Radio Daze Part II

Since Van Halen really is going on tour - at least, this week - I couldn't resist telling the tale of the dreaded "Drop Dead Legs" contest after all, which , in its own sexist, haphazard way was in fact much worse than the ill-fated Springsteen food drive. The event was cooked up at the last minute to coincide with a stop in Providence on the 1984 tour promoting the record of the same name. The same rock and roll station that I worked for was given the alleged privilege of finding women with great legs to appear in a video Van Halen would cut while in Rhode Island showcasing the tune -believe it or not - "Drop Dead Legs". WHJY's favorite club at the time - JR's Fastlane - was immediately chosen as the venue for the so-called contest, and the station rushed on the air with a hot promo as soon as possible. As Promotions Director, I was left with the dubious task of somehow structuring the contest.

Normally, most rock and roll promotions were fairly routine. You would give away the tickets or the movie passes or the merchandise to caller number whatever, or simply plug into an existing vehicle created by a record company, a multi-location retailer or a travel agent. I really had no idea why anybody would want to lend their legs to Van Halen and get squat in return except perhaps the privilege of telling their grandchildren someday " Remember videos? You know, MTV? Well, Grandma was in one once..." However, I dutifully made up some entry forms so we would have sort of a structure and headed off to the club at the appointed hour.

It was pretty much a mob scene. I waded through a crowd of women who seemed to have thighs up to their armpits and established myself at a convenient table, handing out and collecting the entries until every form had been filled out. I then beat a hasty retreat to the upstairs office to await the arrival of the so-called Van Halen "people", wondering if David Lee Roth himself was going to show up and judge the golden gams, but his "people" turned out to be a trio of scruffy, nasty LA types who demanded Jack Daniels before they would utter a word. My carefully collected entry forms were quickly relegated to the trash. " But," I appealed to the California scumbags, "what about all the women who filled these out? Mean, aren't you going to like, call them up on stage or something?" I was informed that my role was simply to keep the crowd entertained; the "people" would hand pick the lucky legs.

After waiting until the Fastlane had literally run out of enough room in which to take a deep breath, I was ordered downstairs, where a bouncer the size of a three story building plowed through the throng, clearing a path for us to get onstage. I tried to say something clever, but - fortunately - everything was drowned out by the headbanging music and the roar of the now wasted crowd. Several women whose legs apparently fit the "drop dead" criteria ( which seemed to be how much whiskey can you drink and still see the contestants) were summoned off to the side and given instructions on where and when the shoot would take place. It seemed that all of the women who had dutifully filled out my precious little forms were now too far gone to pay any attention. Back at the office, I had a few ritual shots with the gang, forcing myself to smile at their mindless anecdotes of wasted nights on the tour before managing to slip out.

Speaking of 1984, as George Orwell himself might have said, " Everyone who entered the "Drop Dead Legs" contest was equal, but some of them were more equal than others."