Polka King Read online

  My lawyer said, “It could take years for the case to get settled. Libel is tricky.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “It might be expensive,” he said.

  “I don’t care,” I repeated. “Do it, and do it now.”

  The papers were filed by lunch.

  The next day, I got a call at my office from Ed Klein himself.

  “Jimmmmmmmmy,” he said, trying to be chummy. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, kiddo, you didn’t have to bring the law into it. We can work something out.”

  “Mr. Klein,” I said, “Kurowski clearly isn’t going to listen to you, and I’m fed up with it. Enough is enough. I feel like this is the only way to nip this in the bud.”

  Ed was quiet for a moment, and then he sighed and said, “Is there anything we can do to make this right for you?”

  “You bet there is!”

  “And that would be what?”

  “Get rid of him. Fire Kurowski, and I’ll drop the lawsuit.”

  “You know what, Jimmy?” Ed said. “I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I don’t have anybody to take his place.”

  I chuckled, then said, “Yes, you do.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about it. He’s good. He’ll be there first thing on Saturday morning.”

  “Great!” Ed said. “I’ll can Kurowski as soon as I hang up here.” He paused, then asked, “And you’ll drop the suit, right?”

  “Consider it dropped.”

  Sure enough, Ron was out of a job that very day; the following weekend, my great, great friend Gus Koisor was the new Saturday morning polka voice of WTBQ. And Gussie did one hell of a job, believe me. Between Gus on Saturday and me on Sunday, polka fans in the area were set for the weekend.

  A few months later, out of nowhere, Ed Klein rang me up. “Jimmy, I just wanted to let you know that WTBQ is going up for sale.”

  “Wow. That’s interesting news. But why are you telling me?”

  “Because,” Ed said, “you seem to know good people—everybody loves that friend of yours, Gussie—and you seem to be able to make things happen. So I’m thinking you might be able to find a buyer.”

  I did have an idea for a buyer—me!

  Jim O’Grady and I went out for lunch the following day. After a couple of drinks, I launched into my pitch: “Look, Jim, I’ve been with you for a long time. WALL gave me my first shot on the air and you’ve always supported me, and I appreciate all of this more than you can ever know. But WTBQ is going up for sale, and—”

  He interrupted me. “And you want to go work for them.”

  “No, Jim,” I said. “I want to buy them.”

  Jim threw down the rest of his drink. “So you’re gonna be my competition now.”

  “I don’t want to compete with you, Jim,” I said. “First of all, we’re great friends, and I would never do anything to screw you over. Second of all, I just want all of the listeners out there to have as many options as possible, regardless of the style of music. I want people in Florida and beyond to have the opportunity to listen to what they want, when they want. I don’t want to knock you off the air and I sure hope you won’t try to put me out of business.”

  “Well, I certainly appreciate that,” Jim said, smiling. “I’m willing to work together if you are.”

  “Funny you mention that,” I said. “There’s one other thing I wanted to float by you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to keep my Sunday morning show on WALL.”

  After ordering another drink, he said, “Let me get this straight. You want to own WTBQ, while appearing on WALL at the same time? Do I have that right?”

  “You sure do!”

  Jim chewed on his thumbnail, then said, “You know what? That’s A-OK with me. As long as you don’t say anything about WTBQ while you’re on the air at WALL, I have no problems.”

  “Wouldn’t even dream of it.”

  My purchase of WTBQ went through without a hitch, and the two stations coexisted peacefully for the next couple of years, until Jim sold WALL to the Sillerman-Morrow Broadcasting Group, a newly formed conglomerate fronted by Bob Sillerman and Bruce Morrow that was buying up radio stations left and right.

  And from there, it all went downhill at good ol’ WALL-AM.

  9

  Cousin Brucie & Robert F.X.

  Being a radio hound, I was well aware of Bruce Morrow, a.k.a. Cousin Brucie. He was, after all, one of the greats.

  Bruce Morrow, whose real name is Bruce Meyerowitz, became known to New York City radio listeners in 1959, when he landed a slot playing the hits of the day on WINS. Morrow garnered a solid fan base because he was an excellent disc jockey with terrific taste in music and a nose for what was going to be The Next Big Thing. The following year he moved over to WABC, where he continued to play the top forty, somehow managing to increase his listenership at least tenfold. It might not have been the nicest thing in the world to jump ship from the station that gave you your start to its direct competition, but Cousin Brucie was an ambitious sort. His priorities were what his priorities were, so who was I to argue?

  As the decade progressed, Morrow gained even more fans because, unlike the majority of the other jocks out there, he mixed up his playlists, going beyond the top forty and incorporating soul, blues, and R&B. And his WABC show was seamless, so seamless that you almost didn’t notice the commercials. Cousin Brucie became so popular that, in 1965, he was tapped to introduce The Beatles at the band’s now-revered Shea Stadium concert.

  In 1974 Morrow left WABC for its chief rival, WNBC, a move that I considered, well, silly. Leaving a good employer in the lurch one time is forgivable, but if you do it twice, well, that’s dirty pool, and certainly not the way I work. Cousin Brucie had been with WABC for more than a decade, and while he’d done plenty for its ratings, WABC had done plenty for his career. Sure, something may have gone on behind the scenes that nobody knew about, but from where I was sitting, I thought loyalty should’ve trumped whatever problems they might have had. At some point during his three-year tenure at WNBC, he crossed paths with Bob Sillerman, and a business marriage was consummated.

  Robert F.X. Sillerman (I have no idea what the “F.X.” stands for) was a businessman who, as far as I could tell, didn’t have much interest in what radio was all about. To me, the purpose of radio was sharing, introducing your listeners to music they might have never otherwise heard, or letting them enjoy some of their old favorites. It was, and is, a celebratory medium. My goal, as both a station owner and an on-air personality, was to keep it as pure as possible. To Sillerman, the purpose of radio was to make money. You can’t fault the guy for that—there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be able to pay your bills and sock something away for your kids, your grandkids, and their kids—but it just wasn’t the way I thought.

  In 1978, not too long after forming the Sillerman-Morrow Broadcasting Group, Bruce and Robert purchased a slew of radio and television stations, one of which was WALL-AM. Since I owned WTBQ and had no personal connection with Sillerman-Morrow, I figured my Sunday morning polka show was done.

  Soon after Jim O’Grady told me about the sale, I got a phone call. “Jimmy Sturr, it’s Bruce Morrow.”

  “Cousin Brucie?”

  “One and the same. Listen, I wanna have lunch with you. You wanna have lunch? Let’s have lunch. I’ll come down to Goshen, and we’ll eat something, we’ll kibbitz, and we’ll have a great time.”

  We met the next day. Over the biggest salad I’ve ever seen in my life, Cousin Brucie and I talked shop, trading war stories about hosting a radio show. (Naturally, his stories were far more interesting than mine.) Finally, after about forty-five minutes, he got down to business. “Listen, Jimmy, you and me, we’re going to be friendly competitors.”

  “We are?”

  “You bet. As a demonstration of good faith, I’d like you to continue doing your show on WALL. You stay right
where you are, right there on Sunday mornings, playing that polka music of yours. I’ve heard so much about you. I listened to some tapes of the show and I think the world of you. As long as I’m around, you’ll always have a home at WALL.”

  I was shocked. It sounded too good to be true, but as I looked into his eyes, I saw no sign of malice or deceit. But the truth was, he’d have been foolish to let me go because that polka music of mine was WALL’s highest-rated show, and he knew it. Cousin Brucie wasn’t being either kind or magnanimous. He was being a smart businessman. Naturally, I agreed to stay with WALL, so we parted on a positive note, and I headed home.

  The second I walked into the door, the phone rang. It was Jim O’Grady. “Jimmy,” he said, “you were just at lunch with Bruce Morrow, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  Ignoring my question, he said, “Don’t you believe a word that comes out of Bruce Morrow’s mouth.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  He sighed, steeled himself, then said, “This coming Sunday is going to be your last show on WALL.”

  “But he just told me at lunch—”

  “I know what he told you at lunch,” Jim said, “but the fact of the matter is that they’re going to ambush you. They’re going to fire you right after the show on Sunday.”

  I chuckled, then told Jim, “No, they’re not.”

  “Yeah, they are. I heard it from—”

  “Jim, they can’t fire me on Sunday, because I’m not going to be at the station. I’m taping the show on Friday, because my band is playing at a telethon in New York on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Is that the Lions Foundation telethon?” Jim asked.

  “Yeah. How did you know about that?”

  “Morrow’s going to be there, too. He’s the emcee.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Jim chuckled. “I kind of wish I could be there. Sounds like there could be fireworks.”

  Fast-forward to Sunday night, the night of the telethon. Cousin Brucie and I didn’t see each other until he joined me onstage for the band introduction. After he announced me to the audience, he put his arm around me and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m thrilled to hear what our next group has to offer, because, well, this gentleman right here and I are what you call friendly rivals. I just bought a radio station up in Middletown, and Jimmy here owns the station down the street. And the funny thing is that Jimmy has his own show on my new station! That’s not the kind of thing you’d see in New York City, believe you me.”

  I grinned through his speech . . . or at least I thought I grinned. I was probably actually gritting my teeth, knowing that this guy who was extolling my virtues in front of a rapt audience was getting ready to can me.

  What Cousin Brucie didn’t know was that when I taped that Sunday’s show, in between each song, I roared, “This is my last show on WALL. But make sure that you tune into WTBQ next Sunday at this same time for The Jimmy Sturr Show. That’s right, each and every Sunday, you can hear The Jimmy Sturr Show on WTBQ. Not WALL. WTBQ.” I must’ve said that twenty or thirty times. Loudly.

  On Monday morning, I walked into the office and before I could even pour myself a cup of coffee, the phone rang. My secretary picked up on the first ring, then put the caller on hold and told me, “You have a call from Cousin Brucie.”

  “I bet I do,” I said. Then I snatched up the phone and, in my most cheerful voice, said, “The great Bruce Morrow! Good morning! How’re you doing on this fine Monday? Hey, I never told you how much fun the boys and I had at the telethon on Saturday. Your introduction was so kind, and—”

  “Sturr,” he roared, “you &^$@! You don’t pull that %@## on me . . . Nobody pulls that %@## on me. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know what I’ve done? I’m an icon, and you’re a nobody from nowhere, and I’m gonna do everything in my power to crush you and your pissant station, and your pissant polka, and I’m gonna . . .”

  After ten more minutes of yelling, cursing, and threats, he finally ran out of gas. I said, “You done?”

  “For now.”

  I said, “Fantastic. I listened to you, and now you’re going to listen to me, Bruce. I may be a country bumpkin, but don’t you ever try to pull the wool over my eyes.” And then I slammed the phone down as hard as I could. It’s a wonder I didn’t break the desk.

  I think good ol’ Cousin Brucie wasn’t used to not having the last word because, in a move eerily similar to Ron Kurowski’s, he took to bashing me on the air during his afternoon show. “It’s your Cousin Brucie here,” he’d say, “and I’m sure you can all hear me loud and clear, because we here at WALL-AM, well, we have one heck of a signal, unlike WTBQ’s. Ah, yes, WTBQ, Jimmy Sturr’s little station that you can’t hear unless you’re within a three-block radius . . . and that’s only if the wind is blowing in the right direction.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. WALL had considerably more juice than we did, and his barbs about our lack of power bothered me for a while . . . until we got the next batch of Nielsen ratings. We weren’t number one. We weren’t number five. We weren’t even number ten. But Jimmy Sturr’s WTBQ was well ahead of Bruce Morrow’s WALL, and that was good enough for me.

  I haven’t heard a word from Cousin Brucie since.

  Postscript: Within two years, most every one of WALL’s quality employees left Cousin Brucie’s House of Horrors and took a job over at the greener pastures of WTBQ. Within five years, the Sillerman-Morrow Broadcasting Group sold WALL.

  And don’t forget: Each and every Sunday, if you search around your radio dial, you’ll probably stumble across The Jimmy Sturr Show.

  Jimmy at the radio controls doing his radio show on WALL Radio. The show, now on WTBQ, started in 1964 and continues every Sunday to this day.

  10

  If You Want Something Done Right . . .

  It always impressed me how the generation of polka musicians who came before me had such an entrepreneurial spirit and how they were able to record and distribute their music when the record company bigwigs wanted nothing to do with them. Comparatively speaking, I was lucky. Without even trying hard, I managed to land a session with Vee-Jay Records, but as I soon learned, that wasn’t common. From the late 1930s to the mid-1950s, most major labels and large independents didn’t showed much interest in polka, so to get their music out there, these guys had to do it themselves.

  Al Soyka was one of the guys who hooked up with a major label (in his case it was RCA). He must’ve gotten fed up with the whole process because he launched not one but two labels of his own; the first was called Jan Records, and the second, Glo Records. He even managed to have some mainstream success on Glo with one of his own tunes called “Trip to Poland.” (I have a special place in my heart for that tune, so much so that I called two of my albums Trip to Poland and Another Trip to Poland.) To make life easier on himself—and, I suspect, to maintain as much control of his fortunes as possible—most of his sessions were held in his studio in Somers, Connecticut, which was called Main Street. It should be noted that Al built the studio all by himself—in a barn.

  A few years after my Vee-Jay adventure, I decided it was time to hit the studio again, so I drove the two-and-a-half hours from Florida to Somers to meet with Al and find out if he’d be interested in getting into the Jimmy Sturr business. Al couldn’t have been nicer or more supportive; within ten minutes of my arrival, we’d set up a date to cut my first album for Glo. After we hammered out some of the details, he led me outside and pointed to a gentleman on a ladder, painting his barn/studio.

  “See that guy?” he said.

  “Yeah. He doesn’t look like he’s having all that much fun.”

  “On the contrary,” Al said. “He’s having the time of his life, because in exchange for all his hard work, I’m giving him a bunch of free studio time.”

  “Good deal! Is he any good?”

  “Very good. His name is Gene Pitney. Remember that name. He’s going to be big.”
r />   Turned out Al was right—Gene Pitney was very good, and he did become big. Gene went on to have ten top ten hits, including “Blue Angel,” “Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa,” and, most memorably, “(The Man Who Shot) Liberty Valance.” In 1964 he played on a record with The Rolling Stones, which means that as a kid, I was only three degrees of separation away from Mick Jagger.

  I ultimately recorded five albums in Al’s studio (without having to paint the barn), the first of which was cut in 1965. Al went above and beyond for me; not only did he offer my band a chance to record but he also booked us on our first-ever road trip, a series of shows over a long-ago July 4th weekend. For $250, we performed in Boston; Mendon, Massachusetts; and Stafford Springs, Connecticut. Al’s band headlined, of course, so it wasn’t a particularly glamorous tour for our unit. All eight of us crammed into my father’s station wagon; all of our equipment was packed tightly into a U-Haul. Believe me, these days, whenever my band is traveling in our comfortable tour bus, I think about that weekend and count my blessings.

  We sold my Glo Records albums at shows, at festivals, and through the mail, but mostly at record shops that we referred to as “mom-and-pop stores.” (Among my favorites mom-and-pops: Buffalo, New York’s Ruda Records, Johnny Stavin’s Records in Elizabeth, New Jersey, and Zack Music right in the heart of my beloved Florida.) The particular mom-and-pops sold nothing but polka records and had everybody’s work—hard-to-find stuff from heroes of mine like Frank Wojnarowski, Gene Wisniewski, Bernie Witkowski, Ray Henry, Ray Budzilek, Joe Resetar, and Larry Chesky, as well as other luminaries like Johnny Pecon, Wally Jagiello, Eddie Zima, Marion Lush, Mattie Madura, Dick Pillar, Marisha Data, Harold Loeffelmacher, Steve Adamczyk, Dick Rogers, “Whoopee John” Wilfahrt, Brunon Kryger, and Marv Herzog, to name a few. Today, a mom-and-pop place couldn’t survive selling only one genre, especially a genre like polka, which, while still a more-than-viable entity, doesn’t carry the same weight as it did in the good old days. But back in the late sixties and seventies, the polka fan base was so rabid, loyal, and insatiable that there was room all across the country for polka-only shops.