Come Get Me Mother, I'm Through!

By Kim Curry

The moment Kim Curry stepped into a radio station in high school, he knew he was destined to work in the industry.

At the height of popularity for radio stations and DJs in the 70s and 80s, Curry blazed a trail for himself as "Kid" Curry. His iconic, "Bed Check" segment, helped propel him to star status in Miami and it followed him during his over 20 year path to the dream job of Major Market Program Director. The perks of the job, including hanging out with music legends, being invited to the White House, meeting Johnny U and a Watergate burglar, traveling around the world to find the next "Number One" song and, the best part, helping listeners in need.

Life was on track, but, Multiple Sclerosis had other plans. Curry dismissed the early signs of the disease and continued with his optimistic outlook, until a fateful round of golf led to the diagnosis that halted a lifelong career and extinguished his dreams. But attitude is everything. With the love and support of his incredible (Cuban) wife and her assurance of "We Got This Papi," Curry embraced this new challenge and shows us that life can be good even in the face of adversity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KR Curry
• Release date: Sep 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393129523

Book preview

1

Powerhouse Concert

Even now, I’m not quite sure when the pain started.

My day on September 14, 1996, began with a massage in an attempt to spend a quiet hour before heading to the Miami Arena for the Power 96 10th Anniversary Powerhouse Concert I’d spent months organizing. This cutting-edge, ten-act show would be different than anything that had been done before, mostly because I cannot stand the downtime between acts at concerts. People roam around, head to the bathroom, concessions, then shuffle back to their seats when the next act starts.

Not at this concert.

This time, when an act finished, one of our mixers would get on the turntables and put on a show, featuring a different genre of music—disco, freestyle, old school—each time. The music wouldn’t stop, and the audience would have something to keep them in place while they waited for the next act. If it played out like I had envisioned, it would make the show move and keep everyone’s attention.

Four hours before showtime, I arrived at the arena to get a feel for which artists were in which dressing rooms. The Power 96 mix team, who would play a major part in the show, began arriving. Kenny B and his promotions team had the hardest job. His crew shuttled the artists—Ricky Martin, Coolio, the Quad City DJ’s, Nathan Morris, Total, Angelina, and the rest of the lineup for Powerhouse"’—to their sound checks back and forth from hotels to the venue on time, made sure they and their support staff had what they needed in their dressing rooms, and supplied the guys at the soundstage with music tracks for the artists. One of the hardest things to control at any big concert is the action backstage, not only with the artists but also with all the extras (wives, kids, brothers who aren’t really brothers), becomes madness. However, Kenny and his crew had everything under control.

I oversaw the whole thing. For weeks, we had gone over every detail of the show. The staff was prepped and ready, and things were running smoothly, leaving little for me to do at this point. I felt pretty happy. I walked out into the arena from backstage to see the cavern of seats starting to fill up. As I headed back to check on the guys at the soundstage, I heard a smattering of Kid! as listeners recognized me walking around.

I stopped to talk to Raphael, one of the radio station’s accountants and my connection to Ricky Martin because of his dealings with the Puerto Rican chamber of commerce. The record company had facilitated Ricky performing at the concert, but the chamber played host to him, and Raphael had set up extra time for me to hang with Mr. Martin. Just a few years earlier, Martin had been with the boy band, Menudo, and one of the biggest stars in Latino music. This was one of his first breakout shows as an adult. He was on the cusp of being a megastar but still a polite, down-to-earth, and pretty amazing guy.

Finishing my walk through of the arena, I headed backstage.

I ran into the owner and general manager of the station, Greg Reed. I almost didn’t recognize him in his casual clothes; he’s a suit and tie guy. All smiles, Greg asked how things were going. I told him how surprised I was that everything was under control. He patted me on the back and said, You’ve got this.

Through the crowd of record promoters, artists, and backstage extras, his kids appeared, and Greg said they wanted to meet Coolio.

Follow me this way, I said.

We made our way down the hallway to the door with a big Coolio sign. I opened it to let Greg and his kids in. I followed and whack!—this big cloud of dope smoke hit me, and my heart sank. I also got a sharp pain in my gut.

My panic quickly faded when Coolio jumped off the couch with a big smile, handshakes, and a nice welcome. I don’t know what I had expected; was Greg going to clear the room and stop the concert? Everybody out, there’s dope in there! I hold Greg in high regard and didn’t want him to be offended, especially with his kids in tow. But he’s a grown man and wasn’t fazed. However, this encounter seemed to kick in a little indigestion for me.

Power 96 was a market leader with a very passionate audience who followed a station not afraid to break the rules musically and which had lovingly embraced the ever-growing Cuban and Latino community that had rapidly become the primary ethnicity of the city. After ten years of working to become their favorite radio station, this was the biggest listener party we’d ever thrown. You could feel the anticipation from both the crowd and staff. The arena was filling up to capacity, and the crowd danced in the aisles in preparation for the event.

As my staff headed to the dressing rooms to change, I headed to one to put on my tuxedo. I walked in, took a big deep breath … and there it was again, that pain in my gut. I thought, I gotta get me an antacid. But I didn’t have any, and it was getting close to showtime.

I got one leg into my pants when suddenly I heard the mixer play the opening track of the show. That wasn’t supposed to happen yet. I shook my head and laughed despite a slight panic settling in. I was supposed to be onstage, and they had been told not to start the concert without me. Quickly, I finished getting dressed while the mixer filled the arena with more music. I ran down the corridor and up the metal stairs to the stage to join the staff.

At the top of the stairs, I looked around at the scene before me. This was the largest event I’d ever produced. The venue was packed with screaming fans. Colored lights flashed everywhere. The staff, with huge smiles, jumped up and down, and the music blared. I teared up for a moment as I soaked it all in. Finally, it was time for Powerhouse!

Bo Griffin and her morning show crew announced the lineup for show: Coolio, the Quad City DJ’s … Ricky Martin … Meanwhile, my stomach really began to hurt again, so I stayed off to the side. I had a staff of legends, so it was no problem. They took over and got the concert started.

As I came offstage, the pain became overwhelming, and I started asking, Does anybody have an antacid?

The radio legend, Don Cox of Cox on the Radio, said, I got drugs for that, and coming from him, it was a really funny line.

He handed me a little pill. I didn’t even care what it was; I just wanted the pain to disappear, so I swallowed it.  Thankfully, within twenty minutes, the pain subsided.

Onstage, the acts stuck to the schedule and mixer after mixer kept people in their seats. By the end of the show, fans were back dancing in the aisles during an incredible set by Ricky Martin, and I teared up again. We had killed it. The first Power 96 Powerhouse had gone off without a hitch.

We cleared the arena, and I met with the promoters, Barry and Debbie Richards, to finish tallying numbers. The show had sold out. We’d covered all costs and even managed a little profit for the company. Greg had never expected to make any profits and had specifically mentioned that he simply wanted to put on a great show for our audience, but the corporate office was going to be happy.

I headed to the after parties around town to celebrate with the staff. Without a doubt, the addition of mixers between acts to keep the audience in a music frenzy had paid off. It had been a five-hour-long wall-to-wall party unlike any of us had experienced before. We’d invited radio station program directors from around the country, and many of them took our show ideas and used them for their own future events. Our concert style became a standard for Rhythmic Top 40 radio stations around the country.

The little pill Cox had given me earlier had stopped the pain in my gut, allowing me time to celebrate. I partied for a while with the staff then headed to a hotel close to the Miami airport. After weeks of planning a concert of this caliber and running a very popular Miami radio station, I needed a break.

After about an hour of sleep, I boarded a plane for a trip to my hometown of Cañon City, Colorado, to visit my parents and to rest for a couple of days. As I stared out the airplane window, I felt pretty proud: yesterday had probably been the best day of my over twenty-year radio career.

Power 96 was (and still is, as of this writing) a very important radio station, not only in the market but also in the industry. Miami is like little Hollywood, California. Since the days of Arthur Godfrey, Jack Benny, Jackie Gleason, Sinatra, Martin, and Davis, Jr., and for years before them, Miami has been the East Coast stomping grounds of stage and screen stars. In the music business, Eric Clapton, the Bee Gees, KC and the Sunshine Band, Gloria Estefan, Peter Frampton, and countless others consider Miami their home, or their recording home.

To be a successful music radio station in Miami is a big deal. Nine months earlier, Greg had fired the Power 96 program director and made me the interim program director. For the next six months, he’d flown the best and brightest program directors from around the country to Miami for interviews. Although I’d programmed radio stations before, Greg and his two consultants didn’t think I was ready for the job, even though during my twenty years I’d been the assistant to one of them and hired as a program director by the other. Neither had confidence in me to take on this big project. For years, my success as a DJ overshadowed my minimal success as a program director.

Power 96 was a milestone in Greg Reed’s career. In 1983, he was working for CBS radio in Philadelphia when he began a partnership with the Beasley Broadcasting Company, forming Beasley-Reed Broadcasting. They purchased Power 96. The station became the primary property of the Beasley chain, so they wanted to protect it at all costs. That meant finding the most talented programmer available. As they searched the nation for the perfect fit, they wanted me to control the programming office and concentrate on my radio show. I repeatedly, and boldly, told them they were wrong. I’d worked with both these guys over my career and they’d taught me well. Although Greg would make the final decision on whom to hire, the consultants influenced his decision. I kept telling them I simply needed the right situation to prove that I could excel as a major market program director and that Power 96 was that perfect situation. They just needed to give me a chance.

Even the staff questioned my ability to run the station; to them I was just another DJ. It took a while, but I spent time with each person, explaining the programming ideas and music changes I thought we should make, and eventually, I got their full support. While Greg and the boys were interviewing, I started making those changes and—surprise—within a few months, the ratings began improving and continued doing so. Meanwhile, almost six months went by, and Greg wasn’t finding what he was looking for in his nationwide search.

Three months before the Powerhouse concert, Greg promoted me to program director of Power 96 Miami! The event was the culmination of eight months of hard work to prove to Greg, the consultants, and the company that I was capable of programming a major market radio station.

I flew into Colorado and got to my parents’ house just before midnight. The next morning, the pain in my stomach returned. By noon, it had grown worse, and the antacid I took all morning hadn’t helped. I wondered if it was the egg my mom served me at breakfast.

By two p.m., the intense pain, centered in my lower right abdomen, had become intolerable. Even with the pain, something made me want to head to Rudd Park, the tree-filled, grass-covered city park in the middle of town where I had played during my childhood. I wanted to lay in the Colorado grass (which is different from Florida grass) and be warmed by the sun.

As I laid there, the pain grew more intense. I began to wonder if I would be able to stand up. Then I heard the bell go off at the high school across the street. School was over, and kids would soon filter through the park as they walked home. I either needed to stand up and get to my car or stay put. I stayed. My gut was killing me.

I heard voices getting close. As students came upon me lying there, in my basketball shorts, a sweaty T-shirt, and sunglasses, it would get quiet.

All I could muster was, Hey, what’s up?

I heard giggles as they passed, and a couple of kids asked if I was okay. Yep, I’m good, I said, trying not to sound like I was being stabbed.

It took about fifteen minutes for everyone to clear. At that point, I struggled to my feet, hobbled to my car, and drove to my parents’ house. It was time to get me to the hospital.

The ER doctor said it was my appendix and it had to come out. What had started out as a quick couple days of R & R to rejuvenate after the biggest day of my radio career was now going to be an appendix removal and at least ten days of recovery before I could fly back to Miami.

Eight years later, I would return to my hometown with another medical emergency. However, you heal from an appendicitis.

2

Growing Up

My dad, Willis Alvin Curry, was a twenty-year veteran of the United States Navy and had fought in the Korean War. In 1962, for the last three years of service, he was assigned as a recruiter for the Navy in Pueblo, Colorado. Life is a fog for me back then, but four things stick out about Pueblo.

1) In second grade, we got a color TV.

2) Cindy Lutz panicked during a spelling bee and peed her pants.

3) I remember the horrible assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy and the day we were called to the gym at Highland Park Elementary while the principal stood on stage, trying, through tears, to explain what had happened.

4) Finally, I remember being in a talent show in fourth grade with my friends Tim Lynch and Mike Haling. We donned fake wigs and became The Beetles. Mike played his cardboard drums while Tim and I strummed cardboard guitars and lip-synced to the Beatles’ Please Mister Postman. The fourth grade crowd screamed like real Beatles fans. We won the talent show and I discovered that I liked being on stage!

My dad retired from the US Navy in the spring of 1965, and we moved to Cañon City, Colorado, because, as he told my mom, the smartest kids come from Cañon City. It seemed that when my dad had interviewed young men from around the state to enlist in the Navy, he discovered where the good kids came from.

The small rural town of Cañon City was a great place for a boy like me to grow up. The Arkansas River ran right through the middle of town. In those days, there were acres of produce being grown for miles around the river, the trees were green, the streets were clean, and all I needed was my bike. We hunted birds with our BB guns, fished the river and climbed mountains. As long as I was home by five o’clock for dinner, my mom never worried.

I don’t know if it had anything to do with the kids are smarter in Cañon thing, but Cañon City is also the home of the Colorado State Penitentiary. An imposing structure built in 1871, Old Max was just eleven country blocks down the street from the house I grew up in, positioned right up against a mountain on the west side of town. You could still see where inmates had been assigned to beat sledgehammers on the granite mountain behind the prison as punishment in the past. The giant gates opened right onto 1st and Main Street. Down a few blocks on Main were restaurants, bars, J.C. Penney, Woolworth’s, Ben Franklin’s, and Coast to Coast. Guards, at the end of a shift, walked down the street to grab a beer at Kegs Shanty, or Bernie’s, or the Owl Cigar Store, which is the only one of these establishments still in operation today, and by the original family. Maybe the prison employed the best and brightest and that made their kids the smartest. (For whatever reason, great choice, Dad.)

The thrill I got in fourth grade, being that kid on-stage, lip-syncing a Beatles song and getting applause, never left me. I liked getting the attention. When my big sister became a Rainbow girl (I don’t know if the organization exists anymore), they had a bake sale one Saturday, just off Main Street. I rode my bike over to watch the action and eventually started helping the girls sell their baked goods. Having no shame, I accosted people as they walked by, doing my eleven-year-old buy some goodies and support the Rainbow girls spiel, and soon all the goodies were gone. The girls told me it was because I helped. I’ve always been a ham.

In fifth grade, I began playing the trumpet, much to my father’s chagrin because I practiced day and night upstairs in my room. From the first moment I learned to count time by using my heel and not my toes, I was hooked. The band director’s son, also in fifth grade, played the trumpet too. For some reason, I really wanted to be better than him. Until we graduated, we fought back and forth on who would sit first chair. He had more skill, I had better interpretation—that’s what I thought, anyway.

Music performance became my focus in high school. I played trumpet in the high school band, in church, and in a rock and roll band, and I even became the drum major for the marching band. I sang in the exclusive Modern Choir and emceed the yearly talent show, where I also performed. Had it not been for the band and choir, I would have never gotten an A on my report card in school. I wanted to be a performer, and none of my other classes mattered.

When my father retired and lived on his pension, he had a variety of different second jobs: a convenience store manager, a member of the work crew for the local natural gas company, a policeman, a guard at Old Max, and circulation director at the local newspaper. By 1972, he had become a news/sales guy at the only radio station in Cañon City, KRLN.

During that summer, the general manager asked my dad if I would stop by the radio station because he needed me to babysit. In school, I had made spending money by babysitting the kids of my parents’ friends, so this didn’t seem unusual. The next day, I went to the station to babysit, and the GM informed me that it had nothing to do with kids. He wanted me to babysit the Sunday morning God Show when the radio station played the previous week’s services from local churches. Nobody wanted the job, which consisted of placing seven-inch reels of tape onto a machine, playing the tape on the air, and reading the weather, a news update, or the station identification in between. It was not an exciting job, which is why they just needed a high school kid. The first time I heard my voice in the headphones as I did the station identification, KRLN Cañon City, Colorado, the Station with the News Reputation, I was hooked. All I wanted was to be on the radio and be a disc jockey. There must have been something in the water in Cañon City, because within a three-year period, four of us from Cañon City High School, including my bandmate, Blake Lawrence, worked at KRLN and went on to have successful radio careers.

In 1973, I graduated from Cañon City High and spent the next three years at Southern Colorado State College in Pueblo, majoring in music with a minor in broadcasting. My parents wanted me to focus on my music education, but I’d been bitten by the radio bug. I rarely attended music classes but never missed radio classes. The school’s radio station became my new home, surrounded by classmates with the same starry-eyed desire to become a broadcaster, because radio can lead to TV and TV leads to movies. There was a real sense of creativity and motivation, and I must have shown real promise because they named me the first freshman in the broadcasting school’s history to be the program director. Broadcast management classes, news writing classes, production classes, I became obsessed.

All the while, I worked part-time at a commercial radio station in town. After three years of intense radio school education and real-time practice, I began sending out audition tapes to radio stations around the country in an attempt to get my first full-time job. By my junior year, I was ready to get out and get to work. By now, my parents were well aware of my love for radio and had come to realize that I wasn’t going to be a band director.

3

DJ Dream Come True—Kind Of

In February 1976, I got a call from the program director of a radio station in Knoxville, Tennessee. He offered me the ten p.m. till two a.m. shift at 15Q/WKVQ Knoxville for $260 a week (really good money in those days) and he needed me there in ten days. With nothing more than a promise over the phone, I accepted the job.

Over the next forty hours, I sold my trumpet, dropped out of college, and told my parents I was headed to Knoxville to a radio station they’d never heard of to work for someone I’d only spoken to over the phone. My dad, a radio guy, was immediately concerned, which didn’t help my mother. I reminded them that I’d been training for this, I’d had success with the college radio station and at my part-time job, they could see my grades. It was my dad who finally convinced my mom that I’d be fine. The radio bug is a hard thing to shake and my dad had known it was just a matter of time until I started my career.

The next day, I packed my white Plymouth Valiant with my belongings, got out the map, and headed to Knoxville.

My real name, Kim Curry, never worked on the radio. Kim sounds like Ken, and in the seventies, there were probably no DJs in America named Kim. Back in college, on the first day at my part-time job, the voice-over announcer was at the station to record new DJ sweepers that are played between songs. When it came time to record for my show, the boss picked up a 45 single (Google it), looked at the record label, and said, You can’t be Kim, you’ll be this guy. He pointed at the name under the title of the song and said, You’ll be Gary Paxton (that’s the name of the guy who wrote the song Monster Mash). Through college, that was the name I used on the radio.

With my new job, I had the chance to come up with a different name. In those days, famous DJs on the radio had names like Shotgun, the Wolfman, the Doctor, and the Boogie Man, so I needed a catchy name. Because my show would start at ten p.m., I came up with the name Nightsmoke (stop laughing). As I drove across the country, listening to radio from Amarillo to Oklahoma City to Little Rock to Memphis, I imagined myself saying, 15Q, it’s me, Nightsmoke, and here’s the latest song by Wild Cherry (they did the song Play That Funky Music, White Boy).

While on the road, I listened to the DJs in those cities. I thought they would be better than me because I was a rookie but I wasn’t impressed. Back in those days, you could order compilation tapes of DJs around the country. If you were a radio freak like me, that’s how you learned what radio sounded like around America. My friends and I had purchased lots of those tapes, so I’d heard these stations and DJs before. Now, listening to them live, it was clear that they had sent in their best work for the compilation tapes.

Anticipation grew the closer I got to Knoxville. I couldn’t wait to see the new station and the new studio I’d be working