Clap For The Wolfman

7/14/1995.

The Good Lord called Charlie Minor into his office last week.

“Charlie,” God said with a frown, “you’re doing a great job getting all of our records on Clear Channel, but the people of Heaven aren’t buying any at our superstores.”

“Hey, buddy,” Charlie answered, motioning his entourage of angels toward the juice bar, “I can only do so much.  That Clear Channel 1 might reach everyone forever, but it’s boring.  We need to add some pop…some sizzle…something to get the listeners excited about the music.  Now, it just sounds like Muzak.  We need somebody to sell the music.”

God stroked his beard.  “Who do you suggest?”

Charlie waved his hands in the air.  “there’s only one person.  Wolfman Jack.”

God frowned again and the heavens crackled with lightning and thunder.  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Charlie’s smile lit up the room as he headed for the door, three angles on each arm.  “Hey, buddy, that’s what you’ve got me for.

I don’t remember how old I was when I first heard Wolfman Jack on the radio.  Having been born and raised in a tiny town in Mississippi, it was hard to get any station after the sun went down, much less any station that played the kind of music I wanted to hear. I was into R&B long before I knew what it was.  I only knew that my father didn’t want that kind of music played in the house.  And that make it important.

All day long, I would listen to Hank Williams, Roy Acuff and the like, but at night, I desperately needed a fix of Rhythm & Blues.  I would get a bottle and a date (in that order), drive to the highest point in the county and start twisting the dial.  The girls weren’t nearly as excited as I was (still aren’t), but went along because they thought I was fun and kind of dangerous (still do).

I had already discovered Big John R on WLAC out of Tennessee, but he was only on for two hours and it wasn’t enough.  So I kept searching the dial, keeping the needle down on the low numbers where the big stations were broadcasting, trying to get a fix.

Suddenly, a howling wolf cry cut through the static.  You cannot imagine the chill that went up my spine when I heard the top-of-the-hour ID.

“Are you wit’ me?  I’m askin’ are you wit’ me?  Aw, come on, babies, put your hand on the radio and feel the luuvv vibrations.  This is Wolfman Jack on XERB Del Rio, Texas!”

A jingle followed sung by Johnny Rivers and a host of other singers.  “Here comes the Wolfman…he understands.”

Then “Ya Ya” by Lee Dorsey.

My life changed at that instant.  I had never heard anything like it in my life.  Sissy Sue was playing with my hair and whispering her best Southern come-on in my ear.  I didn’t care.  This Wolfman Jack from some mysterious place in Texas had transported me into a special world…a world I would never leave.  Sissy Sue, a few years short of becoming Columbia High’s homecoming queen (and already displaying a couple of attributes that would later make her a lock on the crown), may as well have been a figment of my imagination.  I didn’t care.  I was waiting for the Wolfman’s next break.

“That was `Ya Ya,”’ Wolfman yelled, “by Lee Dorsey.  How you like the Wolfman so far baby?”  His voice dropped into a now familiar purr.  “Have mercy, baby!  Who’s this on the Wolfman’s telephone?”  Then he yelled again.  “Are you nekkid?”

Sissy Sue never got it, but I did.  She married well, has four or five kids she’s hoping to get into Ole Miss on scholarships.  I’ve been hooked on the drug I got from Wolfman Jack the first time I heard him selling music and “…Holy Water blessed by the saints of Jerusalem.”  When Sissy Sue heard about Wolfman’s passing, she called.  She finally got it.  Her husband didn’t understand.  He vaguely remembered a husky, bearded dude that hosted The Midnight Special.  Me?  I lost a friend.  And something much more.

A part of radio left with Wolfman Jack, but the loss will be felt outside of radio.  We lost an important part of Americana.  We lost a bit of our youth.  We lost a lot of our audio excitement.  For millions of teenagers in California who heard him nightly on XERF and millions in the Southwest tuning in XERB, Woflman Jack was radio.  And man, could he move records.  If the Wolfman played it, you wanted to go right out and buy it.

Radio passed Wolfman Jack a long time ago.  It’s not something we should be proud of.  We are too often accused of sounding boring…identical…automated.  Wolfman Jack was none of these.  Cookie-cutting programmers are too quick to copy rather than strive to be unique.  Instead of finding a place for Wolfman Jack, we cut him out.  In doing so, we’ve created a huge void.  Not so much for Wolfman.  He always did all right.  But for the next Wolfman.

I was lucky.  I got to meet Robert Weston Smith, a.k.a.  Wolfman Jack, long before his debut in American Graffitti.  I was afraid that meeting him would destroy forever the image I had painted in my mind of that magical person who helped change my life.  I shouldn’t have worried.  Wolfman Jack in the flesh was everything and more that he was coming through those three-inch speakers in the ‘60s.

I hired Wolfman to do nights on KHJ in Los Angeles.  We had the deal all worked out.  I even managed to stretch the restrictive RKO format to allow him the latitude to be himself, but restrictions still applied.  The day before the promos were due to hit the air, Wolfman came to see me.  In his famous gravelly voice, he told me he couldn’t take the job.  He had done his act so long, he was afraid he just couldn’t come close enough to the format to make us both happy.

“Baby,” he said, “I would rather turn down this job than jeopardize our friendship.”

In the end, it all turned out for the best.  Wolfman syndicated a weekend show and we ran it on KHJ.  He eventually made 10 times what I would have paid him…and we remained friends

So Wolfman Jack got the gig on the big station in the sky where he can dictate the format.  It was just a matter of time.  The Wolfman was only on the air once a week.

Heaven needed to hear him a lot more often that that.  Let’s all give one last clap for the Wolfman.