Illustration by C.J. Burton

THE WELLINGTON BUILDING stands at the corner of 19th and Walnut streets, overlooking Rittenhouse Square. The place is staid, stuffy. Heavyweight lawyers, and women who buy their dresses across the street at Sophy Curson’s shop, call it home. I’m on the third floor, trying to figure out why Stevie Wonder is down in the lobby. In addition to those Philly lawyers and ladies who lunch, the Wellington is home to “The Radio Station,” WMMR. It’s 1976, and Stevie has just dropped by unannounced.
 
And alone. Or at least he’s alone in my memory of the incident. Songs in the Key of Life was released in the fall of 1976 and quickly became the album of the year. It was, and remains, a masterpiece, destined to become part of the pop-music canon. I’m the 6 p.m.-to-10 p.m. guy at ’MMR, and I’m playing tracks from the record until my ears bleed. And now, miraculously, Stevie shows up at the station to say thanks. He hangs out most of the night with us. He’s sweet, generous and friendly. Real friendly. I introduce him to a female visitor who happens to be there. Stevie gropes her as only a blind rock star can. She’s thrilled. Between squeezes he takes calls, plays DJ, and thanks the listeners and the station for all their support.
 
It’s late in the Bicentennial year. I’m the guy on the radio station, and I’m sharing a moment with a legend. It’s what radio did. That was then.
 

THIS IS NOW.
 
They’re young, between 15 and 17, and they know about Stevie Wonder. They are aware of him in the manner they are aware of everything. The course they’re taking, a summer enrichment program at Haverford College, is titled “Radio Broadcasting” — “where you learn how to produce, star in and broadcast the sounds of modern radio. You’re on the air!” It’s three decades since that night on the third floor of the Wellington Building. The kids gathered in the basement of the college are from all over the world, and I’m their instructor. I’m there to tell them about radio. No problem, right? Wrong. “Anybody ever been inside a radio station?” I ask. Nope. Okay. “What’s your favorite station?” A few mumbled non-answers later, I’m beginning to see the hand I’ve been dealt. “Do you listen much?” More blank stares. Flop-sweat forms under my shirt. “Well, then, do you guys like radio?” It’s okay, they say. Okay as in, “Who cares?” Okay as in, “Radio? You mean that thing my parents listen to?” How do you explain something that may not matter anymore?
 
I’ve spent most of my life behind a microphone — including many years here in my hometown — and that gives me an interesting vantage point from which to view the world. For example, I can tell you that radio is a habit. In places like Philadelphia, with its small-town worldview, this habit can be pernicious. KYW’s “You give us 22 minutes, we’ll give you the world” has hooked generations of listeners. While WMMR has changed its address over the years, it hasn’t changed its hold on the city. And “Bob from Mount Airy” needs his sports fix from 610 WIP as much as ever.