1
I attended the State University of Iowa. I paid day-to-day expenses from the income – at $1 per hour – from my campus job, at the college radio station WSUI/KSUI-FM, where I worked 25 hours a week.
For all of my sophomore and senior years, I was the sole announcer on KSUI-FM, which broadcast with 17,500 watts from the top floor of the engineering building, where all of the AM and the FM stations’ studios were located. KSUI was on the air from 7 to 10 p.m. every night Monday through Friday.
(It was exciting, by the way, when there were thunder-lightning storms. Not only was the studio located in a small cubicle on the building’s roof; also, right in my studio itself was a heavy glass tube through which a broad cable passed from the ceiling through the floor, except that when you looked carefully you could see there was a gap between the upper and lower parts of the cable encased in the thick glass tube. This was a power diffuser to help prevent electrical surges in all the facilities when the lightning rod on the roof was struck… which happened three or four times a year. While I was announcing in my most mature, soft-sell voice that our next piece would be a piano trio by Franz Joseph Haydn, or whatever, now and then with a zap, the whole studio would light up blue-purple and the hair on my arms and the back of my neck would stand up.)
Once a week or two our program from 8 p.m. to "whenever" would consist of a live remote broadcast of a recital or concert by the SUI Music Department. This was called a simulcast, since it was broadcast simultaneously on AM and FM. Listeners with two radios could hear the concert in stereo by placing the AM receiver on the left and the FM receiver on the right. This was a big deal in the early 1960s.
There was a special little challenge for me as the FM announcer: as 8 p.m. approached, I had to put on special earphones carrying WSUI from downstairs, and co-ordinate the station i-d I was making with the AM announcer, so that Mr. B------- could begin speaking from the remote location at 8:00:05 simultaneously on both stations.
I would be wrapping up my first hour telling our audience what we had just heard, performed by whom and giving our station identification - “This is your Fine Music station in Iowa City: KSUI-FM, broadcasting at 91.7 megahertz on your FM dial” - exactly in time with the guy from downstairs saying “This your Hawkeye broadcasting station, WSUI in Iowa City.”
At the end of the evening, I also had to be standing by with music to introduce and play whenever the remote simulcast was completed… or at least to sign off if the remote ran past 10 p.m.
From the beginning, all that was just enough of a challenge to be fun.
2
After I had been on the air for a while, I learned I had apparently earned the confidence - or at least some level of confidence – of my supervisor, a rather curmudgeon-like older man (Mr. B------) who had been the sole announcer of classical music on both stations for years.
One day late in February he called me into his office in the classical music library and told me that the next evening, he had another engagement, so I would be hosting the remote show. He said it was easy.
All I had to do, Mr. B------ said, was to put on a long-enough piece, which he would select for me (as he did all the pieces), and then put it on at the time he would designate for me. I would leave the studio with my engineer, Ernie, walk across the campus to Macbride Hall, go up to the third floor to the Auditorium and climb up to the projection/broadcast booth in the back, where a different engineer would be waiting.
Finally, I would put on the same kind of headphones that I used in the studio so – as usual – I could listen to WSUI as we neared the station break. The engineer would signal me when my piece on KSUI-FM had finished so that I could wrap up that studio broadcast and give my station break so that both stations could switch simultaneously to the remote location. Simple enough.
Mr. B------ would write out the script he would have prepared for himself for the 10-minute intermission. AND he would give me an album (an LP, of course) with long liner notes for me to read just in case. That would be enough to fill up to 20 minutes, just to make me feel comfortable.
Yes, he had thought of everything. In fact, as he told me, Mr. B----- knew the whole routine so well because he had done it himself dozens of times.
The night came. My engineer was all prepared and did not seem nervous. The album with the liner notes was there, along with the live performance’s program and list of all performers: a chamber orchestra, a guest contralto, and of course, the conductor. All set.
I noticed that most of the concert would consist of a special, experimental piece – hence, the contralto – by a composer of whom I had never heard, Alban Berg, who was one of the chief proponents of atonal music, and the piece would be sung in German. The album had the lyrics all translated. The poem looked pretty weird too.
As I had walked from my supper at my dorm across the river, up the hill, on to the engineering building and up to the third floor, I noticed that although it wasn’t especially cold, it was beginning to snow a little; it was coming down a little harder by the time I arrived at work.
An hour later, everything was going along according to plan. I was enjoying the opportunity for a new experience. My last piece went on exactly at the predetermined time. I put on my muffler, my heavy coat, and my hat and said Goodbye to Ernie. “Take ‘er easy,” he called as I left.
When I got outside, I found that over an inch of snow had accumulated in the hour while I had been on the air… and it was still coming down as hard as it ever had in my year and a quarter in Iowa City. But no problem; Macbride Hall was only across the street and three classroom buildings away. I had about fifteen minutes before the FM selection would finish up so I could slog my way carefully down the sidewalks. Why worry?
3
Inside the Macbride Hall door under the stairs I stomped the snow off my boots. I shook the snow off my hat, noting how wet it was, and unzipped my coat so that I could shake the snow off the shoulders. Ready to go. Still more than five minutes until I was to go on the air again.
Up the stairs to the third floor, making my way up the side aisle to the booth in back. The engineer was there with KSUI playing softly; he was all set and ready to go. I dumped my hat, coat, and muffler in a corner, noticing with mild surprise that the booth was open, not glassed in, so that everything I would say would be heard by the audience, or at least by those in the last few rows of the center section. No big deal…
I put on the earphones; I could hear KSUI in the booth and WSUI on the ’phones. I arranged my notes for the piece that had still a couple of minutes to play on FM, with the script and the album with liner notes underneath ready for later, and looked around.
There were fewer than 10 present in the auditorium, and of course the chairs on stage were empty. The auditorium was a bit old and a little shabby; the curtain folded at both sides of the proscenium looked especially fragile.
As my piece was finishing up, a shirt-sleeved young man in a cummerbund came right out on stage, looked around in the auditorium, and hurried away. Following the signal, I announced into the mike what had just been playing on FM, and the performers, and launched into the station break just as I heard Bob doing on the AM side. We both finished up, almost to the second at the same time. The engineer and I made eye contact; he dramatically pointed at me as I noticed a little red light on his board light up.
“Good evening, everyone. This is your announcer, 'Byron Derrick,' welcoming you to Macbride Auditorium…” And so on. I summarized the program we would be hearing and was moving on toward mentioning the contralto when a distinguished-looking man in his tuxedo came on stage with a stand-up mike. He looked out into the auditorium and even looked up at me.
“Here is an announcement from the stage,” I said, and the gentleman welcomed those present, noted the intensity of the storm, and said that he was aware of some intended guests who had called to say they were delayed en route. “We are going to give them a little extra time to get here,” he finished up, “and we thank you for your patience.” (He gave me a little smile.)
4
I hadn’t been nervous. The engineer had a little, sympathetic grin on his lips and he shrugged as our eyes met.
I repeated to the audience at home what the conductor had said, knowing they had already heard him themselves. Okay, I was thinking, I’ll give the intermission speech now and maybe repeat a varied version of the same thing or read some of the liner notes during intermission. I had plenty of resources, didn’t I?
But, by the time the 30 minutes had passed before the orchestra came on stage, I was saying anything that came to mind. The engineer and I were both enjoying the absurdity of the situation (perhaps he more than I).
“For those of you who aren’t familiar with our fine old Macbride Auditorium,” I remember saying, “let me describe it for you…” and so on.
I named some people I pretended to recognize in the audience, and just maybe invented a few who really weren’t there: “The distinguished English professor, Dr. _______ _______,” I may have said. And, although the clock was ticking, nothing was happening on the stage.
Finally, members of the orchestra began to appear (I noted where each was seated), and at last out again came the conductor. (Applause from the hardy few who had made it through the blizzard.) “And once again,” he said, looking (I thought) especially at me, “we thank you for your patience.”
I did not know what to expect at intermission, but if anything it was shorter than the planned 10 minutes. The little script Mr. B-------- had prepared, paraphrased here and there, worked just fine.
I don’t recall whether or not I had to announce a final piece for FM once the simulcast had finished, probably not since we had started so late… or at least those musicians had started late!
I'd started right on time.
***
