A sad tune-out

Regular readers of this blog may have noticed that I [Chris Albertson] have been both a praiser and a critic of Bob. The latter has mainly been directed toward his radio program, Radio Unnameable, which probably won WBAI more listeners than any other offering. That, however, was in another century, the extraordinary era of social upheaval that gave us the antithesis of an apron and apple pie culture as it opened the door to a multitude of dumped taboos. The so-called "Love Generation" faced an open door (and mic) at the three Pacifica stations but none as wide as WBAI's, where Bob Fass reigned over the early night hours.

Bob's freedom to speak a young generation's mind and share the air with amazing artists and trendsetters set Radio Unnameable apart from anything else NYC radio had to offer. The influence of that program lingers on today, decades later, but mostly in a rapidly depleting bank of time-worn. They sometimes embellish needlessly—as memories will do—but such refurbishments are a gold-leafed Spirit of Ecstacy on a Rolls Royce hood.

There was a dimmer side to Bob Fass that most people didn't see and some found outweighed by the clarity he and his extraordinary guests brought them through hot and cold moonlit nights. I used to say that he could strangle you with his love beads, and I meant it, because behind that gentle voice and smile was a man whose loyalty turned with the ease of a weather vane.

The Pacifica Maven is a gentleman who occasionally posts to this blog, a long-time WBAI listener-supporter and friend of Bob's, his concern for his welfare never wavers and often manifests itself in deeds that few are prepared to perform. It is, sad to say, a thankless concern. PM's criticism of Bob is heartfelt and misunderstood—several of us have felt that he ought to have given up the WBAI show a long time ago, when it had run way past its normal life. There have been so many opportunities for Bob to bow out gracefully and spin a fresh career move out of the wealth of experiences he enjoyed as host of Radio Unnameable. Had he listened to well-meant advice, he would not now find himself in his unenviable situation. The following comment from Pacifica Maven should not be misinterpreted as anything but a fond adieu to someone who made a lasting impression.

A Farewell to Radio Unnameable

The audio clip of Radio Unnameable from the show of Friday morning, August 21, offers an accurate picture of what the Radio Unnameable has become:  Three and a half hours of a deluded old man in the initial phase of dementia trying to recreate what was once the best radio program ever.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Radio Unnameable was on every night.  It would begin at 12 midnight and one never knew when it would end.  

At a time when the Internet wasn’t even a gleam in its father’s eye,  Radio Unnameable was undisputedly the center of the nervous system of an important counterculture.  It was a place where you hear the music, the poetry, and the thoughts of some of the greatest artists, poets, intellectuals, and activists of a very important era in American politics and in American culture.  And not only could you hear Paul Krassner, William Kunstler, Bob Dylan, Dave Van Ronk, Arlo Guthrie, Mark Rudd, The Yippies, The Diggers, and so many more protagonists of what was happening in those formative years of my life, you could actually talk to these people and to Bob himself.  Radio Unnameable was democratic and anyone could get on the air and have his or her five minutes of air time—even more if you were interesting.

It was on Radio Unnameable that I first heard of many of these people; it was on Radio Unnameable where I first heard the songs of Bob Dylan, Dave Van Ronk, and Phil Ochs; and Tom Paxton and Joni Mitchell.  And The Pearl Before Swine. I first heard “Alice’s Restaurant on Bob’s show as well as “Mr Bo Jangles”, Lori Anderson’s amazing “O Superman”, and the Swines’ wonderful “Amber Lady”.  It was on Radio Unnameable that I first heard Monty Python.

But now, like so much else in my life, Radio Unnameable and its host have grown old and decrepit:  sad, even pathetic parodies of what they once were.

The music you here on the show is usually put together by Bob’s wife, Lynnie.  If you call Bob to ask about the title or artist, more often than not he has no clue.  This has been going on for years.

About four years ago, I heard a famous revolutionary song from Mexico called “El Barzón”.  Bob did not know the title, the artist—the famous Amparo Ochoa, nor what the song was about.  Neither did the vapid Lynnie, whose interests are primarily cats and astrology.  It was then I learned that it was Lynnie who arranged the music for Radio Unnameable.

Lynnie is a good reason for not visiting the Fass family at home.  She’s converted their small house on Staten Island into an animal shelter; when you walk in, you are almost aphyxiated by the stench of cat food, cat piss, and cat shit.  You can’t move through the house without tripping over a cat.  You can’t wash your hands after using the bathroom because the bathroom sink is kept filled with drinking water for the six or seven stray cats that live in the house.  Is it any wonder that Bob treasured Thursday nights and Friday mornings when he could escape from the place for a few hours?

Lynnie is subject to screaming fits.  She will have tantrums directed against Bob, his friends, people who work in restaurants, cops, or total strangers.  She is a serious “student” of the pseudo-science of astrology and often screams at people who challenge it as something to be taken seriously.  One day, Lynnie will start screaming and will not be able to stop until she is restrained and pumped full of Thorazine.

Bob has no house and no money of his own and thus is condemned to spend perpetuity with Lynnie.  He used to be able to get away for a few hours to do Radio Unnameable; now he broadcasts from an improvised studio in his house while trying to avoid tripping over one of Lynnie’s cats.

In WBAI’s last years on Wall Street, I occasionally went into NYC to answer phones for Bob and for Ibrahim Gonzales during marathons.  Both had become my friends and both generously invited me into the studio to participate in their programs.  It was quite a contrast to sit in the studio and watch these two producer/hosts perform their jobs.

Ibrahim was quick, agile, and in total control—like Bob about forty years ago:  Ibrahim was able to maintain a conversation with an in-studio guest or caller while managing the switchboard, changing a record, tape, or cd.  When there were several guests, as there were the night I was there, he would make sure everyone was acknowledged and got the opportunity to speak, perform, or recite.  Even I was invited to share some time with the artists, writers, poets, and intellectuals who surrounded me.  He would solicit our opinions, ask us about our current projects, and joke with us—everyone who showed up in the studio—in his "house", was made to feel welcome, honored, and appreciated.

Bob, in contrast, was slow, clumsy, and lethargic; distracted and soporific.  He had invited about a dozen people to participate in his show, but left most of them sitting around without  even acknowledging their existence.  He allowed the affable, sweet natured David Amram to prattle on for a good part of the show without shaping Mr. Amram’s thoughts and reminiscences into a coherent segment of the show.  He made no space for the other artists, writers, and intellectuals in the studio to speak or perform.  He fell asleep several times during the show—at least once during a phone call, and Bill Propp had to intervene to keep the show functioning.  When Bob spoke, it was difficult to understand him as he now mumbles and slurs his words; and he digresses from one topic to another without any evident thematic unity.

I’ve stopped recording the show on VHS tapes as I had done for more than thirty years.  There is no longer anything worth listening to.  Bob has become an unhappy old man with few other interests except trying to keep together the shreds of his once wonderful radio show.  

He will not acknowledge that he is no longer capable of producing and hosting a late night/early morning radio program because of his physical limitations.  He becomes very angry with friends who dare to suggest retirement.

It is sad to see a legacy soiled—especially if the one who soils it is the same person who created it.  Radio Unnameable has become Radio Unbearable.  

It’s sad:  the show deserves a better fate;  Bob deserves a better fate. 

The Pacifica Maven