Dr. Metal and Me

I first met Mike Gonsalves when he was at Rhode Island College, mainly because he showed up at my office in WHJY in East Providence looking for an internship.

Although I've heard people say that most radio personalities lead glamorous lives, paid millions to work twenty hours a week, my position at the time as Promotions Director required a lot of time, usually a stretch since I was also the Morning Show co-host, and help to execute the idiotic ideas we came up with. I needed interns for free labor, for dumping movie passes to some lame flick that the ad agencies decided fit our listener profile, or tickets to a concert by some up and coming act the record label wanted to promote, or merchandise from car wax to cases of soda and chips to merchandise certificates, or the infamous 94 HJY tee shirts. The shirts were such a hot fashion item that one pissed off fan actually punched out a hapless staff member because he had just finished giving out 94 shirts at a club and the angry listener just happened to be number 95. Despite the fact that the interns had the toughest job, the trade off was free concert tickets and the definitive pickup line: "Yeah, I, like, work at the station, you know."

Mike was always cheerful, energetic, funny and willing to do almost anything, although he probably had serious second thoughts after one particular fiasco. The promotion involved telling the audience to meet up with the station's Paddy Wagon (a black, screwed up van that looked like it needed to retire to a body shop) after we announced on the morning show where the van would be, the incentive being the listeners would get free stuff. In this case, the stuff was a bag full of summertime essentials from a major advertiser. It was a good idea, it was just that we only had 40 to 50 bags that were supposed to last four weeks, so the quota was 10 bags per week. Unfortunately, on that particular morning a lot more than 10 cars were already waiting for the Paddy Wagon when it arrived, leaving Mike and his sidekick no choice but to throw the bags in the direction of the people and take off. They were nearly run off the road on the way back to Providence.

I left the business but Mike - or "Gonzo" as he was better known- stayed and prospered, his dream of doing the metal show full time finally coming true. Dr. Metal took over the night, a steady diet of Loudness, Priest, Iron Maiden, Metallica, the entire hit parade of headbangers. The next time I saw Gonzo was on a platform in New Haven after we stopped to change trains. I was going to Manhattan to run a trade show, and he was on his way to hear a Vietnamese metal band, the same low-key, positive persona Mike had when he walked in the door ten years earlier. I rode the rest of the way into the city glowing with pride that I had introduced him to radio, that those cold, slimy mornings dumping passes had finally paid off, that he was doing exactly what he wanted. His name came up again in a random conversation with a forklift mechanic, who mentioned that Mike played on his softball team, what a great guy he was,etc,etc. I was glad to hear he hadn't changed, still felt proud of him, but by that time, Mike Gonsalves was part of a network of memories from a former life that was no longer important.

I was sad and disgusted when I found out he was dead, feeling a twinge of guilt. Although we had had no contact for years, it was still my doing that he was "in" the business, or so I thought. It was really just a passing concern, but I've never lost sight of the fact that no matter who really got him into the business, it was too bad that nobody got him out before the Great White concert at the Station nightclub on the night of February 20, 2003. The really spine-tingling thought is, if things had gone differently, I probably would have been there too.