News Item: Dan Ingram, Iconic AM Radio DJ, Dies

Dan Ingram, iconic DJ on New York’s powerhouse AM station WABC-AM, died today at 83.

Real New Yorkers will remember that the three big rock and roll stations here in the sixties and into the seventies were WMCA, WABC and WINS.  WABC had a punchy, irreverent approach, fueled by mouthpieces such as Cousin Brucie, Harry Harrison and Dan Ingram.

Before Spotify and file-sharing, before iPods and tablets and all manner of digital delinquency, we had tinny AM transistor radios. Every kid had his radio, powered by a nine-volt battery.  We carried them everywhere, even to bed.

We listened to them on our stoops, snapping our fingers, snapping our gum, drinking Cokes and enjoying Good Humor ice cream pops. We were pre-teen wannabe terrors, learning about love and heartache from the crooners of Motown, the Brill Building, Memphis and Liverpool.

And Dan Ingram was our pied piper. He would talk as the song started, right up to the precise moment when the lyrics began.  He spun Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs, Ramsey Lewis, Petula Clark, the Supremes, Glen Campbell, the Monkees, Sly Stone, the Bee Gees, Mitch Ryder, the Stones, Aretha, the Doors, and of course, The King, and the Beatles.

And the commercials! They were as big a part of our lives as the songs.  Car dealerships.  Robert Hall clothes. National Speedway.  Palisades Amusement Park (“swings all day and after dark…”). The allure of fast cars, snappy clothes, and young love.  The soundtrack of our thirteen year old lives.

We grew up fast, though.  Assassinations.  Viet Nam.  The so-called Silent Majority.  Woodstock.  Altamont.

Around ’66 or ’67, free-form FM radio, in stereo, took us higher. True, the signals were weak, fading in and out.  But: No playlists.  Fewer commercials.  Serious discussions.  WOR-FM segued to WNEW-FM.  WPLJ.  WBAI. And lots more. The big name jocks moved over to FM, where we had Muni, Murray the K, Jonathan Schwartz, Allison Steele, Rosko.  Oh man — ROSKO!!!

Suddenly, AM radio seemed so….sad.  Like Jackie Paper, we left that rascal Puff.  The war burned.
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The big AM stations such as WABC-AM went all-talk, suitable for drivers of yellow cabs but not the cool kids.

And, now, our pre-pubescent leader, Dan Ingram, is gone.  Through the gauze of time, I have only fond memories of those AM radio days.  I remember soft summer nights, not unlike tonight, chasing fireflies, finally sitting on Millie’s stoop.  Me, Mark and Billy are surrounded by the older teen girls who light our punks and our firecrackers with their cigarettes, their hair in curlers, their tantalizing perfume wafting gently on each breeze. They patiently teach us lyrics to nonsensical tunes over the WABC-AM airwaves.

“Does your chewing gum lose it’s flavor on the bedpost overnight?”

“Hey there Little Red Riding Hood.  You sure are looking good, doing all the things a big bad wolf could want…AH-OOOOOOOOO!”

And, for us kids in the Bronxy Bronx, the dream of bigger things twelve or so miles south, as we all sing along under the streetlights, until Mrs. Donahue sticks her head out the window and yells for us to shut up:

“The lights are much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares
So go downtown, things’ll be great when you’re
Downtown, no finer place for sure
Downtown everything’s waiting for you.”

So long, Kemosabe.  I left you.  But I never forgot you.  How could I ever do a thing like that?

Egypt’s heartbreaking own goal in yesterday’s World Cup match against Russia reminded me of something. As you’ll recall, very early in the second half, the ball glanced off the leg of a defensive player on the Egyptian team, resulting in an own goal that opened the floodgates for two quickies by Russia.  In a span of sixteen minutes or so, Russia scored three times.  Egypt was deflated, and not even a laser of a penalty shot by Mo Salah could rouse the team.

But let me tell you a story.  A long time ago, I tutored kids, Mexican- and Middle Eastern- born Brooklynites, at 826nyc, the Dave Eggers-founded after-school literacy program.  The kids were so cute, and played so well together.  This group was mostly from Puebla and Yemen, and they earnestly did their math and spelling homework, boys sporting Mets caps (God help them, they were Mets fans) and girls in sparkly little sneakers and tee-shirts with funny sayings.

Four years later, the markets melted down, and in 2008, with the world economy teetering on the brink, I shifted gears and started working at the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library.  You know, the big Art Deco one on Grand Army Plaza.  People rag about “makers and takers” but, I’ll tell you, every damn seat in every damn study room was always filled.  The place was packed with kids and adults, doing their school research, working on projects, and trying so hard to better themselves.

My job was in adult education and, because the market tanked, and library patrons were out of work, or about to be laid off,  my primary task was helping men and women improve (or start) their resumes.

But there was one guy, from Montego Bay, Mike, who struggled with composition writing.  He needed to learn how to write basic compositions, for his remedial coursework.  He was a tall, fit guy in his mid-twenties, who worked light construction.  His jeans were worn, his pocketed Carhartt shirts had holes in them, and his hands were rough.

He always smiled at the start of our time.  Mike was very shy and said he could not write a little story, even a paragraph, with a beginning, middle and end.  We tried and tried, to no avail. It was tough.  He was tired from work, and embarrassed by his situation.

“I can’t do this,” he said, finally, one day.

“Bull,” I said. “I know you can.”

He shook his head.  I countered with: “I’ll prove you can.  Put your pen down, and just tell me a story.”

And he did.

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The ball was struck, a bullet straight at Mike.  He reflexively stuck out his foot to block and redirect the shot.

Terror of terrors: somehow the ball careened violently back towards Mike’s goal, and skidded into the corner.  It was an own goal.

Mike stopped talking.  He wiped away a tear, this big strong guy.  “No one talked to me.  No one said a ting. They all walked away.

“I will never forget that moment, Mr. Marty.  I tell you.  Never.”

I breathed deeply and regrouped.

“Mike, thank you for sharing that story with me,” I said.  “That was very brave. And now you’re going to do something even more difficult.”

“What?” he said, nervous.

“Pick up your pen, and write that story down, just like you told it to me, word for word.”

And he did.  And it was damn fine.

And I will never forget that moment either.