my ideas would never have gotten on the air. But KHJ did have the budget, and suddenly itcame to me just how to nuke KRLA with this one once and for all.
I started in on Jacobs by sending my secretary, Miss Hamaker, into his office with a terse note, deliberately vague: “KRLA is killing us.” No answer.
Fifteen minutes later, another note: “KRLA is making us look like we’re planning to change format.” Still no answer.
After another twenty minutes: “How long are you going to let KRLA fuck us in the ass in front of all Southern California with Tiny Tim?
Jacobs barged into my office: “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I had to laugh: “Why don’t you yell a little louder? Maybe some of the neighborhood dogs haven’t heard you. I’m talking about Tiny Tim.”
Jacobs said: “Again? We decided he’s a one-note samba and we should pass on promoting with him.”
I think we should reconsider. KRLA sure has.”
Jacobs was still impatient. “How can we do anything now without looking like we’re running after KRLA’s hind tit. It’d be better to do nothing.”
I motioned for Jacobs to sit down. To my surprise he did. “Look, want another Hawaii Five-O fuck up, only this time more immediate? I see something we can do, but it can’t be half-ass or fast and dirty. It’s got to devastate KRLA, vaporize them once and for all.”
“Like what?”
I still wanted to play with him. “I think we should drive our asses down to Santa Monica Civic and buy all remaining 3400 seats.”
J
acobs was unphased. “And?”
“Give ‘em away in pairs on the air, supported by all kinds of Tiny Tim Boss jocks interviews, Tiny Tim voice-overs, Tiny Tim stings, Tiny Tim station promos and breaks, however far you can go. Tiny Tim is another Kahuna, but this time not a phony. If there’s any doubt about whether Tiny Tim is really a star, there won’t be when Boss Radio is done with him. We’ll fucking make him one.”
Jacobs looked at me intently. “And what’s the reason we’re doing this?”
“No reason. Just because KHJ loves Tiny Tim.”
Jacobs closed his eyes, analyzing all possible positives and negatives. He opened them and looked at me with one of his rare smiles. “But how can we mention KRLA’s concert without looking bad?”
“It’s Tiny Tim’s concert. But I’m still not done with their asses. We’ll throw a big VIP onstage party after the concert, invite TV and movie stars who are probably curious about Tiny, and some of the audience who’ll received specially stamped tickets. You’ll hype all this on the air, and I’ll support the celebrity part of it by sending out direct mail RSVP invitations. And, though we won’t say it on the air, we’ll show a little class by inviting the KRLA jocks who are hosting the concert.”
Jacobs was still analyzing. “Something as big as this’ll need cooperation from Tiny’s management.”
“They going to say no? I don’t think so.”
Jacobs stood up. “Let’s go see Devaney.”
Devaney freaked when Jacobs told him we wanted $17,000 for Tiny Tim tickets, especially in the light of KRLA already being on it. But in the end we sold him. Jacobs and I met with Tiny Tim’s management and, though they hated to screw KRLA, they couldn’t turn it down. By the end of the day the amazed girl’s boss in the Santa Monica Civic Box office had accepted our certified check and all the remaining tickets were ours. Tiny Tim had a sellout.
The first thing Tiny’s management recommended was that the Boss Jocks meet Tiny. Jacobs set this up for the regular weekly Boss Jocks meeting at 10 AM the next morning.
It was one of the few Boss Jocks meetings I was ever invited to. Although they all seemed to be relaxed as they sat around the long table, Jacobs at the apex, it was interesting to feel their competitiveness. Steele and Morgan seemed to be trying to outclass and dominate the others. But Riddle was so successful in all media, he was above their ego trips.
A guy in a suit comes in to the room. Jacobs greets him, introduces him as being from Tiny’s management. He speaks to us with a quiet seriousness.
“Mr. Tim is outside, waiting to meet you. But before he does, there are a few things you should know. What Tiny does – how he thinks and speaks and interacts with people, is not an act. Everything you see and hear him do and say and sing, the way he dresses and makes up his face, is the real Tiny Tim. I’m not saying you should condescend to him. He’s not retarded. Just keep it in mind and relate to him accordingly. You’ll find him to be a most benign, sweet person, totally free of guile or games. Any questions?”
Steele asked: “Is he an authority on anything?”
“You’re right, Don. He’s a savant. His expertise is Broadway musicals, from the first one until the one opening tonight. He knows everything about them, set, story, cast, staff, producer, director, and he can sing all, I emphasize all, their songs. Any other questions?”
The Boss Jocks looked at each other in silence.
The suit said: ”Okay. I’ll go get him.”
Tiny Tim entered the meeting looking as we expected him to: long, greasy hair, white face makeup, blue raincoat over a checked sport coat, faded blue jeans, blue suede shoes someone had disobeyed Elvis and stepped on, and carrying his ukulele in a paper shopping bag. He greeted us with a big smile and a shrill, sing-songy “Hello, Boss Jocks!”
There was something about Tiny Tim’s aura that made everyone present smile ear to ear. I enjoyed seeing the usual ultra-cool Real Don Steele hardly believe what he was seeing and not know how to react to Tiny.
Tiny went right on enthusiastically. “I want to thank you for everything you’re doing for me, so here’s a song for you!”
From his shopping bag Tiny pulled out his ukulele and launched into a loud and totally unselfconscious rendition of Tip Toe Through the Tulips. During the ear-splitting song his mascara outlined eyes made a close up focus on each Boss Jock. I was totally entertained by watching sophisticated Morgan almost croak behind trying to conceal his utter amazement.
As the pre-concert promotion expanded, Jacobs did his on-air production thing with Tiny and all the Boss Jocks, and I did my promo thing – photos, stories for print media, Boss 30 cover pic, etc.
But we had agreed to another consideration for Tiny. Jacobs has the station offer to buy Tiny a new Cadillac (enabled by an Art Astor-arranged trade out.) But Tiny didn’t want a Cadillac. What he did want was for someone to drive him down to Palm Springs to see an old retiree from the Broadway of the thirties whom Tiny admired and had longed to meet. Rothbart called the guy, arranged it, and around nine the following morning Rothbart and I picked Tiny up in my Toronado. It was June, and already hot in Los Angeles. I suspected Palm Springs was going to be fierce.
I had wondered whether Tiny was gay, so I was surprised to find that Tiny had a very foxy young woman with him who he introduced as Miss Cohen. It turned out she was a photographer who was going to take pictures for Tiny. I made a deal with her to buy some for KHJ.
We took off for Palm Springs, the two of them in the back seat. Before long, Tiny started a loud, unearthly cackling that made Rothbart and me dare not look back to see what was going on. After that, the gay question was settled, at least for me.
I must have been speeding because out in the open desert, half way to the Springs, a cop pulled me over.
I rolled down my window. The air outside was like a furnace. “Yes, sir?”
“Going a little fast, weren’t you?”
“If you say so, Officer. I wasn’t watching my speedo as closely as I should have.”
The trooper looked in the back seat. A second of recognition flared in his eyes. “Step out of the car.”
I followed him to where he stood at the Toronado’s huge stern. “Yes, sir?”
He nodded toward my back seat. “That who I think it is?”
“I bet so.”
He tore a sheet out of the back of his ticket pad. “Any chance of getting an autograph on this for my daughter?”
“Got a pen?”
I leaned into the Toro’s open window, and explained to Tiny that the officer was a fan and wanted an autograph for his little girl. Tiny agreed, on condition he could shake the officer’s hand. The star struck policeman was doubly pleased and we were on our way without a ticket.
At Tiny’s mentor’s home, I learned that like some Hindu sects, Tiny did not eat in the presence of others. In the garden, the hotter it got, the more he buttoned up his raincoat. He seemed impervious to the amazing Palm Springs heat. He had a great time talking story with his elderly host, who himself was amazed at Tiny’s erudition on Broadway history. We had a fine afternoon and a restful, quiet trip back to Hollywood, except for one short reprise of cackling.
The following Monday I needed to send a photo to the printer for the cover of the Boss 30. So I called Miss Cohen to see if she had anything for me as we had agreed. She answered her phone but I could not understand anything she said to me. I had heard such babbling before and I knew where it was coming from. Finally I had to hang up, screwed. Luckily Rothbart found another Tiny Tim shot we could use. But I was pissed. The back-stabbing little patronizer better never ask me for anything. But she would.
The night of Tiny Tim’s concert at the Santa Monica Civic, KRLA had to have smelled a rat. I had four catering trucks hovering behind the arena. Rothbart and the beautiful black harpist in her bright yellow evening gown with her arbor of roses were at the ready, too. The moment the concert concluded, the backstage invasion began. As soon as everything was set up, Rothbart went out front and guided the VIPs and color ticket holders backstage. It was a hell of a party, with lots of champagne. Even the two KRLA concert host jocks came and enjoyed themselves.
Looking back on it, I know of no other instance in the history of radio where a radio station totally took over an already on-going promotion from its competitor, made the promotion its own, even improved on it so radically that the market believed the promotion was original, while the true originating station was totally plowed under. I think after that, KRLA never undertook another major on-air promotion before eventually changing to an all-talk format.
Copyright 2010 Donald B. Berrigan
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