A friend of this site just pointed out the best article and he and I have ever seen written about Jackson Armstrong. Admittedly, it is Pittsburgh-based, but there is nothing like first person narrative from someone who knew and admired him.
A salute to Jackson Armstrong, the magic man of AM radio
On the day before Easter, Jackson Armstrong died.
It wasn't mentioned in Pittsburgh newspapers or on Pittsburgh television, and it garnered only a brief mention on the medium in which he excelled: radio. Perhaps that's because unlike Myron Cope, Art Pallan and Bob Tracey, radio personalities whose deaths were noted with copious articles and features, Armstrong, whose birth name was John C. Larsh, wasn't here long enough to become a Pittsburgh icon.
Then again, Armstrong wasn't a fixture in any town. Rather, he jumped from city to city, staying just long enough to catapult a radio station's ratings into the stratosphere, then moved on to attract another legion of radio listeners with his rapid-fire delivery and prime-time entertainment.
He was undoubtedly a Top 40 superstar, though Jack would have most certainly arched his eyebrows and grinned if you dared call him that. He knew what he really was - a magic man hired to resurrect the dinosaur that was becoming AM radio. In Pittsburgh, he worked his voodoo well. From the moment he flipped on the microphone in 1973 and shouted, "It's your leeeeeader Jackson Armstrong, here in the 'Burgh, and you're listening to the new sound of 13Q," rival KQV disappeared ... like magic.
For two years, he was the top-rated disc jockey in Western Pennsylvania, then he, too, disappeared.
Veteran Pittsburgh radio personality Jim Quinn recalls first hearing Jackson in 1966 in Cleveland. "I remember thinking 'Man, I wish I could be that good!' followed quickly by 'I hope to God I never have to compete with this guy,'" he said. "As luck would have it, I left KQV in 1972, a few months before he came to town. I dodged the bullet."
Quinn regrets never meeting Armstrong personally. "He was the Tiger Woods of high- energy DJs. Nobody got close. The shame is that he was at so many stations in the twilight of their lives, staring down the headlights of FM. I played a clip of one of his shows on my program a couple of days ago. I was inundated with e-mails from XM-158 listeners from all over the country saying, 'Thanks for the memory.' I guess it didn't matter how long Jack was in town; once you heard him, you never forgot him."
Battman Johnson, who followed Armstrong in the original 13Q lineup, also e-mailed his condolences. "Of all the personalities, Armstrong stuck out. The night didn't know what hit it when Armstrong hit the air in Pittsburgh. He was yelling, screaming, laughing and rocking. I never heard anything like that. When I arrived at the station that first night, looking out from our glass fishbowl studios at the corner of Stanwix and Forbes, I saw a large group of people listening to portable radios and watching Jack. I thought, 'Gee, we are really killing.' They love us!'
"He went off the air at 10 p.m. and the crowd disappeared. I thought, 'Wait a minute. What about me? Aren't you going to wait to watch and listen to the Battman?' No. They were gone. That's when I knew he was hot - red hot."
The dedication of Armstrong to his trade also did not go unnoticed. Gary A. Weiss, regional vice president of Radio One Inc., recalls, "When we signed Jack, his contract called for 6 a.m. to 10 a.m. As he signed his contract and handed it back to us for counter-signature he said, 'Hey, I want to make sure we get every advantage against the competition. Do you mind if I just start my show at 5:30?' I recall several times getting up early and tuning in the station in the 4 a.m. hour and hearing Jack. He just came in and took the station off automation and went on. When I asked why he did that, he said, 'Boss, morning drive is war and I want to win!'"
My own recollection of Jack Armstrong is that of his mentoring a kid who had the passion, but not the pipes for radio. It didn't matter to Jack. Before or after his show, we'd talk for hours about music, listening to new 45s and debating their merits and chances of ever being heard on the radio. Those long nights breezed by as quickly as Armstrong's shotgun delivery.
Once, we were in the studio discussing the difficulty of "hitting lyrics" (talking over a record until the first vocal). He said, "Hey, if you listen to a song enough times, it's just instinct. Watch." He put on "Smoke on the Water," which has an interminable introduction, and starting telling an impromptu story in his usual fashion - with multiple voices, several plot deviations and that distinctive laugh that signaled he was enjoying himself even more than his audience.
And, of course, the punch line segued perfectly into the vocal. It was effortless for him, an impossibility for me. I knew then I needed to get on with my other career - newspapers - but I worked at the station another two years, anyway, and it wasn't for the paycheck. Even if I didn't know jack about deejaying, I knew Jack and what he could teach me.
In the years since, I've listened to music from 13Q's halcyon days of 1973 to 1975 countless times. They don't sound nearly as entertaining anymore. I thought it was because I matured and my music tastes changed. That wasn't it at all. They're missing Jack. And today, so am I.
To hear clips of Armstrong's broadcasts on 13Q, go online and search "Jeff Roteman" or "13Q."
Terry Hazlett covers TV and radio for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at
snowballrizzo@aol.com.
Copyright Observer Publishing Co.