A wake was held at The Orphanage on Montgomery Street on May 3, 1975 to celebrate the life of Tom Donahue. More than 400 attended and it was one hell of a party. Several columns were written. John Wasserman and Ben Fong-Torres' contributions are below, along with some scant recollections of a wild night that most of us who were there can't remember...

Farewell to Tom Donahue, a Radio Pioneer 

By Ben Fong-Torres

Rolling Stone / June 5, 1975

SAN FRANCISCO -- It is one of many Tom Donahue stories. It was 1967, and while a good part of the city had begun to rock and roll, Donahue rocked  -- and itched. He'd been off KYA for three years; there he'd ruled the afternoons as "Big Daddy," the 400-pound jock. He had sold Autumn Records, first home for Sly Stone, the Beau Brummels and Grace Slick's first band, the Great Society. For 18 months he did nothing but hang out in North Beach, hearing a new music that he wasn't hearing on the radio. He put up a "psychedelic nightclub" called Mother's and booked the Lovin' Spoonful and the first incarnation of the Grateful Dead -- called the Emergency Crew -- but no one was ready for that and the place folded in six weeks. He'd tried talking AM stations into letting him on, to expand their playlists and do on the air what he essentially did at home -- "play disc jockey in my living room." Then a friend, record distributor Bob Krasnow (now with Warner Bros.), told him to try FM. Donahue didn't even own an FM radio at the time and knew FM only as a domain for classical music and foreign-language programs. He hadn't even heard of stereo radio. He shrugged and got to work, calling all the FM stations, and at KMPX he hit a blank. Their phone was disconnected.

"Ahh," Donahue thought. "Now I've got one!" As he reasoned later, "A drowning man doesn't care who's throwing the rope." Sure enough, the station was a flounderer; students and would-be DJs paid the station to get on the air; one of them, Larry Miller, was playing blues, folk and folk rock all night long. On April 7th, 1967, Donahue took over an eight-to-midnight slot held by a nonpaying Chinese language show. And a new kind of radio was born.

The sad ending to the story is that eight years later, Tom Donahue, disc jockey since 1948, station manager of KSAN, rock entrepreneur, San Francisco scenemaker and pioneer of what became known as "underground radio," is dead.

Donahue died April 28th at the age of 46 (he would have been 47 on May 21st). Cause of death was first announced as a heart attack, but that has not yet been confirmed.

The day before his death, Donahue had completed an interview with Leo Sayer for a special for Warner Bros.; that evening, he played backgammon all night with a friend of his and his wife Raechel's. Donahue, said Raechel, "stayed up late" and around 8:00 a.m., went to sleep. When she later checked on him, he appeared ill and was unconscious; she called an ambulance. Despite efforts at resuscitation, he was dead on arrival at Mt. Zion Hospital.

A physician who had treated Donahue said he had complained of irregular heartbeat "He's had extra heartbeats for years," he said -- and also of back and knee aches. Just weeks ago, Donahue felt numbness in his hands and attributed the sensation to his back problems. And, the physician said, Donahue was constantly concerned with his weight. He once carried more than 400 pounds on his 6'1" frame but had reduced in the last year to 310 pounds. "He lost weight," said Raechel, "because he always knew he should." Still, said the doctor, "Somebody this heavy has a 200% greater chance of dying in any given, year than anyone else."

Donahue is survived by his parents, who live in Washington D.C.; by Raechel, now a successful announcer herself on KSAN; by their son Jesse, 4; and by four children by his first marriage to Grace Donahue: Catherine ("Buzzy"), 25; Tom Jr., 23; Sean, 20, and Dierdre, 16.

A simple burial took place at Mt. Tamalpais Cemetery in San Rafael May 1st, with only the immediate family and ten friends attending. Donahue was buried in a pine casket, in accordance with his instructions. His actual wish, several friends said, was to be cremated-"and to have his ashes mixed in with a pound of the finest dope and have his friends smoke it." And if his parents objected-which they did, on religious grounds (they are Catholic)-he wanted to be buried in "the cheapest pine box you can find."

As the family and friends gathered in knots and offered silent, final tributes, a lone figure stood a short distance away. It was Ron Elliott, singer, songwriter and a Beau Brummel in the Sixties under Donahue's wing. The group has just recently re-formed. "An era's passed," he said. "I respected him for what he'd done and what he could do." Watching the burial, he said, "was awkward for me. It was a cold shot. It just opens your eyes to how brief a time you have."

In fact, if Donahue had had just a few more days, he would have made news with an announcement of a dramatic move-back to KMPX, arm-in-arm with film director Francis Ford Coppola, who recently purchased the station. On what turned out to be the day of his funeral, Donahue was to have signed a contract to become general manager (and part owner) of the station he and the original staff had left after a bitter strike in March 1968. KMPX, which vowed then that Donahue would never again darken its doors, changed hands, Went through two staffs with a "progressive" sound, continued to lag behind KSAN in the ratings, switched to middle-of-the-road for a lukewarm minute and settled finally on a swing band/ nostalgia format in 1972. Donahue, according to Coppola, was to "run and re-create KMPX." After three months of negotiations, Donahue was set to sign on May 1st, a Thursday, do his final KSAN show that Saturday night and make his announcement on Sunday.

At the time of his death, Metromedia, which owns KSAN, did not know of Donahue's plans. But while Donahue presumably would have considered several KSAN employees for KMPX, Coppola emphasized that Donahue had no intention of taking KSAN with him.

"He was so happy about the deal," said one close friend. "He was getting everything he wanted-a piece of the station, a good salary, total freedom to do what he wanted." Coppola added: "He told me that KMPX had once been the station and that it could be done again."

Donahue's death left many others deserted as well.

At the Record Plant in Sausalito, where Sly Stone has his own recording studios, the woman who answered the phone said Sly was distraught and had cancelled recording activities on hearing the news. "I know what he's going to say. He'll say, `Well, what can I say?' I mean, Tom discovered Sly!" Sly was 17 when Donahue hired him to back artists he was promoting at the Cow Palace and at a hall further out of town. When Autumn Records was formed, Sly became its only producer and accounted for a string of hits by the Beau Brummels, Bobby Freeman and the Mojo Men. He also cut a single with Great Society, the group Grace Slick left for the Jefferson Airplane. Sly learned his craft on a four-track machine at Coast Recorders (now the Boarding House) on studio time paid for by Donahue.

More than a few people spoke of the soft heart within the massive man, the father figure that was the other side of the awesome, intimidating-looking businessman with the authoritative bass voice. "Tom had a patriarchal image," said comedian David Steinberg, whose wife Judy is a close friend of Raechel's. "He loved it and he played it well." He didn't call himself "the 46-year-old perfect master" for nothing. Stefan Ponek, who was at KSAN doing a weekend underground music show when Tom and his KMPX staff marched in, recalled his first impression. "He was in a league I'd never dreamed of," he said. "He was humiliating and inspiring at the same time. With him came telegrams and a million flowers.

"There's a strong connection between him and the people around him," Ponek continued, "because without him they wouldn't be in radio; they wouldn't have careers. He did a lot of good strokes. He was not the creative force toward the end, but he was the necessary umbrella – he talked good and manipulated well -- to shield the thing from the bullshit and flak that goes with a giant corporation."

Dusty Street started at KMPX as one of three women engineers. Donahue was an appreciator of beautiful and intelligent women and he hired a number of them as secretaries, housekeepers and assistants through the years. At KSAN women comprised the majority of his administrative staff. This was read by some to mean Donahue preferred women over more competitive and argumentative men. Vicky Cunningham, who was his secretary, begs to differ: "He just knew that women have to work harder to get and keep jobs," she said. Dusty remembered Donahue's support. "Once when Aretha Franklin stood me up for an interview, he called me four or five times, and then he came down to the studio. He'd say, `Well, Street, in this town you're bigger than she is,' and pat my back and bolster me. But when I was getting too much input, when my ego was inflated, he'd give me a kick. So, to me, he wasn't really a father figure. He'd take you to the streets and make you face it."

Tom Smothers, who met Donahue in 1969, shortly after The Smothers Brothers’ CBS show was canned, called from Las Vegas. "He was the most gracious host I'd ever known. Many times he and David Steinberg and I ... I'd end up laughing and crying. He had so many stories and he never repeated any. And he always told them perfectly." Steinberg added: "He had a pedantic knowledge of humor as well as a sense of humor. I just had great delight."

Producer Richard Perry was a friend of ten years' standing. Donahue himself had several production credits but, Perry said, "He wasn't really a studio producer. His talent and strength lay in other areas. He had strong musical tastes, a fantastic ear, and what was particularly unique about him was his concept of making rock entertaining. He was a brilliant programmer; he could put together a medley of female blues singers, or Janis Joplin, and create a unity of mood, a whole new message. As a producer -- well, he was realistic. On that Stoneground tour [Stoneground was the "house band" for the country-crossing busload of freaks who made up the 1970 rock film disaster called Medicine Ball Caravan], he knew it was mainly a good time and a chance to go to Europe."

Joe Smith, president of Warner Bros., which bankrolled many of Donahue's off-the-air projects, maintained an open door to him. Smith had a camaraderie with Donahue and his partner, the late Bob Mitchell, born of their common roots in DJ work. Joe, who became head of national promotion at Warner Bros. after his Boston radio career, rejected an offer from Donahue and Mitchell to join them at KYA but went to San Francisco to help the pair stage their occasional concerts at the Cow Palace. "They were insane," said Smith. "I had to do it."

In 1964, after Autumn Records ran into financial problems, "We bought the label and bailed them out." Two years later, Donahue returned the favor, taking Smith to the Avalon Ballroom and introducing him to the Grateful Dead. In 1970, Warners set up a "loose production agreement" with Donahue's North Beach Productions. (Donahue took a year off from KSAN, where he was a nightly DJ, and returned as a Saturday announcer and consultant, with Raechel, for both KSAN and sister station KMET in Los Angeles. In May 1972 he became station manager at KSAN.) Warners received songwriter/singer Ron Nagle, Stoneground and the Caravan film. The deal was never profitable for Warners or the artists. "But," said Smith, "I always regarded him the best, the most creative, the most innovative. I don't know anybody in radio for whom I've had more respect. I've taken it really hard."

On Saturday, May 3rd, 400 friends, associates -- and even several people fired from KSAN by Donahue -- showed up at the Orphanage, a recently defunct North Beach nightclub, for an "Irish wake." Tower of Power, Van Morrison, the Hoodoo Rhythm Devils, the Tubes. and Peter Yarrow performed, and the six-hour party added up to the most complete reunion of the Sixties San Francisco rock and radio scene in recent times. Guests included Dan Hicks, Boz Scaggs, Chet Helms (of the Family Dog) and old KMPX hands Morgan Upton, Reno Nevada and, from New York, Tony Pigg.

Travis T. Hipp, former talk-show host on KSAN, and now with KSML-FM in North Lake Tahoe, told his Donahue story. "He dragged me out of jail, got me into radio, pulled me across the country on a couple of the best runs I've ever had and even took me to Europe. Good, bad or indifferent, that cat did a lot, and everybody in this room's probably got the same kind of story to tell." He paused and looked around; people were drinking, dancing, having reunions, swapping stories and making deals. "He leaves a lot of room for someone else to try and fill."

Tom Donahue was born May 21st, 1928, in South Bend, Indiana. At age 7, his family settled into Washington D.C. But it all started, his first wife Grace recalled, when Tom, at 19 and just out of the service, was going to school part time in Washington D.C. and working as a butcher. He was trying to decide on a real career. "He wanted to think of a profession where he could make the greatest amount of money with the least amount of work." He thought of one, and shortly after their wedding in 1948, they went to Charleston, West Virginia, where Donahue worked at WTIP. His DJ show was called Uncle Tom's Gabbin', the ignominy of it all hardly soothed by his salary: $50 a week. "And he had to sweep up the bathroom, too," Grace said. Donahue's voice, she added, was already "fantastic." A year later they were back in Washington and Donahue was on WINK. But WINK was owned by a woman, said Grace, and "he didn't like working for a female." He got a job, over 100 other applicants, at WIBG in Philadelphia.

The Donahues lived in nearby Levittown and Tom got involved in local politics. "He never ran for office," Grace said, "but he worked hard for a lot of people. Politics was very exciting then in Bucks County; there were these fresh young Democrats going up against a big machine." In 1956, Donahue was appointed secretary of Bristol Township, with (as he himself wrote in a resume) "administrative responsibilities comparable to township manager of a municipality of 70,000 population." He also served, at one time, as deputy athletic commissioner for the state of Pennsylvania. Grace laughed at the recollection. She is an affable woman ("I manage a high-rise apartment tower in Washington under an assumed name," she said by way of introduction. "Also, I ride around on a '66 Honda chopper").

"He had the energy of four people," she said. "He began collecting a library; he read everything." And he was eating. He weighed a trim 175 when they met, she said, "and he got big because I was such a lousy cook; all he ate were peanut-butter sandwiches."

Back in Washington, Donahue had played black music on WINX, whose staff included several R&B disc jockeys. Donahue, said Grace, immediately caught on to rock through Elvis and, with Joe Niagara, helped push WIBG toward a pre-Top 40 rock format. WIBG became Philly's dominant rocker and Donahue and fellow DJ Bobby Mitchell ruled until heat from the congressional payola. investigations of 1959 and 1960 inspired the two to leave. Mitchell went to San Francisco, Donahue to Wilmington, Delaware, where he did a call-in show. In 1961, through Mitchell's recommendation, Donahue was hired by KYA and the station soon overwhelmed its competition, Donahue coming on with the booming warning, "I'm here to mess up your mind and clear up your face." But he was constantly looking around.

"Listen," said long-time friend and former assistant Gretchen Sherman, "when he was ten, Tom went to the Ford Theater. It was ten cents to get in; he gave the woman a dollar, got change for a twenty and he split. That was his first taste."

Donahue and Mitchell set up a number of firms, covering booking, management and publishing. Besides their record label and nightclub, they groomed racing horses and ran a music tipsheet/radio consultation service. This was before any real scene had emerged in San Francisco and the two men had a common and simple goal: money. Carl Scott, an employee of Autumn Records (now with Warner Bros. in artists development), recalled Mitchell's philosophy: "We're only good till our voices run out." Mitchell died in 1968 of Hodgkin's disease. Tom and Grace split in 1966, and in 1969 Donahue married Raechel, who was a dancer at the club he turned into Mother's.

Donahue, as Smothers put it, "never turned the corner; he never got that financial edge, to be really comfortable." But he did put out the first rock hits from San Francisco. He put Sly Stone into the studios. He presented, in 1966, what turned out to be the last Beatles concert. And he opened up the airwaves to post-pimple rock.

On the day of the wake, a six-foot flower arrangement arrived at the Donahue house. It was from John Lennon. At the party Van Morrison was scheduled to follow Tower of Power but David Steinberg suggested that Peter Yarrow go on first-to maybe cheer up the early arrivals. Yarrow proceeded to perform a brief but poignant set, much of it directed at Buzzy Donahue, seated alone in front of Yarrow. He sang the Irish song, "Gilgarry Mountain" and "Lemon Tree," stopping to tell Buzzy that her father had helped break that song -- Peter, Paul & Mary's first hit record -- in 1962. As Raechel joined Buzzy and the crowd quieted down for the last time that night, Peter sang one more tune.

Goodbye old friend
Your songs are ended
The music ends
What was it you said
In a farewell to me
You said live it hard
And then let it be*

It was "Goodbye Josh," a song Yarrow wrote for Josh White. But on this night, it fit Big Daddy just fine.

* "Goodbye Josh" by Peter Yarrow. © 1972, Mary Beth Music.

(If you were at Tom's wake and remember anything, please let us know.)