Chuck Dunaway

Chuck and Kendall visit with the Bush family in Houston (click photos for larger views)

 The Way I Remember It (Episode 11)

Early in my career, it didn't take much to instigate a move to what I
perceived to be greener pastures. At age 19, I was not the most
unemotional person on the WRIT staff, and when Bill Weaver said the music I played was
"my problem," I felt it was time to leave. I had a specific music
preference, I wanted to play that music and only that music, and I didn't
care that my attitude was unprofessional. I enjoyed huge popularity with
the teens according to the ratings (which I now knew how to read), and I
had a distorted picture of my importance. I was feeling more important
than the station, an indication of an ego out of control.

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I took trips from Milwaukee to Chicago to pick up product for my program.
One of my favorite places in the Windy City was All State Distributing,
owned by Paul Glass, who had set up shop after Bill Emerson replaced him
at Big State Distributing in Dallas. In those days, independent labels made
the pure blues and rhythm-and-blues records, and major labels did the
cover versions with artists such as Pat Boone and Georgia Gibbs.   Distributors
such as Big State and All State handled those independent labels with the
authentic R & B sounds, and I depended on them because, as always, I
didn't want to play cover versions.

At All State I ran into a DJ I'd met back in Houston, The Magnificent
Montague. He was now working in Chicago, and happened to visit All State
at the same time I did.

Montague was as wild a human being as you'd want to meet, and used "MF" in
every sentence. He always had a chip on his shoulder, and was the first
black man I met who looked for signs of discrimination every second of
every day. Montague liked me, and I felt the same about him because he was
always saying outrageous things. I thought some of the things he said were
funny, but I'm sure he intended his statements to be taken seriously.

In 1955, Montague was referring to those of his race as "black" people.
I'd never heard anyone talk about slavery and race-related issues before I
heard Montague. He was my introduction to genuine black radicalism.

Montague took me under his wing, and introduced me to other independent
record manufacturers, including Leonard and Phil Chess, who were located
on Cottage Grove Avenue in Chicago. The Chess brothers became very good
friends, and I would go to their office/studio when visiting Chicago (and
I went to Chicago every week I worked in Milwaukee). They were always giving
me shirts when I'd go by their office. They had dozens of shirts in all
sizes, stacked in a cabinet, and they'd say, "Hey motha', take a shirt
home with you."

In those days, Chess Records was just one office, with windows that looked
out onto a small studio. The studio was always set up, ready for the next
recording session. The floor of the studio was concrete, and that was the
reason for the distinctive "liquid" sound of the early Chess/Checker and
Argo sessions on Cottage Grove Avenue.

The tape recorder was under a shelf facing the studio and I can remember
them pulling out the Ampex two-track and recording the Flamingos, Chuck
Berry, Willie Dixon or whoever would drop by. Most of the time they'd do
one take, and that would be the record.

When Willie Dixon would came by, Leonard would always ask him to sign some
of the music copyright sheets which were stacked about six inches high on
the edge of Leonard's desk. Willie would sign a few and say, "I'll do some
more later." Copyright sheets were always waiting on the desk for Willie
to sign. The atmosphere was that calm and casual.

One day, when the Flamingos were recording, Phil said to me, "Hey motha',
they need a manager. Why don't you manage them?"  I was shocked by their
suggestion because I knew nothing about managing a group, and I already
had my hands full back in Milwaukee.

From my experiences in places like the Chess studios, I can easily
imagine how Alan Freed's name appeared on so many of the old hit tunes: "Hey
motha', I'm putting your name on this song." It was all that easy and that
quick.

One day outside the office, I repaired a flat bicycle tire for Leonard's
son, Marshall. He was a typical kid who didn't seem particularly
interested in what his dad and uncle did for a living, although one day he would
become the American representative for the Rolling Stones' record label.
Marshall's father died in a Florida prison, but that's a story for later.

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Montague introduced me to the owner of VeeJay records: Vivian, who was a
DJ outside Chicago, and had started a record company which was thriving,
thanks to Jimmy Reed, the hottest act on their label. Vivian and I never
got to know each other well, although Montague tried to make it happen.

I think I was one of Montague's few "ofay" brothers in those days. The way
it was explained to me, "ofay" is pig Latin for "fo" (as in "mo fo"), and
all white people were "ofays" in those days.

I learned a lot from Montague. I met up with him a few years later when we
worked in New York at different stations. Montague was the DJ who went on
the air during the Watts riots in Los Angeles and uttered the legendary
words, "Burn, baby, burn!" as the area went up in flames.

I've got more to write about my man Montague, and I hope he's still alive
and raisin' hell somewhere. The last I heard, he was a black history
professor at UCLA. But I also heard he was the black history curator at a
Los Angeles Museum. I never knew Montague's real name, so I can't verify
any of that, but before long I will tell you of my other experience with
the Magnificent Montague, this one coming in New York. He was the most
fascinating character I've ever known, and he was my friend. I hope he is
happy, wherever he is today.

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One day, Paul Glass suggested we purchase an entire three-hour air shift
so we could play only independent product. We could also book our own rock
'n roll concerts, promote them during our program, and, we hoped, make a lot
of money. Paul came to Milwaukee, and we went to visit the owners of WMIL,
which was block-programmed. We asked to buy an afternoon slot on the
station. In addition to receiving a fee, the station would get a portion
of the ad revenues from the program, and we would be able to promote the
concerts we intended to book. It was a done deal, and I turned in my
notice at WRIT, where I had been working for only five months. My new program on
WMIL was called "Rockaway With Dunaway."

Because my WMIL program would be a vehicle to promote concerts for which I
would also be the MC, I needed two new onstage outfits. So I hired the
same tailor who was famous for making Lawrence Welk's suits. Finding red
material wasn't difficult, but bright green was a challenge. We finally
settled on billiard cloth (that's right: the material that covers a
billiard table). The green suit was very heavy and hot, but that didn't
stop me from wearing it in rotation with the red suit (and white buck
shoes a la Pat Boone).

I had moved to WMIL with high expectations and my 3,000 card-carrying fan
club members. With little fanfare, we were off and running, playing
nothing but rhythm-and-blues. Our program followed Fritz the Plumber's polka
show.  Fritz was immensely popular, though not with my fans. That meant a
complete audience change-over took place at 3:00 pm, when my program began
airing. No problem: we had high ratings from the beginning, and it was the
start of the wildest ride of my career.

I'd been voted the most popular DJ in Milwaukee by the city's high school
students, but nothing prepared me for the kind of popularity I was about to
encounter. It was the stuff dreams are made of, and we'll talk about it
next time.  

Thanks for reading.

Edited by Stacy Richardson

© 2003 Chuck Dunaway
All Rights Reserved