Originally published on October 31, 2003
Porky Chedwick
Legendary Air Personality

Mention the name Porky Chedwick to anyone who has lived in the Pittsburgh area within the last 55 years, and they will immediately tell you that he is the father of Oldies in that city. Eighty-five years young and still on the radio every weekend at WAMO, Chedwick is “your platter-pushin’ papa” and one of the original disc jockeys inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He is the “Daddio of the Raddio.”

Getting into the business: “I’m one of 10 very poor children. In the ’30s the idea entered my head that I would like to be in communications, but we didn’t have the word communications then. It was like a dream, almost spiritual, like something was prepared for me. I did a few things in high school. We had an old crystal radio set. I’d pick up some sounds, clapping hands and a little shouting, some gospel music. I thought, ‘Why can’t I project something like that to people in Pittsburgh and throughout the country?’ I was always interested in Jesus Christ. I lived that way. I lived in extreme poverty. My mother died when she was 49. My dad was a hard-working steelworker. We knew everything could be better, but we were content to live and do the best we could.”

First radio job: “It was in Homestead, PA, about 10 miles outside of Pittsburgh. The FCC had a lot of community radio stations. You could get a license, and the power would be minimal, about 250 watts. The Homestead politicians heard about it, got together and got a license. They went on the air Aug. 1, 1948. The station was WHOD. I’d heard it was coming and knew where the office was, so I went down and talked to them. They were interested in community affairs, and I asked if I could hang around and watch what they were doing. I went on the air the first week with a 10-minute sports show. I still had music on my mind, though, and I let them know that.

“At the beginning it was called ‘the Station of Nations,’ and on weekends it would program different ethnic groups. I was an engineer, putting the records on for all these groups. It wasn’t too long after that that they gave me a half-hour show once a week. The station served the black people of our community and had a black DJ, Mary D, whom I really admired. For my show, I had to get my own records, but I didn’t have a dime. The stores and dealers didn’t have any records by black artists out because they knew they couldn’t sell them. They’d store them away. I’d go down, and they’d give them to me. They were all 78s. I called my first record a ‘Dusty Disk.’ No one was playing black artists in western Pennsylvania, and it was such a beautiful sound with beautiful harmony. Management was amazed that the phones were lighting up. They weren’t expecting any calls at all.”

His first show: “I called it Porky Chedwick’s Rhythm & Blues. It was R&B, which was unheard of in Pittsburgh. I had prepared myself in the event that I would ever get on the air. I had compiled a little glossary. There was so much poverty and so many problems in the ’40s and ’50s. Something told me I was there to talk to these kids. I did my show in rhymes. I called it ‘Porkology.’ When I went on the air, I said, ‘This is your daddio on the raddio.’ I purposely mispronounced it. My critics thought I was for the blacks over the whites. I had walls to break down, people to convince. I had riots to prevent. This was my mission. Every day something was working in my favor, making me brave and tenacious. Nothing was going to stop me.

“Of course, my parents didn’t accept it. They figured I wasn’t fit to be in front of people. I’ve had a blind eye all my life, and I have a bulbous nose. I started saying ‘raddio,’ and all of a sudden we’re getting more phone calls than the big jocks, just because I mispronounced ‘radio’. Management says, ‘There’s no reason we should be getting that many phone calls,’ and asked me to explain it. Everyone called me Pork. While you say ‘percolator,’ I’d say ‘porkulator.’ When they said, ‘That’s different,’ I’d say, ‘I’m getting you porkafied.’ I’d always say, ‘Pork you later.’ I went on and on. I became everyone’s Daddio. I’d say I was the boss man, and they all figured I owned the station.”

How he got the name Porky: “I was chubby in school, so I figured it was a good gimmick. They’d remember Porky over my given name, George Jacob.”

On his listeners thinking he was black: “I was a black man for years. They didn’t call it rap in those days, but I was definitely the first rapper. I talked that way. I said I had more lines than Bell Telephone. I’d say, ‘My name’s not John Wayne, it’s Porky The Insane. My name’s not Sergeant York, it’s Pork The Torque.’”

Why he’s been so successful: “I inspired people. The teenagers accepted me. They’d never heard that music, but they knew they liked it — the sax, the harmony, the sound of the black voice. I kept building on that inspiration, which was great for rock ‘n’ roll. I respected Alan Freed. He had me on his show in New York when I was a kid. He’s the one who came up with my inspiration for what I did, which gave birth to rock ‘n’ roll. I know Alan coined the term because of the dance beat, but they tell me I created rock ‘n’ roll history. No jocks did what I did.”

His relationship with the record companies: “I went on records given to stations by the labels. The stations were against the black movement and the rock ‘n’ roll beat, which they thought was indecent, so they buried the records. The stations played what they thought the audience wanted to hear. They played white with some black. I took records that were maybe 4 years old and went on the air with them. Everyone thought they were contemporary records. The labels said, ‘You’re playing records we don’t even have the masters for anymore.’ They got so many calls to buy those records.

“Word got out to all the manufacturers. Promotion people came from all over the place looking for this little black guy, and they found me. I didn’t know what side to play. I went on the air playing records according to my ear, but I was able to pick the right side. Then I’d play the other side, which no one would ever do. A lot of the companies said, ‘Don’t give him records, because he plays the wrong side.’ I’d play them, and they’d become hits. I got instantaneous respect all over the country for proving that the B-side could be a hit too.”

On radio today: “I listen to talk shows. I want to hear what America’s saying — not politicians, but Americans. I want to know where their heads are. I want to know what people are thinking. Take the word jealousy. Everybody has a little bit of jealousy. If you misuse it, it’s really jealousy, but if you use it to be competitive without hurting someone, it’ll keep you from being complacent. Your attitude will be the same, your thinking will be the same. As long as you don’t hurt people, you can be jealous. I think jealousy inspires you a little with your competition. Sincerity has always been my big word. I’ve always said I’m very sincere. When you’re a white man talking to the black man, you’d better prove you’re sincere.”

Thoughts on talent: “Radio changes. The jocks on the air today are really limited. Their talents have been put on the back burner for a while, because management controls more. They have the big investment and they have control. The DJs, if they had full control like I had, most of them would be obscene and go that way. That would give them an instantaneous way to capture an audience. I have nothing against Howard Stern. He has a great teenage audience. Kids think he’s pretty cool, so they stay with him. The teenage mind is vulnerable.”

Career highlight: “I am proud I had a listening audience. My name would come up with the salespeople on big stations in downtown Pittsburgh. I was doing something great, and they were all told to study me. I was talking to the underdog. The station I was on was designed for Homestead, but it got so big that they were listening to me miles and miles away. My desire was to get into the minds of the parents who had a lot of children and were in poverty. How could I help them, dress them and give them money? I worked on the air for no money for a couple of years. I wanted to make them happy. I helped make them believe that there was something out there. I taught them to have faith, respect their parents and make sure they studied and graduated.

“The biggest thing I ever did was a remote from the Stanley Theater in downtown Pittsburgh. I figured 100 people would show up. In an hour 10,000 people were on the street. The police turned away 50,000, bumper to bumper, coming in to see me. I broadcast from the roof of the drive-in theater. They turned away car after car. I went to sign autographs at a record store, and I had a couple thousand kids out on the street. I talk decency to everyone, and I am one hell of a good human being. I don’t care if I was labeled wild, crazy, on drugs and drinking alcohol; I was pure, and I was good, and that’s the way I lived. I’m a good role model.”

Career disappointment: “None. I was conscious of every word. I never tried to have a flowery vocabulary. Every word I projected, I knew the kids were listening. I was a Pied Piper. I knew I was getting to people. I didn’t want the kids to be pulled away from Mom and Dad. They’d say, ‘You can’t listen to that man playing that bad music,’ but the kids would get their transistors and listen to me anyway. I had my ‘Teen Commandments.’ I told them to respect their parents and study hard in school and try to go to church. I didn’t overdo it though. I didn’t want them to think I was a nerd.”

Contacting him: “I do not read or write anymore because of poor eyesight. I am legally blind, but I sign plenty of autographs!” [Editor’s note: If you would like to send a message to Porky, please e-mail it to me at efarber@radioandrecords.com, and I will read it to him.]

Advice to broadcasters: “God bless you. I love you, and may your career go a long, long time. I hope you do good things for mankind.”