Barry Crimmins

By Barry Crimmins

I had an opportunity to become the first angry white man victim but missed my chance. Too bad. Imagine the fees I could command at Tea Party rallies.

Please welcome the man who had a persecution complex when most of us were still chasing secretaries around the desk....

It was was 1977 or so. I was in line to get an on-air position at WHFS radio in Bethesda, Md. My final interview was with the GM or owner -- a man named Einstein and another fellow who I'm pretty sure was also an Einstein and was the program director or something. I entered Main Einstein's office and he welcomed me by declaring he was quite impressed with my quick wit and knowledge of rock and roll. The other amiable Einstein agreed. They asked me if I wanted a drink. It being a job interview, I declined.

Big Boss Einstein insisted,"You sure? Because we're definitely going to have one."

I said I'd have what they were having. I think it was some kind of booze, maybe gin. It was not a celebratory beverage but it was without doubt, a cordial. They cut to the chase: I would not be hired. Einstein/PD gave me a good reason. He said, "As you may have noticed, we're both white guys. When you walked through our offices what you largely saw, were more white guys. If you turn on HFS, you will probably hear -- you guessed it -- a white guy."

Lead Einstein took over, "As a broadcast station, we answer to the F.C.C..  That's 'F'as in 'Federal.' The feds have recently noticed that broadcasting is very heavy on white guys and light on everyone else. So as much as we'd like to hire you, we couldn't help but notice you are a white guy. So get out!"

We all laughed. They'd given me the bad news in the best possible fashion. There was no grousing about what stood between me and a gig at what was fast becoming one of the great FM rock stations in the country. Instead they encouraged me to hang on and keep applying for jobs. They also told me to check in with them every so often. They were encouraging, supportive and really nice. I was young (about 23) and optimistic. Cool guys who ran a hip radio station thought something of me. It was a start.

I walked out of HFS headquarters and found my way across the street to the fabled Psche Delly. Sitting at the bar was a scruffy, half-bagged man who turned out to be DC music legend Root Boy Slim. I sat few stools down an otherwise empty bar from him. He demanded a drink for me and introduced himself. Within the year he would release the album Root Boy Slim & Sex Change Band, featuring the haunting ballad Boogie 'til You Puke.

I told Root Boy my story, including details I didn't disclose at the meeting. I figured it unwise to divulge to perspective employers that I was destitute and had no fixed address. RBS responded by getting me more drinks (although I'm guessing that since money wasn't changing hands, his beverages were comped.)

At one point during a hazily memorable evening, Slim gave me some of the best advice I've ever received. He said, "Black men been up against what happened to you today for a long damned time. You know what they did about it?"

I allowed that I didn't.

"They became minstrels and I don't mean that burnt cork shit. They took their talents on the road and made the world love them one audience at a time. These folks had dazzling souls. So get yourself some good shoes, hit the road and dazzle!"

"But I have no musical talent," said I.

"That never stopped me!" retorted Slim, dissolving into rich and raspy laughter.

"Well I have done some stand-up," I revealed.

"See! You have been holding out on me. Get outta here and get yourself to work!"

After several more drinks I did get outta there and hit the road for some decades.

The meeting at HFS and evening at the Psche Delly had given me a glimpse of somewhere I'd soon arrive-- an alternative world that was entered through the back door and where the drinks were on the house. Funny and smart kindred spirits loomed everywhere. Many of them were women and minorities. I guess HFS only had a few job openings.

I always meant to get back to the Einsteins to let them know what happened to me. But after a few years I figured they'd welcomed so many amazing guests to their studios that any recollection of me had long ago sifted into the sediment. In any case, they were really great and changed my life by not hiring me. Today's disasters are tomorrow's catalysts.

Eventually I learned that FM radio is a big deal as far as you can see but once you're beyond the horizon, it's over. People think their local station is the center of all hipness but know little of an FM mainstay just a few exits down the interstate. As cool as it would have been to be a radio personality, things worked out well for me. For years what waited for me beyond the horizon was my name on a marquee.

I wore out several pairs of shoes traveling a million or so pretty great miles. As it happens, Root Boy Slim very rarely toured, choosing instead to make the most of his popularity within the broadcast range of WHFS. He died in 1993. I never thanked him for his influential cameo appearance in my life.

I ended up doing interviews at dozens of FM stations. When I had a particularly good time on a show and witnessed the camaraderie of the host and staff of a top-notch production (for instance Charles Laquidara's Big Mattress on WBCN in Boston or Tai's morning show across town on 'FNX), I'd briefly imagine what might have been. Other interviews were by the numbers and quite forgettable. And then there were the standard morning zoos, where obvious humor and threadbare music got my day off to a cheesy start. The only thing I imagined while visiting those shows, with their fake-voiced misogynist hosts and human laugh-track on-air crews, was hopping in my rental car and driving until that station's signal faded to static.

Eventually the road got even older than I did and so in 2007 I left it to others to kick up dust on the path to glory.

Despite rumors I started when announcing my return (that some people took seriously and thanks again for the advice on how to kick Ambien), I'm retaking the stage to keep a pledge I made when I left it: I promised to perform at benefits for worthy causes whenever possible. In keeping with that I'm now involved in a new crusade -- the preservation of me. Just as back in 1977 when I was weeded out as a potential hire because of demographic difficulties, I'm again suffering exclusion from many possible jobs. This time it's not my gender or race holding me back, it's my age. I'm over 50 and this country appears to have no plans to do anything but economically de-cycle Baby Boomers. That's OK. I can still dance -- well at least metaphorically.

So let's think of my reemergence as a performer not so much a comeback but as an ongoing series of fundraisers for a fairly legitimate cause -- solvency. My first two charity events are back in my artistic hometown of Boston, at Mottley's Comedy Club on Nov 5-6. Mottley's truly shares and shares alike with comics -- perhaps the first club in the area to do that since the old Ding Ho. Draw a crowd and everyone does well. If you attend, you'll not only be supporting the Committee to Preserve Me, you'll be bolstering a hip club that treats performers fairly.

I'll be joined at Mottley's by the brilliant Erin Judge. I caught her do a smart and very funny set on Comedy Central a few years ago and have been a fan ever since. I couldn't believe my luck when she agreed to join me for my reappearances in November. Even if you don't come to my shows, watch out for Erin.

Since it's something of an occasion, there will be another very special attraction on the bill. Author, essayist and comic Dennis Perrin will help ignite the inferno both nights. He has been writing about his forays onto the stage on his enormously popular blog for months now. If you're a reader. this gives you a chance to participate in The Project. Dennis wrote Mr. Mike, the acclaimed biography of Michael O'Donoghue. Mr. Mike is linked in perpetuity to RootBoy Slim, demonstrated below in irrefutable YouTube footage. Small world.

Friday will be my official return to the stage and you'll want to say you were there. Saturday night will most assuredly be Saturday night and you know what heathens do on Saturday nights. Both shows are now on sale. Mottley's isn't huge so I advise ordering your tickets now. OK, change "advise" to "beg." I desperately need money for lute lessons because minstrels must constantly strive for improvement. Don't force me to sell myself to the Tea Party.

33 years later he tells the true story of how affirmative action forced him to become a Godless leftist America-hater.

So come on out. The Committee to Preserve Me promises you'll have more fun than boogeying 'til you puke.