Bring back the dynamic duo!
Teen town lives!
americka ended june 16, ’92—the night Kip/Rog went off the air
“1992,” I said.
“I’m amazed they made it that long,” Fry said. “I guess the lucrative world of oldies but goodies kept them in business. But let’s play the old-school shit.”
I reached over and fired up a YouTube: Kip ‘n’ Rog 93 KHJ Wednesday 22nd December 1965.
No movie, just a still black and white of the two hepcats. Their air check slogan pumped in like a megaphoned battle cry—“Teeeeeeeen Towwwwwwn Tunes IN!”
Then one of them started talking—the fastest silver-tongued DJ spiel you could ever imagine, riding over the sound of snapping fingers. “Wigsters, digsters, geepies and groovers, you’re cooking with K and R, the caper cruisers from coast to coast, the hosts who don’t have to boast, we’re wailing with the wax and shuttin’ down the shushers on that twisting river of electric light known as Everystreet, Anytown, U.S. of A. Sooooo fire up your hot rod, jack up your jalopy and go, baby, go!” Then, the sound of revving engines and screeching tires as the opening riff to Sonny and Cher’s “The Beat Goes On” kicked in.
Fry shot me a droll look and we both burst out laughing. But as the laughs died, we sat there listening like two men in a kind of séance. It quickly became apparent the fast one was Kip, the cool one was Rog. They spun 45s, took dedications, ran bombastic ads for swimsuits, razors, and something called Gorilla Milk.
“You’ll go ape for Gorilla Milk—now featuring strawberry malt…it’s hairy!”
Then, over an orchestral bass drumroll, Rog said, “Fasten your seatbelts, swingers, it’s time…for…the Pickup Line Parade!”
A Salvation Army–style band romped up behind the clang of an old-school ringing phone. Then Rog, in that easy half-southern drawl of his, said, “All you fine people out there makin’ it with the modern sound, we’ve got a very special guest today right here in the studio with us, we just met her right out there on our way in, window-shopping on Fairfax Ave, a lovely young lady right here with us at radio station KHJ, she’s sweet sixteen and impossible to ignore, folks, finalist in the Miss California Pageant—you shoulda taken that trophy, darlin’—Miss Marjorie Hirsch.”
A cacophony of trumpets and kazoos and then—
“Hi, Kip, hiya, Rog.” Flirtiest voice on the planet, pure sunshine. “Can’t believe I’m really on the air!”
“You really are, darlin’—is this a pretty girl or what? Now—tonight, as promised, we’re gonna take some calls, let the boys make their pitch, and you decide. You know how the Pickup Line Parade works?”
“Of course I do—I’m your biggest fan.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Wait, wait a minute—play that again, like, half a minute.”
Fry toggled back.
“—she’s sweet sixteen and impossible to ignore, folks, finalist in the Miss California Pageant—you shoulda taken that trophy, darlin’—Miss Marjorie Hirsch.”
“Hi, Kip, hiya, Rog. Can’t believe I’m really on the air!”
Pointer finger trembling at the screen, I said, “That’s Marjorie Persky.”
“Who?”
“Cinnamon’s mother—the lady with the LP. Sweet sixteen—Jesus.”
“Quite the ambitious teenybopper.” Fry leaned in to focus. Kip and Rog were leading a series of nervous teenage boys through phone-ins, each one trying to make their voice sound deeper, more suave, more commanding than the last:
“Hi there, miss—just wondering. Are you a magician? ’Cause whenever I look at you…everything else disappears.”
“Hey, baby, let’s go to the mountaintop…’cause after we make love…you’ll see flowers in the snow.”
“Excuse me, ma’am—do you have a map I can borrow? ’Cause I’m getting lost in your eyes.”
After each phone-in, that same haranguing rave-up of trumpets and kazoos. And after the last caller, Kip said, “Okay, Miss Hirsch, that’s three for three.”
“What do you say?” Rog piped in. “Any of these fellas stand a chance?”
And then, Marjorie, this “female guest,” so obviously a paid actress, said, “Caller number three, I liked your style best.”
Kip, gone frenetic: “We have a winner, folks! The jury’s in! So—Miss Hirsch, are you saying you would willingly give caller number three your phone number?”
“Well, I don’t know about that. But…I might hear him out.”
Rog, in full menefreghista mode: “You heard it here first, callers—when addressing a pretty gal, try the softer touch. Thank you very much, Miss Hirsch. The boy who catches your heart is a lucky fellow indeed.”
Kip: “Caller number three, you’ll be getting a pair of tickets to Knott’s Berry Farm Christmas Jamboree, where we’ll be on hand to spin some sides and blow some noggins. And now—Duane Eddy taking out the…‘Trash!’ ”
Over the twanging cowboy guitar, Fry said, “Man, the world was cuckooballs then. I’ll make you see flowers in the snow?”
“Yeah,” I said, “but—those two DJs have thousands of fans right now. Can you imagine all those people listening to yesterday’s radio like it was on today?”
“Actually?” Fry said. “I can. Think about it. It’s just like listening to the cantor sing a prayer that was written two thousand years ago. People want to be”—he whirled a finger—“connected in time. People want endless repeat.”
I scrolled on. “Look—they still have a show—on Sirius. No, wait—they had a show. It’s canceled.”
“Well, there you go—two old geezers, taken off the air, sent out to pasture. Now they’re the face of Fountain Grove Estates.”
“Okay, okay, let’s connect some dots here before I go meshuga. Marjorie knew Kip and Rog, and so did her daughter, Cinnamon, whose boyfriend was in the band with Hawley. Cut to the present—Hawley hires a detective and now Kip and Rog run this strange retirement village. But why does Hawley’s detective go down there—and stay there?”
