Ciao, Flavio

Con Flavio Golzio, il signore sorridente primo a sinistra, ho condiviso tante emozioni radiofoniche, tanti momenti di ascolto collettivo nella sua postazione torinese. Ero ancora un ragazzo e insieme a Dario (al centro: la foto, risalente a una decina d'anni fa, l'ho presa dal sito del suo Play DX, storico fanzine per appassionati di ascolto a lunga distanza) si partiva il sabato pomeriggio verso Torino Porta Susa, dove Flavio ci aspettava con la sua 500. Dopo la pizza ci mettevamo tutti davanti al Collins R392, un ricevitore militare pesantissimo, adatto al trasporto su jeep. E per tutta la notte davamo la caccia alle stazioni latinoamericane, utilizzando anche un antenna "loop" per le onde medie che funzionava splendidamente. Flavio lavorava con i computer, per lui l'elettronica non aveva segreti, le radio le sapeva restaurare e esaltare, in Italia era uno dei pionieri dell'ascolto organizzato. A lungo rimanemmo in contatto, almeno via mail, ma per qualche motivo mai detto anche questa frequentazione negli anni si è affievolita.

Oggi è arrivato un messaggio della figlia Ilaria che è riuscita a entrare nella mail del padre e chiede di sospendere ogni ulteriore invio da parte dei vecchi amici della radio. Flavio, scrive, è mancato improvvisamente qualche settimana fa, il 9 luglio. A chi ha avuto la fortuna di conoscerlo mancherà immensamente.

Grazie, Steve

In morte di un DXer - John H. Bryant

La posta elettronica di questa mattina ha portato, complice il fuso orario, una notizia molto triste dagli Stati Uniti. L'altro giorno è morto John H. Bryant, uno dei grandi nomi del DXing, la forma più tecnica e hobbystica del radioascolto, un bravissimo appassionato della radio specializzato nell'ascolto delle stazioni in onde medie molto lontane (qui un suo documento sull'ascolto e l'identificazione delle stazioni in onde medie giapponesi). John, che faceva un mestiere bellissimo - era docente di architettura, ormai "emerito", della Oklahoma University - era un pioniere delle cosiddette DXpedition, le sessioni di ascolto effettuate in luoghi isolati e lontani dalle sorgenti di rumore metropolitane. La sua destinazione preferita era la foresta di Grayland nello stato di Washington, ma la DXpedition più famosa, che resterà nella storia dell'hobby, John la effettuò a Rapa Nui, l'Isola di Pasqua. La sua dedizione, l'entusiasmo e l'intelligenza che metteva nell'ascoltare, la generosa disponibilità a condividere le proprie conoscenze e il gusto che provava nel trasmettere agli altri, da autentico maestro, la sua esperienza, erano leggendari. Dalle prime notizie sembrerebbe che John sia rovinosamente caduto da una scala a pioli e purtroppo non è sopravvissuto ai traumi subiti. John scrisse e fu co-autore di diversi libri e pubblicazioni, tra cui una bellissima serie di libri sui ricevitori Zenith Trans-Oceanic.
Nella comunità internazionale dei DXer, sorprendentemente poco numerosa e quindi relativamente unita, John godeva di una fama meritatissima ma naturalmente pochi di noi lo hanno conosciuto di persona. Credo tuttavia che nessuno possa dire di non essersi sentito suo amico "vero", compagno e sodale nello spirito transculturale e senza barriere, della radio. Poco fa, tra i tanti ricordi che arrivano in queste ore sulle mailing list che rappresentano il sistema linfatico dell'hobby, è arrivata la rievocazione di Mark Connelly, radioamatore e DXer, grande designer di accessori per ottimizzare l'ascolto. Non credo di aver mai letto parole più belle ed eloquenti, un ritratto più accurato del DXer "visto da dentro".
Sono in inglese, ma non voglio tradurle perché non riuscirei a fare un lavoro all'altezza. Sono sempre in grande difficoltà quando mi chiedono di spiegare che cosa vuol dire essere DXer, per quale motivo ho cominiciato a praticare questa astrusa passione. Mark è il primo che è riuscito a mettere nero su bianco il motivo per cui questo è l'hobby più bello del mondo.

I am truly saddened to hear of the loss of John Bryant, a DXer of rare skill, enthusiasm, and willingness to help and teach others. I had the pleasure to meet John at one of the Boston Area DXers meetings about 10 years ago. He had just been up to Newfoundland so we had quite a bit to talk about from that.
In the 1980's I became aware of John through the Fine Tuning Proceedings books. These still stand as some of the best hobby writing ever. Though, after 20+ years, techniques, equipment, and target stations have changed a lot, the Proceedings books are still great "motivational reading". The later works such as "Emerging Techniques of High Tech DXpeditioning" embody the same level of writing skill and they form the signposts along the road the radio hobbies have taken. John's writings, like those of the late Gordon Nelson, will be the important chapters when, many years from now, historians try to sort out what we were doing in DX listening.
John, as a professor of architecture, reveled in fine industrial design. This was true whether the object of attention was a building, a sports car, or a radio. His review of the SX-28, that old World War II classic, is a must read. A spin of the hefty well-balanced tuning knob becomes the passport to unique pleasures on several levels. This is like a good car reviewer's write-up about a Ferrari: it's about so much more than just "getting from A to B".
The knowledge in each article was always first rate and thoroughly researched but John's writing style was never stuffy and academic. Each paragraph "pulled you in" and exuded enthusiasm for the look and feel of a great receiver, the "wow" excitement when an antenna project met or exceeded expectations, and the joyfulness about the sights, smells, local culture, etc. of exotic DXpedition sites. The loggings, technical details, etc. were always in there of course - and in splendidly accurate detail - but also there was the human interest side. A new radio was greeted the way a kid would experience opening presents on Christmas morning. A DX locale was described not just in technical terms but also in respect to how all the DXpeditioners got along (their good as well as their odd or irritating habits). There were wonderfully insightful narratives about local people, languages, customs, art, food, and music. The articles always had great photos and drawings (and, in later times, audio and video clips) to enhance and illuminate the whole experience.
DX stations were not just appraised in dry terms of frequency, call, strength, and time heard. There was a distinct interest in using each broadcast logged, whether the long-appreciated Indonesians or anything else, as a way to get into the culture of people around the world. Many DXers do some research about characteristics of different countries but (even before Google made it easier) John took this to a whole new level by taking the time to figure out who the politicians, entertainers, sports figures, etc. were in many lands, as well as amassing much other vital information allowing a much more rewarding and informed "DXperience".
He was truly a king of the DX hobby and will be missed greatly. Those of us who are left will be well served by re-reading the massive amount of John's material out there on the Web and in printed form that can be obtained through various clubs. We should take things from John's work to help us be keepers of the flame - not just expertise (which he had in spades) but the more visceral thrills to be had in the pursuit of each tidbit of culture that comes through our headphones and speakers from places quite different from home.
I know that a year or two back he hosted a 50th high school reunion celebration that was especially important to him. How sad that it was the last time most of his former classmates saw him.
Mark Connelly, WA1ION

Ciao, Beniamino

E' morto Beniamino Placido. Ma le voci sommesse, come la sua, sono scomparse da tempo dall'orizzonte di molti luoghi ormai abitati da una genìa di stupidi urlatori. Morir es una costumbre, non è che possiamo farci niente. Il vero problema comincia a essere la raccolta dei testimoni lasciati cadere da tutte le persone, intelligenti e miti, che se ne vanno.

Beniamino Placido, Indro Montanelli e Vittoria Foa su "Destra e Sinistra" da Eppur si muove, Rai Tre 1994. Parte prima e seconda.

Si spegne la prima voce di Radio Caroline

Se n'è andato a 74 anni il presentatore del primo programma diffuso il giorno di pasqua del 1964 dalla celeberrima stazione galleggiante Radio Caroline, Simon Dee. Negli anni Sessanta, gli Swingin' Sixities, Simon (ma il suo vero nome era Cyril) fu protagonista della rivoluzione della radio, prima con le emittenti pirate, poi con la BBC. La sua carriera proseguì con la televisione, ma alla fine venne dimenticato. Persino della sua biografia pubblicata nel 2006, "Che fine ha fatto Simon Dee?", sono state vendute poche copie. Dee aveva scoperto la sua vocazione da disc jokey prestando servizio nella RAF e trasmettendo per la British Forces Radio.
Lo ricorda oggi l'Independent, in un bel necrologio di Spencer Leigh.

Simon Dee: Broadcaster who made his name on pirate radio and epitomised the Swinging Sixties
September 2, 2009

With his lanky frame, blond fringe, cheeky smile and floral shirts and ties, Simon Dee was among the most recognisable faces of the Swinging Sixties. His combination of lighthearted banter and music was a winning combination for both his radio programmes and his television series, Dee Time. However his fall from grace, which was largely of his own making, was spectacular and he never regained his popularity.
Simon Dee was born Cyril Nicholas Henty-Dodd in Manchester in July 1935. His father owned a cotton mill and was reasonably prosperous, but he divorced his wife after finding her in bed with two men. Dee was a boarder at Shrewsbury public school and made his first stage appearance in a school production of The Pirates of Penzance.
After his mother died of cancer in 1952, Dee lived with his father and joined the RAF. He took aerial photographs at the time of the Suez crisis, and, through his work with British Forces Radio, discovered a love for broadcasting.
Dee was demobbed in 1958 and opened a coffee bar, which cost him his savings. He undertook several jobs, with varying success, but was earning £25 a week plus commission as an estate agent when his friend the entrepreneur Ronan O'Rahilly offered him work on pirate radio, an exciting prospect but only paying £15 a week.
At the time, the Beatles had spearheaded a huge interest in British beat music and yet little of it was heard on the BBC's Light Programme. O'Rahilly decided to moor a boat three miles off the Essex coast - and hence outside territorial waters - in order to broadcast "pirate" radio.
Dee embarked in a deserted port in Dublin and likened the experience to being in a thriller. The station, known as Radio Caroline, began broadcasting on Easter Saturday 1964, and Dee presented the first programme. In fact, he presented most of the early programmes, and was on air for 50 hours a week. He used the name Simon Dee, which he came up with by combining his son's name with the first letter of his surname.
(continua)

I faccia a faccia radiofonici di Re Ted

Con la morte di Ted Kennedy, la "casa regnante" del New England chiude definitivamente il capitolo più importante della sua storia e dovrà forse rassegnarsi a una graduale discesa agli inferi dell'anonimato, almeno politicamente parlando. Bob aveva messo al mondo undici figli, Ted solo tre, ma nessuno sembra in grado di rilanciare una eredità così pesante. Tra gli aneddoti curiosi che la stampa americana sta raccogliendo nei suoi necrologi dell'ultimo senatore, c'è la storia abbastanza lunga, dal 1984 fino a pochi anni fa, della carriera radiofonica di Ted Kennedy all'interno di un programma quasi quotidiano, Face-Off, in cui il principe dei politici democratici dibatteva una questione del giorno con una controparte repubblicana. Aveva iniziato Bob Dole, avversario di Bill Clinton, e aveva proseguito con Alan Simpson (ex senatore del Wyoming che infatti lo ha ricordato nelle sue interviste), Fred Thompson politico e attore che nel 2008 si era anche proposto come candidato presidenziale, e infine con John McCain, avversario di Obama alle ultime elezioni.
Il Lawrence Journal World and News, quotidiano della città del Kansas dove ha sede il Dole Institute of Politics (che ha organizzato un memoriale su Kennedy) pubblica ora cinque registrazioni della prima serie di Face-Off, tra Ted e Bob, oggi 86enne. Particolarmente interessante quello del 1985 dedicato all'importanza dell'innovazione, in cui i due avversari politici si affrontano su quanto la spesa militare influisca sulla leadership tecnologica.

Morte accidentale di un filosofo

Si può morire in molti modi, nessuno particolarmente stupido, o intelligente (parametri valutativi quanto mai vacui, nella fattispecie). Sui sentieri di montagna, si dice, si può morire per impreparazione, incidente o "semplice" fatalità. Quando giorni fa un caro amico mi ha chiamato al telefono, poco prima della partenza da Favignana, ho pensato che il fato che si era appena portato via Flavio si incastrasse ironicamente (diabolicamente?) con il suo mestiere di filosofo. Non lo vedevo da un po' ma con lui c'era sempre stata una strana sintonia. I contatti tra noi non risalivano propriamente agli anni del liceo, ma a diverso tempo dopo, quando con un gruppo di altri amici filosofi Flavio si era rivolto alla nostra piccola struttura di service editoriale per la pubblicazione di una rivista, "Itinerari filosofici". Una di quelle iniziative che dottorandi e docenti universitari e in nuce devono coltivare, in Ialia, nella speranza di accumulare gli indispensabili punteggi.

Era un vero teoretico, Flavio, scriveva di cose per me inarrivabili, era un grande esegeta di Heidegger, il più ermetico di tutti. Dopo la chiusura di Itinerari riuscì a entrare in dottorato a Padova e negli ultimi anni era ricercatore a Pavia, dove gli avevano affidato il corso di ermeneutica filosofica. Aveva una figlia grande, perché diversamente da noi si era sposato prestissimo. Quando ci si frequentava abbastanza assiduamente stava con una nuova fidanzata simpatica, ma la cosa non era andata avanti. Ne aveva incontrata un'altra ed era nato un secondo figlio, molto più piccolo della prima. Era appassionato di archeologia, ricordo i suoi racconti dagli scavi più esotici e amava andare in montagna, seriamente, da rocciatore esperto. All'inizio di agosto aveva portato il figlio a camminare, dalle parti di Crodo, nell'alta valle del Toce. Per fotografare il bambino - mi ha raccontato il mio amico - ha messo male un piede su un pietrone liscio ed è andato giù, forse sbattendo la testa, rovinando nelle acque alte, turbolente, del fiume. Sotto gli occhi del figlio, che ha dovuto dare l'allarme.
Nella sua pagina del sito di UniPavia leggo che il titolo preciso della sua tesi di dottorato era "Mondo, esistenza, verità. Ontologia fondamentale e cosmologia fenomenologica nella riflessione di Martin Heidegger". Sul sito Filosofiateoretica.it, della Statale di Milano, si trova per esempio un suo recente intervento a un convegno su Derrida. Flavio diceva di odiare la psicologia (nell'accezione filosofica del termine), le sue sonde erano rivolte alle verità assolute, alle radici del pensiero astratto, liscio e impenetrabile come quei pietroni sul Toce.

La chitarra radiofonica di Les

Uno dei suoi grandi successi, negli anni 50, fu la canzone Vaya con Dios, cantata insieme alla prima moglie, Mary Ford, durante il suo popolare quarto d'ora radiofonico, il Les Paul Show. Ieri Les se n'è andato per davvero, a 94 anni, ancora una leggenda della chitarra elettrica. Anzi, uno degli artisti/innovatori più apprezzati e riconosciuti per la sua continua ricerca di accorgimenti e effetti. Era figlio di una modesta famiglia del Wisconsin, i Polsfuss, e per la musica abbandonò la scuola, andando a suonare ancora adolescente per KMOX di St. Louis e altre stazioni. Durante la guerra, sempre via radio, intratteneva le truppe alleate. Nel '49 lancia l'idea del "Les Paulverizer", una sua "invenzione" capace di moltiplicare il suono della chitarra (si trattava di registrazioni multi-traccia su dischi di acetato, come spiega CNet). Da lì passò anche alla televisione. I suoi generi erano il country, il pop e il jazz, ma molti lo considerano un grande del rock per i suoi contributi tecnici ed esecutivi all'evoluzione verso la chitarra "solid body". La EMI lo ricorda oggi con questo comunicato stampa.

EMI Music Remembers the Life and Legacy of Music Legend Les Paul

Guitarist and Inventor Les Paul Dies at Age 94

HOLLYWOOD, Calif., Aug. 13 -- EMI Music joins the rest of the world in mourning the legendary musician, inventor and innovator, Les Paul, who passed away this morning at the age of 94. Today, the flag atop the Capitol Records tower in Hollywood has been lowered to half-staff in remembrance of Paul, one of EMI Music's most legendary and innovative recording artists, who first signed with Capitol Records in 1948 and was instrumental in the development of both the Capitol label and Capitol Studios.
Born Lester William Polsfuss in Waukesha, Wisconsin on June 9, 1915, Les Paul was one of the foremost influences on 20th Century sound as one of America's most popular, influential, and accomplished electric guitarists, as well as an early innovator in the development of the solid body guitar. His groundbreaking design would become the template for Gibson's best-selling electric, the Les Paul model, introduced in 1952. Today, countless musical legends still consider Paul's iconic guitar unmatched in sound and prowess. Among Paul's most enduring contributions are those in the technological realm, including ingenious developments in multi-track recording, guitar effects, and the mechanics of sound in general.
Les Paul signed with Capitol Records in 1948. His Capitol recordings garnered him a string of hits, notably 1948's "Brazil," with its six multi-tracked guitar parts, "Vaya Con Dios," and 1951's million-sellers "Mockin' Bird Hill" and "How High the Moon."
1949 saw the birth of "The Les Paul Show" on radio, and by year's end Paul and his frequent musical collaborator, Mary Ford, had married. Between recordings and broadcasts, Paul found time to invent a synthesizer and an effects-generating machine he dubbed the "Les Paulverizer," a wacky contraption that is wittily depicted in Paul and Ford's classic CBS Radio-hosted banter as a beast-like appendage, heavily strapped to the back of its user. Since then, the technology of the "Les Paulverizer" has been put to use every day by producers and musicians from every genre, from classical to punk rock.
When Capitol Records' famous Vine Street building was being built in Hollywood, with its unique "stacked records" design, Paul joked that the idea of a round building was wholly impractical, because it lacked a corner in which to prop a broom. As the final touches were being put on Capitol's new studios, Paul visited and consulted on the design of the studios' now-legendary subterranean echo chambers.
Paul retreated from recording in the late 1970s, turning his focus to live performance, a weekly ritual he enjoyed at New York City's Iridium Jazz Club until his recent hospitalization. Over the years, other world-famous musicians often sat in for a song or two during Paul's two Monday night sets, including Paul McCartney, Tony Bennett and Keith Richards, and Paul also encouraged aspiring players who toted their guitars to his shows, selecting them from the audience to join him onstage for a song.
In 2005, celebrating his 90th birthday, Paul released Les Paul & Friends: American Made World Played with Capitol/EMI, featuring collaborations with a veritable who's who of the electric guitar, including dozens of illustrious fans like Keith Richards, Buddy Guy, Billy Gibbons, Jeff Beck, Eric Clapton, and Joe Perry. Les Paul won two Grammy Awards for tracks on the album, for Best Pop Instrumental Performance and Best Rock Instrumental Performance.
Les Paul and Mary Ford were inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1977, and Paul was honored with The Recording Academy's Trustees Award in 1983. In 2001, when he earned his fifth Grammy award for his technical achievements, Hillel Resner of Mix Online wrote, "If the music industry has a Ben Franklin, surely that man is Les Paul." In 1988, Paul was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The Smithsonian Institution has honored Paul with the John Smithson Bicentennial Medal, and in 2008, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame paid tribute to Paul with a week-long celebration of his life.
Les Paul is survived by his three sons Lester (Rus) G. Paul, Gene W. Paul and Robert (Bobby) R. Paul, his daughter Colleen Wess, son-in-law Gary Wess, long time friend Arlene Palmer, five grandchildren and five great grandchildren.
A private funeral service will be held in New York. A service in Waukesha, WI will be announced at a later date. Details will follow and will be announced for all services. Memorial tributes for the public will be announced at a future date.
The family asks that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Les Paul Foundation, 236 West 30th Street, 7th Floor, New York, New York 10001.

The most trusted man in America

Ogni confronto con la triste schiera di anchormen sponsorizzati dei telegiornali nostrani, così solerti nel mettere le loro indubbie qualità professionali al servizio del potere più arrogante, sarebbe ingeneroso. Cronisti della levatura di Walter Cronkite, che ci ha lasciati questa notte, a 92 anni, non ne nascono molti. Sono pochissimi, in ogni caso, quelli davvero in grado di coniugare la difficile arte di "bucare" microfoni e schermi a una visione etica del mondo (e della sua narrazione) che li isola da ogni tentazione populista e caciarona. Paragonare i Cronkite ai Vespa più che ingeneroso sarebbe assurdo.
Leggo sul New York Times che il figlio di Cronkite, Chip, ha riferito che il padre se n'è andato per le complicazioni di una demenza. Non sono un neurologo ma ne capisco abbastanza per poter affermare che doveva trattarsi di una demenza multiinfartuale, l'accumularsi dei danni provocati da una situazione vascolare compromessa. Ho avuto la fortuna di sentir parlare Cronkite dal vivo alcuni anni fa, quando l"'uomo più fidato d'America" venne ospitato alla convention di una azienda di software americana, grande ma allora molto chiacchierata. Cronkite era già un pensionato del giornalismo ma non aveva perso un grammo del suo carisma e certo non appariva indementito quando ricordava i suoi incontri con Kennedy o le sue cronache di guerra. A proposito di Kennedy raccontò di come gli era capitato di dare la notizia dell'attentato di Dallas in fretta e furia, rivolgendosi a un'America sbigottita. Il giornale newyorkese pubblica nella sua galleria fotografica l'immagine di un Cronkite in maniche di camicia, gli occhiali con la montatura grossa a nascondere lo sguardo, la smorfia di chi cerca di contenere le lacrime. Il Times racconta che forse per la prima volta nella sua carriera, quella sera Walter perse il suo proverbiale contegno, la "composure" così diversa dall'untuoso sussiego dei reporter da compagnia, fino a doversi toglierseli, gli occhiali, per asciugarsi brevemente gli occhi. Quando lo sentii parlare, sul palco di quella convention, Cronkite ricordò invece di essersi trovato poi in uno studio sguarnito e di aver preso personalmente una delle tante telefonate che martellavano i centralini della CBS. Gli toccò di subire le contumelie di una anziana spettatrice che trovava indegno il fatto che per dare una notizia del genere il giornalista non indossasse la giacca.
Inevitabilmente, la carriera di Walter Cronkite iniziò dalla radio. Riprendo qui la fotografia pubblicata dal Times, con il giovane leone dei newscast ai microfoni di KCMO di Kansas City, nei primi anni Trenta. Leggeva i notiziari e i risultati del football e venne licenziato perché aveva polemizzato su uno stile giornalistico che giudicava insufficiente. Sono andato per curiosità sul sito di KCMO, oggi una delle tante talk radio conservatrici. Non ho trovato nessun cenno, alla notizia a parte lo spezzone audio delle Fox News. Forse è giusto che giornalisti come lui se ne vadano da un mondo che è così penoso raccontare.

Si spegne la storica voce dell'ora esatta su WWV

Christian Diemoz ha raccolto nei sedimenti ancora freschi delle notizie delle ultime settimane, la piccola pepita relativa alla scomparsa di una voce importante - ma estremamente elusiva per la maggior parte di noi - della storia della radio. Il 19 febbraio se n'è andato Don Elliot Heald, una lunga carriera di manager radiotelevisivo conclusasi nella importante stazione di Atlanta, WSB. Ma soprattutto voce ufficiale del servizio telefonico di ora esatta e lettore degli annunci orari della stazione di tempo e frequenza campione WWV di Fort Collins, Colorado, utilizzata per trasmettere su una frequenza molto precisa (serviva per tarare i ricevitori quando non esistevano ancora i precisi oscillatori a sintesi di frequenza) il segnale orario e diverse informazioni di carattere meteorologico e geomagnetico. WWV ancora oggi diffonde ogni ora i valori degli indici K e fornisce previsioni sulle possibili tempeste solari.
La voce di Heald è stata diffusa in onde corte - su 2.5, 5, 10, 15, 20 MHz - dal 1955 e fino al 1991 (gli annunci vocali erano stati introdotti nel 1950). Alcune registrazioni storiche e una breve storia delle stazioni del National Institute of Standards and Technology si trovano in una curiosa opera su CD curata da Myke Weiskopf, musicista, produttore radiofonico e autore del blog Shortwavemusic (non più aggiornato purtroppo). Il CD si intitola At the tone ed è stato ripubblicato da Weiskopf per l'etichetta Obscure-Disk. Trovate i dettagli e qualche estratto audio di questo lavoro su questa pagina e sul nuovo blog curato da Myke, Visibility One Zero.

L'uomo che inventò il blogging alla radio

La notizia della sua scomparsa è arrivata anche qui e a volte mi chiedo perché un personaggio della radiofonia americana che pochissimi, qui, avranno avuto modo di ascoltare, debba destare tanto interesse. Forse perché Paul Harvey è stato un pioniere e i pionieri esercitano sempre un certo fascino, anche in una nazione impegnata a dimenticare tutto e a sputtaneggiare chiunque cerchi di fare qualcosa di nuovo.

E' vero però, con il novantenne Paul Harvey se n'è andato un pezzo importante della radio americana. Il suo stile esclusivo, il suo accento da midwestern nato in Oklahoma, il suo conservatorismo naturale (ma non codino, era anche pro-choice, uno che riconosceva il diritto d'aborto), esercitavano un fascino tranquillizzante. E il fatto di essere rimasto 58 anni davanti ai microfoni, quasi fino all'ultimo, lo rendeva automaticamente un vecchio nonno che ha già visto tutto.
Come scrive Phil Rosethal nel suo breve editoriale-necrologio sul Chicago Tribune, Harvey era un vero blogger ante litteram. I suoi notiziari del mattino erano una rapsodica raccolta di notizie che lui riportava e commentava senza alcuna concitazione, con silenzi, battute, parole leggermente messe in evidenza o quasi sottaciute. Una rassegna stampa molto personale, intima. Se andate all'indirizzo del quotidiano di Chicago trovare anche diversi clip audio, incluso un file YouTube con una trasmissione del novembre del 1963, il mese in cui uccisero Kennedy (che non è oggetto di quella trasmissione, che però parla della rivoluzione cubana e di Che Guevara). Sembravano chiacchiere da bar, ma con l'estro del bravo giornalista, del newscaster istintivo. Uno stile che mi ha ricordato quello di Enzo Biagi.
E' andato avanti per oltre mezzo secolo, seguito come un'ombra dalla sua producer, la moglie Angela, che lo ha preceduto di pochi mesi nell'ultimo viaggio. Era uno dei pochi personaggi della radio a vantare contratti da centinaia di milioni di dollari e secondo alcune analisi il suo programma del mattino generava il 60% dei fatturati pubblicitari di ABC adio Networks, di Citadel Broadcasting, proprietaria del format. Ma erano soldi che finivano quasi tutti nelle tasche di Paul. Il giorno prima della sua morte, avvenuta il primo marzo, Wall Street ha annunciato la messa fuori listino di Citadel, il cui titolo era sceso sotto il valore dei 25 centesimi. La società, che vanta ancora 165 stazioni in FM e 58 in onde medie ed è il terzo business radiofonico del paese, ha annunciato l'altro ieri di volersi quotare sull'over the counter, il terzo mercato. Chissà come avrebbe commentato questo inarrestabile declino, il pioniere.
Il suo notiziario si concludeva con un caratteristico "Paul Harvey, have a good day..." che era diventato un marchio di fabbrica. Una buona giornata per tutti, cari, ne abbiamo bisogno.

Paul Harvey: An appraisal of his career by the Tribune's Phil Rosenthal
March 2, 2009

Paul Harvey's career—his whole life, really—was packed with the sort of surprises, superlatives, bold statements and seemingly small details that, woven together, also made up a great Paul Harvey broadcast.
All that would be missing would be the distinctively halting pauses of Harvey's delivery, and that's because there was no one steadier or more consistent for decades, right up until the last few years, when the inescapable indignities of age began to catch up with arguably the most popular radio commentator of all time.
You know the rest of the story.
Harvey, whose weekday newscasts and commentaries aired nationally for 58 years, died Saturday in Arizona. He was 90, two years older than commercial radio in this country, and no one had a better, longer run. Station owners may well find it easier to replace their mothers than Harvey.
In spirit, he is reunited with his Angel, as he nicknamed his beloved wife of nearly 68 years and longtime producer, Lynne. She preceded him in death less than a year ago and, between his ailments and hers, he had been off the air quite a bit in the last two years, causing his legion of loyal listeners and affiliates to fray.
Still, Harvey's Chicago-based radio newscasts and commentaries were airing nationally on around 600 stations at the time of his death, including Chicago Tribune parent Tribune Co.'s WGN-AM 720.
That put him in a league with the likes of Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity, perhaps even ahead, even as it marked a tremendous drop-off from the 1,200 or so U.S. outlets that once carried "The Rest of the Story" and his other programs. Estimates pegged his daily audience at 24 million. In truth, it's hard to know when his peak truly was because Harvey was so popular and so pervasive for so long.
The consolidation of the radio business and success of fellow conservatives in syndicated radio hurt him to a degree, not because they crowded out his viewpoint or his dramatic flair for telling tales, but because carving out time for Harvey's broadcasts would require a station to delay or cut into the syndicated fare, which could be both tricky and awkward. It was easier when more stations aired their own local programs.
Back when Harvey was on roughly 12 percent of the nation's radio stations in the 1960s and '70s, you would have been hard-pressed to find a dot on the map where a local station didn't air him. Sometimes he would air on both AM and FM in a town, sometimes on rock and country stations that had aired him when they had other formats and didn't want to let go for risk of alienating his listeners and boosting a rival.
Harvey in his own way was the world's most successful pre-Internet blogger, plucking a series of stories from any and all available sources and putting his own spin and storytelling style on them, putting them in his own voice and unique cadence.

One thing that distinguished Harvey from many of his peers, beyond his unmatched reach and popularity, is he had no problem peppering his copy with ads, reading commercial copy and moving product. But part of his appeal to listeners was that he wasn't a traditional newsman, and this only made him more valuable to his bosses.

A 2007 National Public Radio report said Harvey was responsible for as much as 60 percent of the revenue of Citadel Broadcasting's ABC Radio Networks, which syndicated him. Asked by analysts a couple months later, Farid Suleman, Citadel's chairman and chief executive, called Harvey "a great part of our business" but "not significant anymore to the company in terms of overall profitability."
Shrewd industry observers will tell you that's only because the 10-year, $100 million contract Harvey scored in 2000 essentially gave him around 90 cents of every dollar his show made, which still wasn't that bad a deal for Citadel.
The day before Harvey's death, the New York Stock Exchange announced it would be delisting Citadel, whose stock price had fallen below a quarter, meaning its shares will be traded over-the-counter. It is further diminished without Harvey.
All of radio is.

Harold Pinter, 1930-2008

E' appena arrivata la notizia della morte di Harold Pinter, celebre drammaturgo inglese (ma le ascendenze sono est-europee, la mamma si chiamava Moskowitz, tre nonni su quattro erano nati in Polonia e il quarto a Odessa). Il Premio Nobel 2005 era nato, a Londra, nel 1930 e negli ultimi anni, forse anche in seguito a una malattia (aveva avuto un tumore all'esofago) aveva preferito concentrarsi sugli scritti politici. Era un acceso polemista, molto critico dell'America di Bush.

BBC Four, il canale televisivo, ha una bella pagina sui suoi lavori, ma sono gli archivi radiofonici a consentirci di ascoltarne la voce. Su Radio Four il materiale è ancora poco organizzato, forse nei prossimi giorni sarà possibile trovare altre cose. Radio 4 trasmetterà domani una intervista di 50 minuti nel corso del programma Front Row (Prima Fila). Nell'edizione di Today di oggi trovate due scambi molto più brevi (qui e qui) in margine alla ripresa di uno dei primi drammi firmati da Pinter, The Birthday Party. La voce è molto diversa, profonda, roca, da quella di un Pinter più giovane che ho trovato in un'altra intervista riportata su una pagina del canale televisivo BBC Four. Risale al 1990 e offre l'occasione di cogliere lo sguardo di Pinter sul tradimento, un tema che ricorre spesso nei suoi lavori teatrali.

Derrick, la scomparsa dell'innocenza

E' stata, a lungo, e non ha mai smesso di esserlo, una delle mie perversioni televisive. Il walzerino in minore della sigla, con il suo fraseggio da carillon, è uno dei quei sottofondi destinati a restare impressi nel ricordo degli anni di prolungata adolescenza che forse quelli che sono cresciuti negli anni Settanta non si sono mai lasciati del tutto alle spalle. Se n'è andato sabato scorso, a 85 anni suonati, in una clinica di Monaco di Baviera, l'attore tedesco Horst Tappert, meglio conosciuto, in tutto il mondo, come Ispettore Derrick. La moglie Ulla lo ha annunciato solo oggi.
Una serie televisiva che ha fatto epoca, talmente teatrale nel suo impianto da risultare, a mio parere, molto radiofonica, malgrado la maniacale attenzione alla regia degli interni, sempre accuratamente selezionati tra le vere abitazioni dell'alta borghesia bavarese (e occasionalmente in qualche triste bettola dei quartieri operai). Dal 1974 al 1998 Derrick ha registrato 281 episodi con il fedelissimo vice Harry. Il detective dalla faccia bolsa e basedowiana è riuscito a smascherare altrettanti delitti, dipingendo situazioni dove prevaleva una componente quasi kantiana della morale del diritto, per la quale il colpevole era sempre meno condannabile di chi, sapendo, subiva e taceva per paura. L'omertà è sempre stato il delitto più esecrabile nello spartano ufficio dell'Oberinspektor. Herbert Reinecker, lo sceneggiatore di Derrick, non arretrava di fronte ad alcun tabù per rappresentare i suoi dilemmi criminal-filosofici, accettava senza batter ciglio gli infanticidi.
Nella foto qui accanto, l'ho trovata a corredo dell'articolo appena pubblicato sul sito dell'emittente pubblica bavarese, BR5 Aktuell (purtroppo il link all'intervento audio non è attivo), lo potete riconoscere nel ruolo di Albert Einstein, in una dei più bei drammi di Dürenmatt, I fisici. Anni fa Tappert recitò, in tedesco, a Lugano... Stupidamente non ci sono andato.
Auf wiedersehen Horst, tutto finisce. Tranne la colpa.

Horst Tappert ist tot

Er war einer der bekanntesten deutschen Schauspieler seiner Zeit. Als Oberinspektor Derrick kannte und liebte ihn nicht nur sein deutsches Publikum. Seiner Paraderolle blieb er treu - bis zur letzten Folge. Am Samstag starb Horst Tappert im Alter von 85 Jahren in einer Münchner Klinik.

Stand: 15.12.2008

Ursula Tappert sagte der Zeitschrift "Bunte", ihrem Mann sei es bis vor kurzem noch gut gegangen, erst in den letzten Tagen habe sich sein Zustand verschlimmert. Näheres zum Krankheitsverlauf wollte sie nicht preisgeben: "Mein Mann hatte ein erfülltes Leben".
Wenn dem 16-jährigen Horst Tappert einer erzählt hätte, dass er als Oberinspektor Stephan Derrick einmal Fernsehgeschichte schreiben würde, hätte Tappert ihm wohl den Vogel gezeigt. Der Zweite Weltkrieg hatte begonnen und Tappert musste zum Wehrdienst antreten. Nach Kriegsende war er in Kriegsgefangenschaft und als er freikam, wollte er da anknüpfen, wo er aufgehört hatte. Mit einem Hauptschulabschluss und einer kaufmännischen Ausbildung in der Tasche, bewarb er sich am Theater in Stendal - als Buchhalter. Aber die Leitung sah in dem großgewachsenen Tappert ein ganz anderes Potential. 1945, noch im selben Jahr also, spielte er Dr. Striebel in der Theaterproduktion "Die Flitterwochen".
Man könnte sagen, der Rest sei Geschichte. Tappert erhielt 1946/47 doch noch Schauspielunterricht und mauserte sich zu einem der gefragtesten Bühnenschauspieler der Bundesrepublik. Mit 35 bekam er seine erste Filmrolle in "Wir Wunderkinder". Bald kannten ihn die Fernsehzuschauer als Kommissar in den Edgar Wallace Verfilmungen. Der große Coup aber gelang ihm als Oberinspektor Derrick in der gleichnamigen ZDF-Krimiserie. Von 1974 bis 1998 jagte er zusammen mit Inspektor Harry Klein, gespielt von Fritz Wepper, die Verbrecher der Münchner Unter- und Oberwelt. Das ZDF verdiente sich eine goldene Nase, denn der Sender exportierte die Serie in mehr als 100 Länder. Weil dank Tappert alias Derrick das Ansehen der Deutschen in der Welt erheblich stieg, bekam er 1988 das Bundesverdienstkreuz und 1997 den Bundesverdienstorden.
Als am 16. Oktober 1998 die 281. und letzte Folge "Derrick" über die Mattscheiben der deutschen Haushalte flimmerte, dachte Tappert noch nicht an ein Rentnerdasein. Im selben Jahr veröffentlichte er seine Autobiografie "Derrick und ich". Noch weitere fünf Jahre stand er vor der Kamera. Zum letzten Mal war er 2003 in "Herz ohne Krone" zu sehen. Im April 2004 kam der Zeichentrickfilm "Derrick - die Pflicht ruft!" ins Kino, wofür Tappert zwar nicht mehr persönlich in Aktion treten musste, aber dem Trick-Derrick seine Stimme lieh. Im Mai hatte er seinen 85. Geburtstag gefeiert.

Ted Rogers, magnate canadese: una fortuna dalla radio

Le sue ricchezze di quarto uomo più affluente del Canada sono legate alla telefonia cellulare e alla tv via cavo, ma le radici affondano nei primordi dell'industria della radio. E l'esempio che cercò di seguire da giovane imprenditore fu quello del padre, Edward "Ted" Rogers Sr., il radioamatore che tra i primi aveva collegato in antenna i suoi colleghi d'oltre Atlantico, che aveva acquistato e perfezionato il brevetto di un tubo elettronico alimentabile a corrente alternata per costruire i primi apparecchi capaci di funzionare con l'elettricità di casa, senza le ingombranti e inquinanti batterie che un tempo erano indispensabili per far funzionare i ricevitori dei primordi. La radio è stata l'inizio della fortuna di due famiglie Rogers, prima quella del padre, quindi quella del figlio.
Per colpa di un maledetto aneurisma l'inventore della batteryless radio non arrivò ai quarant'anni, lasciando a Ted Junior, scomparso oggi a Toronto, anche lui per un guaio cardiovascolare, l'eredità ingombrante di un genio della tecnologia e dell'industria, difficile da imitare. Ted Jr - che non studiò ingegneria ma legge - ci riuscì, a modo suo, sfiorando più volte fallimenti clamorosi. E senza centrare un obiettivo sentimental-affaristico importante: riuscire a riacquistare la stazione radio creata dal padre prima di morire, radio CFRB, Canada's First Rogers Batteryless, una di quelle che si possono ascoltare anche qui in Europa, in onde medie, sulla non facile frequenza di 1010 kHz; lo stesso spazio occupato dalla mitica stazione newyorkese WINS anche lei, come CFRB (con somma gioia dei DXer che devono stare ben attenti a non confonderle), una "all news, all the time".
Con la scomparsa di Ted padre, CFRB dovette essere venduta. Una trentina d'anni dopo, il figlio rileva un'altra stazione in modulazione di frequenza, CHFI. Sarà la prima pietra di un impero mediatico che spazia dalla radiofonia alla tv digitale via cavo e comprende anche quotidiani e una squadra di baseball.
Oggi Rogers Communications capitalizza 16 miliardi di dollari americani e ha un fatturato annuo di 10 miliardi di dollari canadesi.

Ted Rogers dies at 75

GORDON PITTS

Globe and Mail Update

December 2, 2008 at 9:30 AM EST

Ted Rogers spent his life defying expectations. He feared he would die by the time he was 38, the age when his father was felled by a ruptured aneurysm, leaving a six-year-old son with the pristine image of a heroic dad.

Driven by this memory, young Ted managed to live almost twice as long as his father, surviving a lengthy catalogue of physical ailments. He died on Tuesday at the age of 75 at his home in Toronto. He suffered from congestive heart failure.
A sickly kid, he was always picked last for sports teams at upper-crust Upper Canada College, but he made himself into a decent boxer. As an adult, he bought a major league baseball team, the Toronto Blue Jays, while conceding he was “the village idiot” on baseball matters.
But his greatest expectation-smashing act was escaping bankruptcy, as his flagship Rogers Communications Inc. survived a parade of near-death experiences, buried under the debt amassed by its risk-embracing owner.

The life of Ted Rogers

A look back at the career of one of Canada's most wealthy business figures

“Mr. Rogers' successor as chief executive officer will be addressed by the Rogers Communications board of directors, which intends to form a special committee to lead a search considering internal and external candidates. In the meantime, Alan Horn, chairman of Rogers Communications, will continue to serve as acting chief executive officer and lead the company's office of the president,” the company said in a statement.
In the end, Mr. Rogers was master of the communications universe in Canada, the owner of the dominant cable TV system, of radio and television stations, of magazine publishing, residential telephone services and the largest wireless network. He was the rare communications titan to solve the convergence conundrum, combining media content and transmission in a single corporate entity.
“He was not a strong person, and he had a pretty vulnerable physique, but as long as there was a deal in the air that he could sniff, he would make it,” says Robin Korthals, a former president of the Toronto Dominion Bank, who negotiated the bank's first loan 40 years ago in what would become a mutually beneficial relationship with Mr. Rogers.
He was this country's version of Steve Jobs, a technology entrepreneur who was down but never out, who unabashedly loved gadgetry, who had a huge, resilient ego, who made life hell for his executives but could evoke great loyalty – and who triumphed over naysayers to become the second wealthiest Canadian with a personal net worth estimated at more than $7-billion.
He built his riches on crushingly hard work and a clever understanding of the Byzantine web of government regulation surrounding broadcasting, cable TV and the phone business. Though he started in radio, his near-monopoly in cable television in Canada's richest urban market was the base of his fortune. But he was controversial, and many of his cable customers never forgave Mr. Rogers after being forced to take cable channels they didn't want. The marketing phrase 'negative option billing' became a new Canadian curse.
But the big disappointment of his life was he never purchased Toronto radio station CFRB, started by his father. The Rogers family lost control of it after the father's early death, but young Ted vowed to his mother that one day he would get it back. Right near the end, he was agitating with CFRB's current owner, Astral Media Inc., to buy the station.
Descended from Quaker roots in the United States, Edward Samuel Rogers was born in Toronto on May 27, 1933. His father, also Edward or Ted, was celebrated for his invention of a radio than ran without batteries. In the early days of radio, a set needed a battery the same way a car does now. Ted Rogers Sr. solved that problem by making tubes do the work so the radio could be simply plugged into the wall. The elder Rogers became Canada's largest manufacturer of radios and the last two letters in CFRB stood for “Rogers Batteryless,” the brand name of his invention.
Young Ted Rogers was a gangly child with reddish hair who was born almost blind in his right eye. When his father died in 1939, his mother Velma could not carry on, and there was an uncle who was anxious to rid himself of the industrial assets.
After the sale of the radio factory and CFRB, the estate added up to $384,000, enough for a comfortable life, but it marked the end of his father's technological legacy. Instead, Ted Rogers carried a lifelong torch, collecting old Roger's Majestic radios and driving to rebuild what had been lost.
Mr. Rogers also married well, to a woman who loyally supported him through his near-death experiences. In 1957, he was visiting a school pal in the Bahamas where he went to a party and met Loretta Ann Robinson, the 18-year-old daughter of a British MP, who later became Lord Martonmere and governor of Bermuda.
They married on Sept, 25, 1963 – and Loretta immediately persuaded her father to advance $450,000 from her inheritance to fund Ted's first venture into radio.
Although he was trained in law, it played second fiddle to completing his father's unfinished business. After a lacklustre law-school stint, he sought an articling position with the Toronto law firm of Tory's, where he begged John A. Tory, son of the founder, to take him on. John and his twin brother Jim liked the bumptious, slightly younger man, and hired him despite his poor grades.
“Ted Rogers probably would not have been on our list to interview, but we did hire him,” John A. Tory recalled in an interview with Caroline Van Hasselt, author of a recent biography High Wire Act, Ted Rogers and the Empire that Debt Built. “Whether we would have kept him is a different story. He wasn't around very much.”
Because of Mr. Rogers's absences, Jim Tory, who supervised him, initially refused to sign the document confirming his full-time articling attendance. He relented when his brother pointed out that Mr. Rogers had pledged he would never actually practice law.
Mr. Rogers also promised to get down on his knees and shine Jim Tory's shoes “at any time in any place for the rest of his life,” the book relates. For years afterward, he did just that when he would meet Jim Tory at public events.
Ted Rogers was lucky with his Tory connections – with the Tory party which he supported (his hero was former prime minister John Diefenbaker), and the Tory family, who became lifelong advisers. John A. Tory was consigliere to the wealthy Thomson family, but he was a trusted counsellor to Mr. Rogers, too. And John A.'s son, John H. Tory, became a key RCI executive before pursuing an elected political career.
To some extent, Mr. Rogers followed the business model of patriarch Roy Thomson, the media entrepreneur who believed in using debt leverage to finance growth. But while the Thomsons would deploy free cash flow to pay down existing debt before launching another spending spree, Mr. Rogers gleefully lurched from one leveraged deal to another.
“Maybe he found that exciting,” says John A. Tory, who insists Mr. Rogers was always confident of his ability to salvage the situation, even as his stock price plummeted. He was somewhat protected by the nature of his businesses, such as cable and broadcasting, which were regulated and subscription-based, thus providing steady cash flows. What's more, the heavy capital spending and debt payments allowed Rogers Communications to avoid paying tax year after year.
At Tory's, he actually spent most of his articling time researching how to acquire communications assets. At 26, while dabbling in a new private TV station for Toronto (CFTO), he used an inheritance — about $100,000 — to buy Toronto's first FM station, CHFI.
FM radio was new then, the station had only been on the air since 1957, and FM receivers were expensive. Ted Rogers had some FM radios designed, with CHFI-FM etched into them, and sold them at the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto, the same place his father launched his Rogers Batteryless Radio in 1925.
Mr. Rogers plunged into the media industry, managing the radio station and opening an AM version of CHFI in 1962. That station stayed in the Rogers stable and in 1990, radio 680 went to an all-news format, with its `traffic and weather together on the ones' or every 10 minutes.

(continua sul The Globe and Mail di Toronto)

Take it easy, but take it

Che vita intensa quella di Louis "Studs" Terkel, ebreo russo newyorkese, trapiantato bambino a Chicago e rimasto da allora in quella città. Terkel, scomparso l'altro giorno 96enne è una delle tante icone radiofoniche degli Stati Uniti, una figura leggendaria a Chicago dove il suo talk show per WFMT (bellissima ovviamente la pagina dedicata al suo anchorman dalla stazione radio) è andato in onda, durante la settimana lavorativa, per quasi mezzo secolo. Considerato più uno "storico orale" che un giornalista radiofonico, Studs diventò famoso anche per i suoi libri - "radio scritta", come li definisce questo rapsodico coccodrillo della Chicago Tribune - tutti dedicati ai ricordi strappati alla gente, lavoratori e imprenditori soprattutto, fedeli archivi delle tracce lasciate nella memoria collettiva della nazione che al lavoro dedica un culto tutto particolare. L'agnostico Studs fu a suo modo un sacerdote di questo culto, scrivendo titoli sulla Grande Depressione, sulla guerra, e guadagnandosi una fama da socialista che lo mise nei guai con McCartney fino a compromettere la sua carriera televisiva.
Ma alla radio non rinunciò mai, l'ultima trasmissione a WFMT risale a dieci anni fa, quando aveva 85 anni suonati. Non preparava mai le sue interviste, si metteva lì e parlava, soprattutto lasciava parlare gli altri, ascoltando. Su Internet ho trovato cose incredibili di Studs. Forse la più incredibile di tutte la pubblica NPR sulla sua pagina rievocativa ed è l'intervista a un Bob Dylan 22enne. Senti parlare Louis Terkel e Robert Allen Zimmerman, (alias Shabtai Zisel ben Avraham scrive Wikipedia riportando il nome ebraico del menestrello), da Duluth, Minnesota (ma in realtà di Odessa e di Wylna) e ascolti due voci quasi uguali nel loro raspare - già matura quella di Studs, da ragazzo della beat generation quella di Bob mentre parla di Guthrie y'know - e ti rendi conto dei giacimenti di storie anche nostre, sedimentati dall'altra parte del mare, ti sembra di leggere le circolari memorie di Mercy of a rude stream di Roth.
Terkel, che per tutta la sua vita professionale ha indossato quasi esclusivamente camicie a quadretti bianchi e rossi, chiudeva le sue trasmissioni con un saluto diventato proverbiale.
"Take it easy, but take it." E' quello che dovremmo fare tutti, no?

Studs Terkel dies

The author-radio host-actor-activist and Chicago symbol has died. "My epitaph? My epitaph will be 'Curiosity did not kill this cat,'" he once said. By Rick Kogan Tribune staff reporter October 31, 2008


Louis Terkel arrived here as a child from New York City and in Chicago found not only a new name but a place that perfectly matched--in its energy, its swagger, its charms, its heart--his own personality. They made a perfect and enduring pair.
Author-radio host-actor-activist and Chicago symbol Louis "Studs" Terkel died Friday afternoon in his home on the North Side. At his bedside was a copy of his latest book, "P.S. Further Thoughts From a Lifetime of Listening," scheduled for release this month. He was 96 years old.
"Studs Terkel was part of a great Chicago literary tradition that stretched from Theodore Dreiser to Richard Wright to Nelson Algren to Mike Royko," Mayor Richard M. Daley said Friday. "In his many books, Studs captured the eloquence of the common men and women whose hard work and strong values built the America we enjoy today. He was also an excellent interviewer, and his WFMT radio show was an important part of Chicago's cultural landscape for more than 40 years."
Beset in recent years by a variety of ailments and the woes of age, which included being virtually deaf, Terkel's health took a turn for the worse when he suffered a fall in his home a few weeks ago.
"My father lived a long, satisfying and fulfilling but tempestuous life," his son, Dan Terkel, said Friday. "It was a life well lived." It is hard to imagine a fuller life.
A television institution for years, a radio staple for decades, a literary lion since 1967, when he wrote his first best-selling book at age 55, Louis Terkel was born in New York City on May 16, 1912. "I came up the year the Titanic went down," he would often say.
He moved with his family a few years later, when they purchased the Wells-Grand Hotel, a rooming house catering to a wide and colorful variety of people. He supplemented the life experiences there by visits to Bughouse Square, the park across the street from the Newberry Library that was at the time home to all manner of soapbox orators.
"I doubt whether I learned very much [at the park]," Terkel wrote. "One thing I know: I delighted in it. Perhaps none of it made any sense, save one kind: sense of life."
He attended the University of Chicago, where he obtained a law degree and borrowed his nickname from the character in the " Studs Lonigan" trilogy by Chicago writer James T. Farrell. He never practiced law. Instead, he took a job in a federally sponsored statistical project with the Federal Emergency Rehabilitation Administration, one of President Franklin D. Roosevelt's New Deal agencies. Then he found a spot in a writers project with the Works Progress Administration, writing plays and developing his acting skills.
Terkel worked on radio soap operas, in stage plays, as a sportscaster and a dis c jockey. His first radio program was called "The Wax Museum," an eclectic selection of whatever sort of music struck his fancy, including the first recordings of Mahalia Jackson, who would become a friend.
When television emerged as a force in the American home in the early 1950s, Terkel created and hosted "Studs' Place," one of the major jewels in the legendary "Chicago school" of television that also spawned Dave Garroway and Kukla, Fran and Ollie.
It was on "Studs' Place," which was set in a tavern, that large numbers of people discovered what Terkel did best--talk and listen. Terkel, arms waving, words exploding in bursts, leaning close to his talking companions, didn't merely conduct interviews. He engaged in conversations. He was interested in what he was talking about and who he was talking to.
But his TV career did not last. Terkel later complained that the commercialization of television forced his show, and the others in the "Chicago school," from the air. Also, at that time, McCarthyism was a potent force and Terkel was outspoken politically, with a highly liberal tone. "I was blacklisted because I took certain positions on things and never retracted," Terkel once said in an interview about those times. "I signed many petitions that were for unfashionable causes and never retracted."
He had a hard time finding work, subsisting on small speaking fees and even smaller sums for writing book reviews. His wife, Ida, made enough to keep the family afloat. "The first time I saw her she was wearing a maroon dress," Terkel once recalled. "She made a lot more money than I did. It was like dating a CEO. I borrowed 20 bucks from her for our first date. I never paid her back." They were married July 2, 1939. Their only child, Dan, was born in 1949.
"It was her self-assurance and strength that helped Studs accomplish as much as he has," said Sydney Lewis, a writer who was a friend and colleague of Terkel's for 30 years. "She was, on every level, his most important audience."
He found a larger audience when he was hired at a new fine arts station, WFMT, where Terkel's brand of chatter, jazz, folk music and good conversation was a perfect fit. His political views were more tolerated on the station, and Terkel began his morning radio show in 1952.
In the mid-1960s, Terkel was in his mid-50s, a time when most people are beginning to plan the end of their careers. Terkel was about to start a new one. A British actress he had interviewed was so impressed with his technique that she told a friend, Andre Schiffrin, a book publisher, about Terkel. Schiffrin remembered reading transcripts of some of Terkel's radio interviews in a WFMT publication and had been impressed.
He contacted Terkel--who had written a little-known book, "Giants of Jazz," in 1957--and, after much convincing argument, coaxed the radio personality into writing a book compiled from interviews with Chicagoans from all walks of life. "I told him he must be out of his mind," Terkel recalled about his first confrontations with Schiffrin, but he relented.
The result was "Division Street: America," published in 1967 to rave reviews and best-selling success. It told the stories, in their own words, of businessmen, prostitutes, Hispanics, blacks, ordinary working people who formed the unit of America and also the divisions in society, using Chicago's Division Street as a prototype of America.
It was a theme that Terkel would explore again and again, in "Hard Times," his Depression-era memoir in 1970; in "Working," his saga of the lives of ordinary working people in 1974; in "American Dreams; Lost and Found" in 1980; and "The Good War," remembrances of World War II, published in 1985 and the winner of the Pulitzer Prize.
Most of his books were written "radio." Terkel asked questions and then listened. He drew out of people things they didn't know they had in them. "I think of myself as an old-time craftsman," Terkel said in the mid-1980s. "I've been doing this five days a week, for more than 30 years. When I realize the work is slipping, I'll quit. But I don't think I've reached that point yet. I still have my enthusiasm. I still love what I do." And he was far from finished doing it.
In 1986 he published "Chicago," a big title for a 144-page book. He described it as a "rambling essay," but it was more like a meditation, a distillation of much of what Terkel had come to feel for a city that he was as closely identified with as those other uniquely compelling Chicago voices, Algren and Royko, who were among his dearest friends.
He captured the voices of the city: quoting the recollections of Jessie Binford, an associate of Jane Addams', or Tom Kearney, a police sergeant, to give a human scale to history. His own voice was there too in "Chicago": in anecdotes and reminiscences about his family and growing up on Ashland Avenue and Flournoy Street; in a lovely little scene of Studs as a boy, in the company of his sick father, passing the time together listening to a crystal radio set.
His radio show remained vibrant, an 11 a.m. fixture for decades before moving to 5:30 p.m. in the late 1980s. The human drama was his great theme. Conversation was his vocation and avocation. His brimming curiosity and "feeling tone," as he called it, carried him into the hearts of the world. He bent a listening ear in Europe, South Africa, as well as all over the United States and, of course, Chicago. Thousands of celebrated names spilled from his interview tapes. But just as important, Studs sought the daydreams and 3 a.m. truths of many a person who never made a headline. They were all somebodies to him. Terkel looked down on none of them. "I become one of them, in a way," he said.
By being himself, Terkel put others at ease. A young Marlon Brando was so intrigued during an hour long radio session that he asked for a second hour and took over, trying to find out what made Terkel tick. As his celebrity grew, many gave Terkel the sort of larger-than-life status that is one step away from caricature.
"Studs is a character," said Scott Craig, the producer of a 1989 WTTW-Ch. 11 documentary titled, simply, "Studs." "But that doesn't make him a caricature. He's been famous around here for so long that people take him for granted, like he's some sort of landmark. One of the things I discovered in making this documentary is that Studs is now a lot more famous, and well known, outside of Chicago than he is here."
He was well known for his wardrobe, almost a costume that he chose many years ago: a red checked shirt, a loosened red knit tie, gray trousers and a blue blazer.
His wife said Terkel once spotted a man at a party wearing a red-checked shirt and said he had to have one just like it. He did own a blue-checked shirt but rarely wore it. He always had a frazzled and rumpled look, as if he might have been a boxing promoter. But he might have looked even worse. As his wife said, "I have to take him out to the store to buy clothes. Otherwise, he would be dressed in rags."
He was indefatigable, juggling his daily radio shows and his frequent public appearances with a steady stream of books. (He also played newspaper reporter Hugh Fullerton in the 1988 John Sayles Film "Eight Men Out," about the Black Sox scandal of 1919).
In 1992 came "Race: What Blacks and Whites Think and Feel About the American Obsession," followed by 1995's "Coming of Age, The Story of Our Century by Those Who've Lived It," and 1997's "My American Century." Along with them came dozens of awards, which Terkel took with typical lack of ego.
In honor of his 80th birthday the city named the Division Street Bridge for him. Noting that at the time only two other Chicagoans, columnist Irv Kupcinet and broadcaster Paul Harvey, had been so honored, he said, "Kup, Harvey and Studs ... sounds like a law firm."
In 1997 he went to the White House to receive the National Humanities Medal and the National Medal of Arts with a group including Jason Robards, Angela Lansbury, conductor James Levine, Chicago religion scholar Martin Marty and Chicago arts patron Richard Franke. He was stopped at the White House gate and asked for identification. Studs, who had never driven a car, did not have a driver's license. The only thing he could come up with to appease the White House guards was his CTA seniors pass. They let him in. The medal? "I've got it here at home, somewhere," he said years later. "It's in a box, somewhere. I've got some cigars and the medal in the box."
His radio career ended in 1998 with its traditional sign-off ("Take it easy, but take it"), and he spent much of his time at the Chicago Historical Society (now Chicago History Museum), which had become the repository for his 45 years of radio tapes and interviews from his books. These 9,000-some hours were called "Vox Humana: The Human Voice" and constituted what then CHS president Douglas Greenberg called, "The collected memory of our time."
But his life was shattered late the next year when his wife died from complications after heart valve replacement surgery. She and Studs had been married for more than 60 years, and many felt that, given how much Studs relied on Ida for, well, almost everything, Studs was a goner. "It's hard. It's very hard," he said the day she died. "She was seven days older than me, and I would always joke that I married an older woman. That's the thing: Who's gonna laugh at my jokes? At those jokes I've told a million times? That's the thing ... ... Who's gonna be there to laugh?"
Without the laughter, there was work. He did promotional events for his recently published "The Spectator: Talk About Movies and Plays With Those Who Made Them," a gathering of some of his best radio interviews. He set to work on "Will the Circle Be Unbroken: Reflections of Death, Rebirth and Hunger for Faith," which was published in 2001, "Hope Dies Last: Keeping the Faith in Difficult Times" (2003) and another collection titled "And They All Sang: Reflections of an Eclectic Disk Jockey" (2005).
He appeared and spoke at dozens of rallies for various causes and literary events; sat for interviews with hundreds of reporters and TV types. In July 2004, he suffered a fall at his home. He required neck surgery and an extended hospital stay afterward. He also needed full-time home care. And so, as he kept up an active schedule, always at his side was caretaker JR Millares. He spent more time with Terkel than any one these last years: 84 hours a week, with his son, Paul and Terkel's son, Dan, taking the rest.
"It has been very interesting and rewarding," says Millares, who came to the U.S. from his native Philippines in 1996. "He is the only person I have ever cared for who has no mental disabilities. He's as sharp as a razor. I admire his interest in life. After him I don't know if I would be able to care for anyone else. This has been so lively, so filled with activity. I think I may have to start a new career."
Millares was there in August 2005 when Terkel added another item to his lengthy list of accomplishments, undergoing a risky open-heart procedure to replace a narrowed aortic valve and redo one of the five coronary bypasses he he'd undergone nine years before. "To my knowledge, Studs is the oldest patient to undergo this complex redo," said Dr. Marshall Goldin, the cardiovascular surgeon at Rush University Medical Center who operated on Terkel.
The surgery lasted six hours. When Terkel awoke, he began to call friends and say, "I am a medical miracle. A medical miracle." Studs then asked the doctor, "How long do you give me?" "I'll give you to 99," said the doctor. "That's too long," said Terkel. "I think I want a nice round figure, like 95."
After the operation, publisher Andre Schiffrin suggested to Studs' longtime collaborator, Sydney Lewis, that she fly to Chicago from her home in Massachusetts and start working with Studs on a memoir. "He told me: If it works, great; if not, it's a good way to keep Studs company," says Lewis. "It was, on many levels, a labor of love."
"Touch and Go" did work, and even though Terkel said at the time that this would be his last book, it was not. "P.S.: Further Thoughts From a Lifetime of Listening," to be published in November, grew out of the research for the previous book. It is a collection of radio show transcripts, short essays and others writing.
"Studs Terkel was everything good about the literary world. Make that the world in general," said Chicago Tribune's literary editor, Elizabeth Taylor, who was a good friend of Terkel's. "He was ever curious, always generous and so full of life. He was Chicago."
He mentioned this book at one of his last public appearances, which came in June at the Printers Row Book Fair, where he charmed a packed auditorium with a 30-minute monologue touching on everything from ancient Greek mythology to the 2008 presidential election.
He seemed keenly aware, however, that the shadows were closing in. To touch his arms was to feel a living skeleton. He displayed a mind still sharp with its ability to recall names and dates and places from his lengthy and storied past. But he was facing the future too.
"Remember those old Ivory soap commercials, 'Ivory Soap, 99.44 percent pure '? Well, I am 99.44 percent dead," he said, sitting in the sun-soaked living room of his house. The place was, as always, a wonderful mess of papers, tapes, books, letters, photos and visitors that so pleasantly cluttered his life. "The most fun I've ever had doing a story was interviewing Studs in that living room," says WMAQ and WTTW television anchor/reporter Carol Marin. "He was unique."
He was in that living room last year when he said with zest that when he "checked out"--as a "hotel kid" he rarely used the word "dying," preferring the euphemism "checking out" and its variants--he wanted to be cremated. He wanted his ashes mixed with those of his wife, which sat in an urn in the living room of his house, near the bed in which he slept and dreamed. "My epitaph? My epitaph will be, 'Curiosity did not kill this cat,'." he said. He then said that he wanted his and Ida's ashes to be scattered in Bughouse Square, that patch of green park that so informed his first years in his adopted city. "Scatter us there," he said, a gleeful grin on his face. "It's against the law. Let 'em sue us."
Terkel is survived by his son. A memorial service is planned.

La triste utopia mediatica di DFW

Mi ha sorpreso la copertura mediatica che persino i nostri giornali hanno dedicato al suicidio dello scrittore americano David Foster Wallace. Il corpo di David, si legge sulle cronache, è stato trovato appeso a una corda dalla moglie Karen, al suo rientro nella casa di Claremont, nella contea di Los Angeles. Questo è l'obituary del Los Angeles Times, mentre qui trovate quello apparso sull'altra costa, per il New York Times che dedica anche una lunga valutazione critica firmata da Michiko Kakutani. La notizia comunicata da All things considered di NPR parla di un Wallace considerato universalmente un grande umorista, e in effetti è vero, il suo stile era travolgente, brillante, nella tradizione americana iniziata da Mark Twain. Ma Wallace si diceva perplesso davanti all'accoglienza di Infinite Jest, il suo torrenziale capolavoro. Un cult book di mille pagine in originale, che alcuni fan si ostinano addirittura a rileggere più volte e a indicizzare su Internet, aggiungendo le loro chiosature alle note a piè pagina (centinaia) che erano la cifra distintiva di uno dei padri del postmodernismo. Alla PBS l'autore aveva dichiarato di trovare strano che tutti ridessero a crepapelle, perché era partito con l'idea di fare un libro molto triste ed era convinto di esserci riuscito E una "distopia" che immagina un mondo in cui uno show televisivo è talmente "divertente" da far cadere i suoi spettatori in una mortale catalessi, dove gli anni non portano numeri ma il brand degli sponsor (fantasia malata, eh? solo un pazzo potrebbe immaginare qualcosa di così irrealistico), non può non essere triste. Spesso, si sa, si ride proprio per non piangere.

Qualche anno dopo l'uscita del libro Wallace fece ancora discutere per un lungo articolo apparso nel 2000 su Rolling Stone (che oggi gli dedica questo necrologio) dedicato a un tal John McCain, candidato, allora respinto, alla nomination repubblicana. Lo presentava come il nuovo in politica, con parole praticamente identiche a quelle che oggi vengono dedicate a Obama.
Non mi sono mai avventurato seriamente nella lettura di Infinite Jest, che pure campeggia nella mia libreria, almeno non con l'intenzione di finirlo. Nella mia relativa ignoranza non sapevo neppure che fosse stato tradotto da noi per Fandango Libri (e le pagine lievitano a 1.440). Leggendo in queste ore i lamenti degli irriducibili, scopro che nel romanzo c'è anche una stazione radio, WYYY sui 109 MHz ("il numero primo più elevato della banda della modulazione di frequenza" è il jingle) dal MIT di Boston. Una stazione che trasmette un programma di previsioni del tempo "per mimesi", facendo ascoltare le scariche elettrostatiche in diretta. Come ascoltatore delle onde medie, disturbate dal più localizzato e distante dei temporali, trovo la cosa a dir poco geniale.
Agli uomini e alle donne che ci lasciano in questo modo e si vedono negare financo la terra consacrata da alcune "caritatevoli" religioni, è bene dedicare un addio o, se si vuole, una preghiera più calorosi del normale. Che tengano conto del freddo che devono aver provato quaggiù. Sleep peacefully, David.

Scompare l'inventore della radio FM stereofonica

Il Chicago Tribune ha annunciato la morte di Carl Eilers, il papà dell'FM stereo. La sua geniale innovazione basata su una sottoportante pilota usata per attivare un sistema di addizione/sottrazione dei canali stereofonici incapsulati in una stessa portante modulata in frequenza ha rivoluzionato il mondo della radiofonia hi-fi. L'industria musicale deve a questo misconosciuto inventore oltre mezzo secolo di successi nella trasmissione di una seria offerta musicale attraverso la radio. Il sistema escogitato da Eilers, ingegnere della Zenith Electronics, che in seguito lavorò anche sulla tv stereo multicanale, fu adottato ufficialmente dalla FCC nel 1961 dopo una "gara" tra Zenith, GE, Crosley e Halstead. Carl Eilers abitava vicino a Chicago e aveva 83 anni.

Carl G. Eilers 1925 ~ 2008
'Father' of FM stereo sound

By Patricia Trebe Special to the Tribune June 25, 2008

When he was a boy, Carl G. Eilers got a glass wireless set from a relative. It captured his imagination and drew him into the world of electronics, where he is often referred to as the father of stereo FM radio and stereo television sound.
A 50-year employee of Zenith Electronics LLC, Mr. Eilers co-developed production of high-fidelity stereo sound over the airwaves, or FM stereo broadcasting. Before 1961 only phonographs could produce the high-quality sound.
That year, the Federal Communications Commission adopted the Stereo FM Broadcast Standard, which is still in use. "He led the team, but it is fair to say that he is the father of FM stereo," said John Taylor, vice president of public affairs for Zenith. Mr. Eilers, 83, of River Forest, died Friday, June 20, in his home, apparently of a heart attack.
Mr. Eilers was also co-developer of another key industry standard known as multichannel television sound or stereo TV. "This was based on the same principle Carl had proven earlier with stereo FM, and the Zenith system was adopted by the industry in 1984," Taylor said.
When Mr. Eilers joined Zenith in 1948 as an engineer in the research department, he started work on subscription television and Zenith Phonevision. "Even then he developed the core concepts that are used today, such as scrambling a signal and you only get an unscrambled signal if you pay for it," Taylor said.
Born in Fairbury in central Illinois, Mr. Eilers entered the Navy after graduating from high school in 1943. After his discharge, he entered Purdue University and graduated with a bachelor's degree in electrical engineering in 1948.
While at Zenith, he attended night school at Northwestern University, where he received his master's degree in electrical engineering. By 1961 Mr. Eilers was division chief of circuits and communications research. In 1977 he became manager of research and development.
During Mr. Eilers' career, he also worked on development of remote controls, laserdisc recording and supplemental audio programming. He also contributed significantly to high-definition television. "He was leader of a group that saw change in the industry three to four years ahead of its time," said Richard Citta, a former engineer with Zenith. "He was very smart and very knowledgeable."
Mr. Eilers was granted 21 U.S. patents. "He had an enormous contribution to the industry," said Wayne Luplow, who was hired by Mr. Eilers and is now a Zenith vice president. Shortly after Mr. Eilers retired in 1997, he returned to Zenith as a consultant and worked with Luplow.
While at Zenith, he attended night school at Northwestern University and earned a master's degree in electrical engineering. By 1961, Eilers was division chief of circuits and communications research. In 1977, he became manager of research and development. Eilers also worked on development of remote controls, laserdisc recording and supplemental audio programming. He also contributed significantly to high-definition television and was granted 21 U.S. patents, according to Zenith.
Eilers retired in 1997 but returned as a consultant for the company, which is based in Lincolnshire, Ill. Survivors include his wife of 34 years, Sandra; a son, John; and a daughter, Janet Ames.