Thanksgiving has always been a season for gratitude, and this year the memories drift back to the fall of 1971, when a nervous graduate student stepped into the world of commercial radio for the very first time.
Graduate school at San Jose State meant juggling studies with shifts as a board operator at KREP 105.3 FM in Santa Clara. The station, later sold to Empire Broadcasting and reborn as KARA, was a stepping stone. KSCU, campus radio at Santa Clara University, KSJS at San Jose State University, KFJC at Foothill Community College, and even Pinewood Private Schools’s KPSR provided practice, airchecks, and the hope that one day a real disk jockey job might come along.
That call came unexpectedly. Douglas Droese, Program Director at KSJO 92.3 FM, rang one afternoon with an offer: “How would you like to do overnights on the weekend? Three dollars an hour.” The answer was immediate—yes. The pay was better than KARA, but more than that, it was a chance to join the ranks of San Jose’s progressive rock station.
The first night remains etched in memory. Walking into the compact KSJO studio just before midnight, the glass walls revealed Moorpark Avenue on one side and the dark parking lot on the other. Inside sat J. William Weed, cape draped over his shoulders, cigarette in hand. His voice had already become legend among college and high school listeners, punctuated by his trademark line: “rolling another one,” before playing Neil Young’s Cowgirl in the Sand. He greeted me, then roared off into the night on his motorcycle, leaving the studio—and the audience—in new hands.
The vinyl library loomed like a cathedral of sound, intimidating in its sheer size. Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain, Sly and the Family Stone’s Sex Machine, the Grateful Dead’s Dark Star, Pink Floyd’s Echoes—these were the companions through the long hours. Nervousness hung heavy, but then the hotline rang. Douglas was listening. His calm reassurance steadied the nerves.
By dawn, relief arrived in the form of Zack Boles from KDON in Salinas. He brewed coffee, offered a smile, and reminded me that radio was, at its heart, a shared craft. That camaraderie became the hallmark of KSJO.
And with camaraderie came comedy. KSJO had its share of unpredictable moments, the kind that kept everyone laughing long after the records stopped spinning. One day, Gary Torresani brought his enormous dog into the studio. The animal promptly chose the studio floor as the perfect spot to leave behind a “gift.” Quick thinking saved the broadcast—War’s The World Is a Ghetto was cued up, its long playtime giving Gary just enough cover to clean up the mess while listeners grooved on, blissfully unaware.
Another time, Gary ducked into Douglas Droese’s office to make a private phone call. He slammed the door for emphasis, only to have the knob fall off in his hand. Trapped inside, he pounded on the door while the rest of the crew scrambled to find a handyman. KSJO rocked on, but behind the glass, a rescue mission was underway.
These moments of chaos and laughter were part of the magic. Radio was never sterile or predictable—it was alive, human, and full of surprises.
A year later, the overnight shift gave way to morning drive and Public Affairs Director. More importantly, KSJO became a family. Tom Ballantyne, Dawn Bell, Dick Bartholomew, Myrna Fabri, James Hilsabeck, Larry Johnson, Joe Regelski, Gary Torresani, Paul “the Lobster” Wells, and Douglas Droese himself—each played a role in shaping a career and creating friendships that lasted a lifetime.
Looking back, it’s clear that KSJO was more than a job. It was a launchpad, a proving ground, and a community bound together by music and microphones. Even the influence of KLIV, the station so familiar during high school years, echoed through KSJO, KARA, and later KOME.
This Thanksgiving, gratitude flows to Douglas Droese, the KSJO coworkers and most of all the KSJO audience who made those early days possible. Their guidance, encouragement, and friendship lit the path forward. For anyone who ever cracked a mic, cued a record, or felt the thrill of a hotline call, the story is familiar: radio was never just about the music—it was about the people who made it sing.
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