Interview: Iconic Radio DJ Hal Jackson

Hal Jackson was a true pioneer, a DJ who tore down racial barriers and defined the sound of black radio in the United States.

Born in Charleston, South Carolina, Jackson was orphaned at the age of eight. He lived with family in his hometown and in New York before moving to Washington DC as a young man. There, he became a baseball writer for The Afro-American newspaper and worked as commentator for the city’s popular black team, the Homestead Grays. Speaking to the crowds at Griffith Stadium, his idea to break into radio was born.

Starting out – against all odds – in the late 1930s at DC station WINX with the community-interest program The Bronze Review, Jackson quickly secured numerous shows around the country. These included the much-loved House That Jack Built, on the Silver Springs, Maryland, station WOOK. Thanks to his irrepressible work ethic and smooth, personable style, he became what was described by the Rev Al Sharpton as “the constant voice of black America.”

In the 1950s, Jackson moved to New York, where he hung out with stars such as Nat King Cole, Dinah Washington and Jackie Robinson, put on shows at the Apollo Theater and dominated the airwaves, including a late-night broadcast from the legendary Birdland jazz club.

Despite his many work commitments, celebrity friends and a brief entanglement in the payola scandal of the 1950s, Jackson always saw himself as a man of the people and pillar of his community. But he also had considerable crossover appeal and, over the years, he built a large and loyal white following.

In 1990, Jackson became the first African-American to be inducted into the National Association of Broadcasters Hall of Fame. He continued to host his Sunday Morning Classics Show on New York’s WBLS until shortly before his death, aged 96, in 2012.

This interview with DJ History’s Frank Broughton took place in Jackson’s office at the station in late 2003. In it, he discusses his years on air, the racism he and many others faced, the importance of being a good salesman, founding his own basketball team, and the early broadcasters who brought music and black voices into the homes of millions.

What was the first black voice you heard on the radio... there was a famous preacher in Washington DC, wasn’t there?

Elder Solomon Lightfoot Michaux [an early pioneer of broadcast evangelism]. He used to put on big programs in Griffith Stadium – this huge choir of about 300 people – and everyone used to pack in. Really, really drew the crowds. We’re talking about 20,000 people at a minimum.

How did you make the transition from sports writing to radio?

I came along at a time when opportunities for black announcers were limited. So, I had to make up my mind that I couldn’t be caught in one groove. I made myself versatile, so I was always in a position where, even with all the discrimination, I could always be working... I didn’t want to be limited, so I made myself learn all of the areas of broadcasting.

How did you get on air for the first time, in 1939?

I was in the nation’s capital, and they said they would never have anybody black on the air. I used to do the announcing for the Homestead Grays baseball team. They would pack Griffith Stadium when the local white team couldn’t draw flies. So, I got with some black business people and asked them if they would sponsor the games, if I could get it on the air. They all agreed they’d support me. So, I went to [WINX, the local radio station] to see about buying the time. And the general manager made a big thing out of it. Called all the staff in and said, “Can you imagine, this n----r is talking about going on this radio station?” He said, “That will never ever happen.” By the way, that station was owned by the Washington Post.

So, I left and I went out and got what you call a wholesaler. In those days, people who wanted to make sure about getting stuff on air would go to this wholesaler. He had a free hand, and stations loved him because he’d buy blocks of air time. He never had to tell them what he was going to put in the block. Only the sponsor knew. So, he bought this block of time and he had me wait outside the studio. [Our time was] 10 o’clock... we waited until 15 minutes before time, walked into the studio and there was nothing they could do. The guy was there to protect his client, which was me.

I had Dr. Mary McLeod Bethune on – head of the National Council of Negro Women... I used to go out with her a lot, into the very poor areas of Washington, and you know who would meet us? Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt. You can imagine these sweet little old ladies and me visiting the poor and giving them a whole new lift... Anyway, getting back to the broadcast, I had her on, and Dr. Charles Drew. And, in the meantime, calls were coming from all over: Annapolis, Maryland; Baltimore – they wanted to put me on the air. That first night was great.

What was the format and the name?

We didn’t want to name anything “negro” or “black,” so I named it The Bronze News Review, which would cover people in big positions, sports, everything.

And that was a coded message that maybe white people wouldn’t understand?

Absolutely. [laughs] It was a kind of thing that many people might not have a way to understand, but we knew what we were doing and, thank God, it worked.

What other examples were there of this?

You mean the inside talking? That’s interesting, because we would [almost speak in] unknown tongues to get things over without going flat-out... there were many innuendos that we would use.

What was the response to your first shows?

Oh, phenomenal. Phenomenal. The first night, we were getting calls from Annapolis, Washington, Baltimore, because they could hear the station, and the first thing they did was call and want to know, could they have this program. And those were the days that you didn’t just plug into another city. You had to be there in person. I had to go on the air in Washington, drive to Annapolis, I’d do four hours there, go to Baltimore – that’s how we’d do it. I used to do a sports show in Baltimore, come back to Washington and do a closing show. So was really like 18 hours a day, every day, but I thrived on it because the energy that came to me from the good results gave me the strength. Everybody would say, ‘How can you do this, physically?” I said, “It’s great, it’s great,” and it worked out.

What were the other ways of gauging the popularity of your shows? Did you get a lot of letters from listeners?

The [advertising] sales figures were through the roof. [Our] agency was Cal Ehrlich and Merrick – one of the largest agencies in America... These guys were great, so everybody was trying to get on the bandwagon... Everybody was looking.

What were some of the products you advertised in those early shows?

The National Brewing Company, Coca-Cola, let me think of the others... Tip Top Bread was one of the big ones. I used to work with Althea Gibson, who was a great tennis player . Althea and I would go out to the stores and give out Tip Top Bread. The thing I think may have separated me was that I never played prima-donna. I was always very grateful for what I had achieved. I never took an arrogant position: “I can’t go there,” “I don’t go there.” Unh-uh... I always made myself available to the sponsor. I needed him. He didn’t need me.

Can you remember any examples of your shtick?

“Hi, this is Hal Jackson. Welcome to The House That Jack Built. You’re about to do a little relaxin’ with Jackson. First of all, let’s go out on the terrace. Who’s there? Why, it’s Nat King Cole. Here’s Nat...” Then I’d say “What’s that noise? Why, let’s go down in the basement: it’s Louis Jordan.” And, you know, we’d get into beautiful things like Sarah Vaughan. I always tried to make it a point to lead in with dignity with our performers... It gave different perspectives to the performer.

Can you remember any of the commercials?

Again and again we'd say, “We’re bringing you the finest in Tip Top Bread on WOOK,” and, from time to time, with all the station’s breaks, I would throw in some of the sponsors’ names. They loved it.

What were some of the early sponsors that were not national?

Oh, CC Coley. He owned a lot of barbecue places in the heart of [Washington DC’s] black area – 7th Street, Ewe Street... He was always there to put up money.

I believe you met the baseball player Jackie Robinson – who became the first black American to play Major League baseball when he joined the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947 – while doing your show.

I was doing some work with the Harlem YMCA... By the way, I was writing sports, for The Afro-American newspaper. Sam Lacey was the guy who taught me about announcing, and he also told me I want you to write a column every week... Sam was the top sportswriter and he had a meeting with Branch Rickey. Jackie Robinson had finished college and he started playing with the Kansas City Monarchs... He would come to the Harlem Y and we were raising money to keep [it] going...

There was a place called the Savoy Ballroom in Harlem, it was unbelievable. All the big names: Lena Horne, Jimmie Lunceford, Duke Ellington and all. We had Johnny Mathis there, we had Nat King Cole there, and all of the money would go to keep the Harlem YMCA going. Jackie Robinson was always there.

The minute Branch Rickey announced that he was putting Jackie on with the Brooklyn Dodgers, Jackie said, “Let me finish the press conference and I’m coming right over and talking to you.” He finished the conference and we went on the air and he and I talked...

What did he say?

He was telling me that Rickey had sat up with him half the night saying, “Don’t lose you temper. Please, please... they’re gonna do a lot of things to you.” Even his own team-mates would take a dead cat and put it in his locker. Pee Wee Reese was always very close with him, but the other guys on his own team did not want to play with a black guy. But Jackie was tough. Nothing bothered him. He had a job to do and he did it.

What was racism like back then?

You find yourself every day with something new, but we had certain goals... I formed a basketball team [the Washington Bears]. They didn’t allow black players in what was then the NBA back then, and I got all these great stars... It was during the war and these guys were working at the Grumman [Aircraft Engineering Corporation in Long Island, New York], so they were exempt [from service]. I was in Washington. I would bring them in on a Sunday afternoon. A guy had built this indoor place just for the team, and the crowd would line up around the block, because this team was just so great.

It was the cream of the crop and they were all black. We would bring the other teams in from around the country and play on Sunday afternoon to 4,000 people, which was then a huge crowd. Red Auerbach – a big man with the Boston Celtics... he brought his team to play my team, and then we were invited to come to Chicago – that’s where they had the world championship every year. We won – 27,000 people, biggest crowd in basketball history then. Right after the game, we were invited to the White House by President Roosevelt.

You were very much an entrepreneur, rather than just a radio presenter.

Well, that’s exactly what you do. You start off in one area and you think announcing’s gonna be the answer, but it isn’t. So many times, when you want to get something over, you have to put the package together yourself. Like the teams and the people and all... You know what I think? It made me a better person... I never felt there was only one way out... I never felt limited and I never wanted to be limited.

Also, working in radio, you had complete freedom to build your show. What were some of the things you did that announcers don’t really do any more?

So many things. I remember starting a camp for young people who couldn’t afford to go to other camps. I’d arrange scholarships, so kids could go to school... I don’t know where the energy came from. I’ve been asked by so many people.

What did it feel like when you realized you were talking to thousands of people?

It was a wonderful feeling. I always talked on the air like the people I was talking to were sitting right by me. Like we were sitting all together. I never felt like the people were way out there. I always felt intimate, no matter who it was or where. I always felt we were close together. I guess that’s why I got all kinds of mail about being so friendly and nice, but that’s just the way I was. I could never be Mr. Big. People used to say to me, “My God, you’re down there with them... don’t you get tired of that?” Or, “Why are you going back into the slums again this evening?” I was going there to help a family, help them get started, help them get a place to live. A lot of the people I knew didn’t think I should be doing all that. But that’s where I got my strength to carry on. I think having lost my mother and my father when I was eight years old... I think they were kind of watching over me.

When you were on air, how did you picture your listeners?

People were always calling and writing and telling you about their particular program, what they were working on – “We’re raising money for this,” “Can you help us with this?”... I’d go out and get the artists to promote a big affair to help raise money for them. I never felt the people out there were far away. I always talked to them like we were in one little circle.

When did you start to get recognized?

Oh, God. I don’t know... In Washington, there’s always something... I didn’t even know, it was a surprise, at Griffith Stadium, a salute to me, for the work I had done. From then on, it was always somebody or some organization saying thank you.

What did it feel like in the early days? Did it feel like a time of change – like you were at the helm of something?

You know, that was brought up to me many times, “Do you realize you’re being a leader? That you’re setting a trend?”

“No,” I said. “I’m just doing my thing.”

And my thing was not just to get on the radio. That was a small part of it. The idea was, when you get off the radio, get out into the community with the people you’re talking to. Anybody can get on the mic and play big shot. But my relationship was going out there and someone saying to me, “Hey Hal, I was just listening to you – you said you were coming out!” That was dear to me. That was the kind of life I lived. I couldn’t live with my nose up in the air...

You used the radio to get to know everybody.

Yeah, and it was easy. No one was afraid to approach me... I didn’t care what your situation was, your group, your program, everybody was free [to talk to me].

And people would give me hell... “Why you always down with everybody?”

I said, “Because I’m part of it.”

My happiness was feeling that I was a part of the people. I always felt... I was never an over-religious person, but I always felt my strength came from the Lord and blessed me. It wasn’t a matter of being a big Christian, it was a matter of giving back. I always felt he gave me the strength to give back.

In terms of your community work, you had a lot of political influence.

Yeah. They always wanted me to run for something. I said, “No, I’m not a politician.” And they would say, “No, but you know how important that is. If you would run, we would give you the support, we would guarantee you the vote, everything.” I couldn’t believe it. They said, “You don’t know your popularity.” I said, “Yeah, but I don’t want to use it for things that may not be for the best.”

When you were first on the air, did you feel like you were creating a new job? A new personality?

Yeah. When I had that first opening, I felt that this was the beginning of a whole new era. I was getting this strength from all areas to go out and do a job, to assist everyone in every way that I could. Two or three times a week, I’d take entertainment to the hospital and I would get books and other things for [the patients] to read. I got all the big stars: Dinah Washington worked all the night at Birdland and the next morning she was ready to go to the hospital. Everybody would join in...

In a lot of ways, you were building a big family.

Yeah, that’s it. that’s exactly what it was.

Did you feel like you were a performer, or even an artist?

I had vocal teachers that I had known who said, “Have you ever thought of making a record?” No. “Have you ever thought of doing an acting part?” No...

There must have been an element though – the way you spoke, for example.

Oh, yeah, because the ham is always there. You got the ham in you, you want to display it.

And you were very proud of your ability to sell products...

Oh, yeah.

Could you sell anything?

Yeah, but it had to be a good product. I never wanted to get involved with junk, but if I felt it had merit, I felt it could be sold...

Did you find products made in the black community and make them bigger?

Yeah. Henry Parks [of Park’s Sausages in Maryland] was just a mom-and-pop before we started [working together]. He started telling me about the big supermarkets. He never dreamed he’d get the product into those places. That’s the kind of thing I thought was great... if you’re working with a product and you see it expand into all the different areas. And that’s what happened; it would work.

This was the first time national sponsors realized that there was money to be made from the black community...

It probably was, because they made a real big thing out of it. It was all over the magazines; everybody was talking about it. They’d end up by saying, “And it’s a black man – look what he’s done.” The big, national products, once they felt you were successful, they tried to buy you, to make you exclusive. But I didn’t want to be exclusive if it was going to eliminate the little guy.

Were you aware at the time that people were becoming more proud to be black.

Yes. Yes... I was doing a lot of promotions in the high schools. I would talk to these performers and ask them to go with me. Even James Brown; I used to take him. He was a real good guy to me. That’s when he came out with “Say It Loud – I’m Black And I’m Proud.” And that caught on with other people.

Was that something that began to grow after the war?

It was in the ’50s – you would see people more and more coming out and making displays of being black and proud about it.

What made you realize this was happening?

It was the achievers, people like Jackie Robinson, Lena Horne. I worked with Paul Robeson quite a bit. He was somebody who really, really believed – he would never step over somebody black to get to somebody white. I’m trying to think of other people... Pearl Bailey... when people like that would make a point, it brought out some of those who were a little backward on it.

And you were part of that in a big way. Were you explicit about it in your shows?

Yeah. And there were ways you could do it without offending the white audience as well. I had a huge, huge white audience... so alienation was not my bag.

If you had a large white audience, were you educating them about what it is to be black in America?

Absolutely, and you’d pick your times... it’s the whole idea of not putting someone down while you’re cheering for somebody else...

Have you done many interviews like this?

Did a few. Many times, they would ask me, how well I knew Nat King Cole. The interesting thing is, here’s a guy who everybody loved. And he went down to his home town in Birmingham, Alabama, and they snatched him off the stage and beat him up. They killed his dogs – Nat King Cole, who wouldn’t hurt anybody, but there were some rednecks and they snatched him off and beat him up. He handled it, he handled it well. A lot of times a person would feel bitter. Not him. He maintained exactly what he was.

He called me and told me that NBC was putting him on with his own show... they couldn’t get any sponsors. NBC kept it on [for about] a month and anybody that wanted to go on as a sponsor was threatened... We’ve had some bitter times in this country. And Nat, he’s a guy that works both sides of the fence: the black the white, he’s warm, he’s... He lost that show, because the sponsors were afraid of the bigots. If you don’t support a Nat King Cole, who the hell you gonna support? But those were the days...

Can you think of the other pioneering black DJs from that period?

Have you heard of Alan Freed? Alan was a dear, dear friend of mine. Alan, [who was white], did more as far as giving black performers a break, and exposure, than anybody I ever knew. Morris Levy brought Alan in. Alan was [a DJ] from Cleveland, and he would put these shows on at the Paramount in New York City. I’d go and sit with him, he asked me how did I think it would work. I said, “Alan, you got your style, it’ll work.” He said, “Well, if Morris doesn’t see me hitting, he’s going to pull me out.” I said, “Man, you know how to perform.”

He’d have LaVern Baker, he’d have lines around the block at the Paramount – I mean from morning till night... He was really loved; he was an individual. Black performers loved him, white performers loved him. Alan Freed was a real, real terrific guy. But you see he had problems with people like Dick Clark. Dick Clark never wanted anyone to reach that kind of scale.

He would call me when he wanted to get a black act that I knew well, on his show. He had a dance show [American Bandstand]; the kids would come in after school and dance to it, but he would not let black kids dance on the show. He said the sponsors didn’t want the black kids. The show was all over America, and he wanted black performers. I said, “No, Dick, if you’re not going to let these black kids dance, I’m not going to help you get black performers.”

Anyway, Alan Freed, he took off, and they came to him to do the same type of show that Dick Clark was doing, only in New York and integrated. And, boy, oh boy, oh boy, whoom! It took off so big, I can’t tell you.

What was their animosity about? Was it connected with the payola scandal?

Yeah. They came and they had accused Alan – they had called me in... When they called me in [to testify] I was stunned...

“What was this for? Did you ever accept money or gifts to play records?” “Hell no.”

Well, I’m going to give you a list of all the people they called in: Alan Freed, Peter Tripp... but they called in Dick Clark; he went before whatever they had [on him], and they said, “And don’t you do it any more.” Nice, clean white boy. Alan Freed was friendly with too many black people, so they crushed him. They knocked him out, they knocked the show out. He used to come over and sit with me a lot and he was heartbroken. He died. It was rough times, but you had guys like that who were real people. Alan Freed was one of the real people. Dick Clark you still see – Mr. Clean.

So, I asked [the people in charge of the investigation], “What’s going to happen to me?”

“Oh we’ll get back to you.”

“I demand a trial.”

They said, “We want a trial now.”

When I went down there that next Monday, supposed to be on trial, [the district attorney told me], “Mr. Jackson, we want to inform you that we are dismissing all charges against you, and we apologize...”

I said, “No, no. no, I’ve lost all the money, the respect of people, and I’m going to sue the City of New York.”

“You can’t sue the city.”

“Don’t tell me I can’t sue the city; the city has ruined my name.”

“Well, we’ll buy a page ad in the paper saying the city apologizes to you.”

Do you think it was because the DJs had become too powerful?

Yeah, that’s it... too powerful, and [the government] did not like that. Alan was the big one. Peter Tripp, he wasn’t flashing in anybody’s face, he was just doing his thing.

What was the government afraid of?

The power.

In what sense... was it because he was playing black music to white kids, essentially?

Absolutely. This never would come out. They never would bring that [up, but] next thing you knew they were ganging up on Alan.

So, they left you alone until they felt that you were talking to white people?

[laughing loudly] Right. Phew... Until I demanded a trial, I had to go through hell. What they thought was, “Let’s get rid of him. He can’t get a job anywhere.” Same way with Alan. Nobody would hire him, because of the payola. Peter Tripp... who else? Dr. Jive – [AKA] Tommy Smalls – he was a black guy on WWRL at the time and he pleaded guilty... he was taking so much money to play records. He had a following. He was so big – whenever Ed Sullivan had him on the show to bring some black acts, it worked out very well... then they got him in this thing and they fired him. It was a mess.

Who were some of the very early black DJs. Jack Cooper? Was he the first?

I think he was the first. Jack was in Chicago. He was great.

What was his style?

It was on a local station he was on in Chicago, WLS... Smooth. Very smooth. He was loved.

Could you break a hit record and, if so, how quickly?

Oh, my God. I could do it in two shows, if it was in the groove... I would just say “Oh man, did you hear her...” and you’d start it again, [play] it twice in a row.

How else did you hype a record up?

We would talk about the performer, about the musicians on the set and about the song itself. “Hey, what do you think of this? Give me a ring. Let me know what you think of this record. This is a HIT.”

Would you play segues or talk after each record?

You could talk after each one [or] segue maybe three different performers doing the same kind of thing... make sure the mood was right. And you’d know the listeners were dancing, living right up to it.

You would play a sequence for people to dance to?

Yeah, because you had to. On Saturday night, they were looking for something else. Everybody wanted to get out, get going. If they didn’t have money to go to the clubs they’d tune in to you... [They’d] put on a PA in some locations – especially if you were gonna be on three or four hours – and everybody would go to that location, knowing that you were gonna take care of them. They’d call in and, even before the show, you’d get requests.

Would you actively support the independent labels, the black-owned labels, more than the major labels?

Well, the black labels were just coming along, but you could feel – and I would know a lot of these guys – that they’d put their last dollar in this recording session. Sometimes I’d have to say, “No, you’ve got to go back and work on this.” Other times it was, “Wow, all this record needs is to be heard... you’d get on it and say “Call me if you like this record...” Whoom! The phones go crazy. A lot of times that’s all it needed – the exposure.

Can you think of anybody you broke? I know you broke Alicia Keys, but in the ’50s and ’60s.

I can’t think of all the people. Jackie Wilson, Little Anthony And The Imperials, Patti Labelle... I could go on and on. Aretha [Franklin] always want to give me credit, but I say “C’mon, you were a big star before I came.” But she swears, because I knew her when she was just scuffling out of Detroit. Her father was a minister of the church. [Franklin first became known as a gospel singer in her father’s ministry.] He called me and told me Aretha wanted to do some rhythm & blues. He said, “I’ve no objection... if you want to help her, good.” I guess I contributed, but Aretha became such a big star.

The original black DJs... who were you aware of?

Jack Cooper. Jockey Jack Gibson did a lot of things, brought people together. He used to have a thing. Once a year, he’d bring everybody down to Atlanta, the artists, the people. Jockey Jack was really influential.

What did they call that convention?

Jack The Rapper.

What about Al Benson?

What a class guy. Oh, class. Al was one of the terrific, class guys.

What was his style like?

Very classy. He worked network stuff, mostly.

But he was talking very slang, very street, wasn’t he?

Yep.

Was that unique? Was he one of the first people to do that?

Yes, he was.

What did he sound like?

His gift of the gab was unbelievable.

How did people react to hearing that kind of street talk on the radio?

Well, he had a style of his own. No guttural stuff, just class, real class. And it took off. Amazing...

They say he murdered the King’s English...

Yeah, he would get down in the alley...

How did black people react to that, hearing him not trying to sound white, sounding like he was “one of ours”?

Yeah, he had his own following who loved what he was doing.

How about Jocko Henderson?

Jocko... that’s my boy. Amazing. He was in Philly and I was doing... oh, man... I was doing everything. I was doing a classical show in Philly on the QXR network. I would do this show from 6 AM to 10 AM every day. Leave New York at 2.30 in the morning, get there at 5.30, go to the studio...

And that’s how you met Jocko?

He was at the station. Georgie Woods is another one. You got him? He was great. He was in Philadelphia on WDAS. The guy who owned the station that I was with at the time, his brother bought another station in New York.

He said, “Hal, you’ve got to come over.” I said, “There ain’t no more hours in the day. I go down to Philadelphia, I do eight hours, and I come back up here, and that’s it.”

“No, let me tell you, I’m getting ready to buy a station, and if you can just do a four-hour...” “I can’t do a four-hour... but I got a guy. I got a guy – if I bring him here, he will take New York by storm... I’ll get him up here.”

And Jock’s class: “Ee to the ock, this is the Jock, back on the scene with the record machine. The time right now, 8.15...”

Jock was another one with the theater. He would pack them in down on Broadway. That’s how big he got.

And he was crazy, right?

Crazy as can be... And you know what, Jock moved real, real fast, and he made a lot of money with those shows. He bought a house down there, $100,000. It was a lot of money, but these shows, he would do it in Philly, and then he would do it in New York. When he was sick, I had no idea, I was down there with him, he got sick and boom. Gone.

His lingo would knock everybody out. He would always use some new phrase to lead into a record. He broke many a record. Introduced it and it sold like crazy. They would run down to Philadelphia, because Jock did his show in his own studio, and would send it back up to New York on tape. He said he wasn’t gonna do no live show. He could do so many different things... very, very unique. Do you remember how he always started his show? The rocket ship... whenever [he was at] the Paramount or the Apollo, they’d have this ship coming down from the top of the theater, and he’d have on his pilot thing.

A spacesuit.

He’d bring it right on down and land on the stage, and then he’d go into his thing. He made it real. He had on this helmet... the Jock was something. A real good guy too.

Any other DJs doing similar crazy stuff?

I don’t know of any others.

The whole rapping thing became a big part of radio, didn’t it?

You talk about the rapping thing, Jock could rap right into the vocal. He was the first DJ I knew doing the rap. They wanted him to make records but he didn’t make no records. But he did do the rapping.

And Eddie Castleberry?

Ed’s in a nursing home, isn’t he? He called me from a nursing home. He’s been around a long time. Very laid-back, very good. Not loud and all, just cool. He did quite a few appearances in the theaters, too.

When did you first hear the term disc jockey?

I’m trying to think. Wow... when we came down with rhythm & blues, they were very sedate at first. They made it “radio personality.” You ever hear the name William B. Williams? Well, he was my buddy. He was on WNEW [in New York], and Martin Block was on it. Well, you know Martin was Mr. Smooth. And Willie took over from him – his forte was mostly with interviews. He wasn’t into rhythm & blues, though. He only worked with the pop stuff.

When did you realize that the white audiences were tapping into what you were doing, and learning about black culture?

Oh, you could see. I think the first outlet was the Apollo Theater. I used to do shows up there maybe once every four or five weeks. You could see the reaction when you started seeing so many white people coming to the Apollo. You could feel it really crossing over. Certain artists would pack them in... whites, blacks, whatever. I think the Apollo might have been the first opening wedge.

Did you try to fuel this crossover?

I would work with some of the white DJs. Jerry Blavat... I used to call him “The Geator With The Heater.” He was a young white boy. I would take him and put him in the shows. Frank Shipman who owned the Apollo was always afraid of what would happen with the white DJs. I [told him he was] crazy. William B. went up there a few times. But, like you say, you could feel the interest from the masses.

What about the white DJs who started trying to sound black?

[laughs] I’m trying to think about some of them.

Wolfman Jack is probably the most famous.

Wolfman had his own style, just like Alan Freed. He didn’t back up on nobody. Very relaxed.

What did people think to hear black street talk coming out of a white guy?

It all depends on who. Even with Wolfman, it was a natural thing; Alan Freed, it was a natural thing. And then there were little guys who tried to be hip. Some of the young white DJs. I’d tell them, “Be you.”

Did you feel like you were on a team striking out for black culture, to show our way of life to the rest of the world?

You could feel that it was working. You could feel, from the reaction... It wasn’t hard to notice.

In what way?

I noticed reactions from not only the white part of the audience but the blacks who had always wanted to get their white friends into it. They would make a project of going out and getting their white friends interested, by way of the radio... and when you looked, you had a whole section of people sticking with what you were doing. Radio [is a] great communicator... It’s done a lot to bring people together, no question about that.