Chapter 15
The Value of Creativity - Part One
Winning the Battle
excerpt from Rollye's book: "What Am I Doing Here? (when everything I want is somewhere else)"
(c) 2010 Nickajack Press
For most disc jockeys there is absolutely no upside to a downward trend in the
ratings. Only one of them, Dan Sorkin, has turned statistical annihilation into a
promotion for his show, and not just any promotion, one that would span weeks
and draw television and newspaper coverage.
Dan had a rapier wit and the sardonic ability to capitalize on the trends of the day,
which, by the coming of the 1960s, included two very evident preoccupations. One
was the increasing interest Americans seemed to have in saving things. Not as in
collecting, more like protecting the whales or whatever else was handy. Humorous
to Dan, most would-be saviors joined marches having had no idea what they were
supporting. They'd wear buttons, carry signs, and appear to be passionate-- about
something, the details of which were nebulous, at best. Sorkin wasn't the only one
to use the phenomenon to his advantage.
The 1950s movie, Jamboree, for all viewers may have known, was proof of the
only time that big screen roles were used as payola payoffs. Nothing else in this
rock and roll feature film explains why radio men throughout the country were
included. A national telethon was the ruse to get announcers into the script. As
the scenes switched from city to city, pleas for donations were constant with no
mention as to how the money might be used. But, at least Jamboree referred to
the cause as “this dreaded disease,” narrowing it down significantly beyond the
efforts of the concerned citizens of the day.
Sorkin found an infinitely more creative use for the social disconnect. He paired it
with a huge contemporary issue: forced anonymity. The hue and cry was that we,
the human race, were being reduced to a number. In the era of Univac computers,
no longer did we have individuality. Now we had punch cards for bill payments.
And our telephone exchanges, our Mohawks, Plazas, Unions, and so forth, were
becoming mere digits.
(Prior to standardization, six and seven digit telephone numbers were the norm,
identified by the name of the switching office to which they belonged. After the
change to “all-number dialing,” PEnnyslvania 6-5000 became 736-5000, for
instance. Stan Freberg had a wonderful parody on it in 1966, “They Took Away
Our MurrayHills!” Today it seems quaint and insignificant, but there was absolute
furor 50 years ago about being reduced to a number.)
Sorkin started a campaign to “Save Rose Bimler.” He never mentioned from what
she needed saving, though that didn't deter his audience. If asked, he would have
explained Rose was drowning. Drowning in obscurity, in Cicero, Illinois, but never
once did it come up on the air.
Sorkin so ardently championed the elusive cause of Mrs. Bimler that his listeners
contributed buttons, bumper stickers, and an official song, which Dan used as an
anthem. Fans sung along with him. While it's impossible to say how many were in
on the gag, it's a good bet the bulk of his audience wasn't. Nothing else would
explain why the educational television station in Chicago wanted him to produce a
documentary on Rose's plight.
Sorkin agreed and enlisted the help of a San Francisco legend, Don Sherwood, a
cynically hilarious soul, heard mornings on KSFO. Sherwood saw the value in
playing along and quickly agreed to distribute the buttons in the Bay Area. Sorkin
then found a jock in New York to complete their troika. They teamed up on the air
and phoned the Russian embassies around the country, enquiring what they were
doing about the Bimler woman.
The initial response was wonderfully political: the embassy spokesmen said they
couldn't release any information. After sufficient calls from listeners in New York,
Chicago, and San Francisco, the Russians assured Sorkin they'd get back to him
about the fate of Mrs. Bimler. He's still waiting, though a lot of us are reasonably
confidant files are open on poor Rose, at all the Russian embassies in America,
maybe the world.
The Bimler “movement,” alone, should have given the A.C. Nielsen Company
pause. Even if they weren't adept at surveying radio, which they briefly attempted
to do back in the early '60s, someone should have noticed it before they released
their report: the Chicago numbers were out and Sorkin had none. Bad enough
that a show sold out for three years straight could rate an asterisk, but worse,
Nielsen made the error in its own hometown.
Sorkin was in his prime. He bemoaned his listener-less fate, explaining that the
best disc jockeys knew how to talk to the audience as if they were only one person,
but he couldn't even do that because he was talking to himself.
As expected, listeners flooded the phone lines to assure him he was not alone. He
questioned their existence, and his sanity, since Nielsen couldn't possibly have
been wrong. He suggested they communicate as if they were real, and write to
A.C. Nielsen, to let them know that they were listening, if not from Chicago, from
the hereafter.
Needless to say, Nielsen's mailroom overflowed. And some of the letters were
from the advertising agencies, which used their service. Nielsen answered each
writer with an explanatory form letter.
It was more than Sorkin could have hoped. He got back on the air and confessed
how confused he was that this powerful rating company, which held his future in
their hands, was crazy enough to communicate with non-existent people. He
suggested his listeners call the ratings giant, and ask for an explanation.
The phone lines imploded: nothing incoming, none outgoing- except for the call
from the idiot at Nielsen, berating Sorkin for his actions. Now the gloves were off.
Dan made an impassioned plea-- not for himself, but for all Americans, all
Chicagoans, all of the 'little people' who had been recently reduced to a number,
and now no longer counted at all. He suggested they stick up for their rights, prove
their existence, and join him in person to picket A.C. Nielsen.
Over 600 of them did. Within months, Nielsen stopped surveying the radio
industry. While the story is wonderfully mischievous, and absolutely true, its moral
is overlooked: even in the most debilitating circumstances, with enough creativity,
you can thrive. Sorkin always has.
Dan was a wild man on and off the air. After Chicago, he wound up in San
Francisco, competing with his old friend Don Sherwood. As he was about to join
Sherwood's station, a motorcycle accident claimed a year of his life and his left leg.
That too, he handled creatively. Stumps'R Us, the whimsical support group he
founded is still going strong- as, at over 80 years old, is Dan.
Few among us have faced a catastrophic loss of ratings, let alone limbs, but we all
encounter challenges. How we react to misfortune- both inwardly and for all to see,
makes the difference between misery and contentment. A positive attitude is
mandatory, though often it's the novel approach that wins the day.
RIP Dan Sorkin
April 6, 1927 - June 6, 2016
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