Video Killed the Radio Star

I was 19 years old when I landed in Honolulu in the very early morning of July 31^st, 1981. I got off the plane, threw my canvas duffle bag over my shoulder, brutally stiff because it was new, (the bag, not my shoulder) and wandered into the wet heat of Hawaii. I was dressed in what was called my Tropic Coast Guard uniform; navy blue slacks, polished leather shoes, a light blue short-sleeved shirt, clean white T-shirt underneath, and a white bus driver’s type hat. It had all been neatly pressed when I started my journey, but five hours in the middle seat in a row of eleven on the 747 had long ago taken out of it anything resembling a crease. I stood at the curb for a few minutes, wondering how I was going to get to my first duty station, the cutter Jarvis, moored somewhere southeast of the airport.

Cabs were lined up out front like candy in a PEZ dispenser, waiting for their turn to pop out of Donald Duck’s neck, and swing up to the curb for the $20 ride to Honolulu Harbor. I contemplated hailing one but stopped when a beat up Ford van started up and rolled toward me. The driver, dressed in an all navy blue Coast Guard uniform, this one splattered with paint, leaned over, rolled down the passenger side window, and said, “You goin’ to the Jarvis?”

During the drive through the streets and along the highways of Hawaii, the driver, whose name has long ago escaped me, chain smoked with the reckless abandon of a guy in a pie eating contest, only rather than stuffing blueberry or apple filling into his mouth, it was cigarette after cigarette. I kept expecting someone to call out, “time” and a judge with a besashed beauty queen at his side to appear and hand the guy a large blue ribbon. At one point, although I’m not certain because I had trouble seeing in the dark and through the smoke, he may have had two or three in there at the same time. I don’t remember a thing I saw out the windows that night, it was dark, but I do remember the condition of the van; it was like a farm laborers van with less upkeep or regard for safety. I also remember that Foghat’s version of "I Just Want to Make Love to You" was on the radio. Which I’ll get back to in a little bit.

We got to the ship and my driver leapt from the van, scurried up the gangway, and disappeared below. Probably because he wanted to get to his next pack of smokes before the one currently in his mouth went out. I trudged up behind him and was met by a Second Class Radioman who looked me up and down, carefully read my nametag out loud, Wruuiiittt, said, “I knew a guy named Wright in Pensacola. He sucker-punched me one night at a bar. You any relation?”

Having no relatives in Florida, and not being a puncher, sucker or otherwise, I answered, “No sir.”

He barked, “Don’t call me sir goddamnit, I work for a living.” This pleasant gentleman led me to a bunk; affectionately called a rack, and said, “You sleep here. Breakfast is at 6:00 and muster is at 7:00.” His name also escaped me, but I added and abetted in that.

I brushed my teeth and not really feeling tired, although it was something like 1:00AM, I found my way to a small compartment with three couches arranged in a U shape with a TV at the open side. The compartment was about the size of three couches and a TV. On one of the couches was the van driver, watching TV, and (of course), smoking. I asked, “What are you watching.”

The driver/smoker pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and pointing with the two fingers that held it answered, “Some rich fucks getting married.” The TV showed a giant cathedral, filled with people, with Prince Charles and Diana Spencer at the altar.

For the two years I was on that ship, whatever was on that little TV in that little compartment was all the TV I watched. We watched broadcast television while in port, and movies on video while underway. Aside from the two rich…um...people getting married, the only other thing I remember watching on that TV specifically was Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, and the fledgling MTV. Mr. Kirshner’s show was simply a rock concert with no lip-syncing. With real rock bands like the Stones, Led Zep, and one night that I remember while on the Jarvis; Foghat. I remember the intro to “I Just Want to Make Love to You" with the guitar and bass building up over several minutes to the lead singer belting out, “I don't want you, cook my bread, I don't want you, make my bed.” Pure garage band goodness.

Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert was the opposite of MTV. Where his show was pretty much a camera and a band, MTV was processed, prepackaged images of attractive people warbling their commercial jingle quality music while pretty dancers popped and slid around and behind them. MTV led to the single most horrifying and miserable moment in pop music history; Madonna "singing" Don Mclean’s American Pie.

I was taken back to this/these moment(s) when I read this week that Don Kirshner had passed away. He was 76 and living in Florida. Maybe he was a neighbor of those famous Floridians, The Sucker-Punching Wright family. He was credited with making the careers of people like Neil Diamond, James Taylor, Carole King and many others. Plus he created the Monkees who lip-synced but never other artist's songs. He is not, however in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Sadly, Madonna is.

At a time when the Best Rock Vocal Grammy award goes to Coldplay, I’ll raise a glass and say, “Thanks Mr. Kirshner. For a handful of memories of real bands, warts and all, in free televised concerts, at a time when I felt very alone and was questioning my decision to fly to a tiny rock in the center of the largest ocean in the known universe. Seeing those same bands in such a simple, unprocessed, format was like being at home, and I'm sure it helped me make friends in that lonely green chain of rocks.