Chicago Eddie Schwartz remembered

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: Chicago Eddie Schwartz remembered : by Phil Rosenthal, Chicago Tribune : --------------------------------- : : We lost long-ailing Chicago Eddie Schwartz overnight in those dark, lonely hours where he once flourished as everybody's Everyman on the radio in this town. : Schwartz's long-ago show on WIND-AM 560 was part of my teen years, before I went out of state for college and the start of a career. Although he and I would sometimes exchange e-mails when I returned home to Chicago and became a local columnist decades later, I'm not sure I ever knew him better than as that voice in the night keeping me company as I tried to drift off to sleep. He was also the one keeping me awake when I was scrambling to finish a term paper I should have started weeks ago and now was due at dawn. : Chicago Tribune columnist Eric Zorn has posted a terrific remembrance of Schwartz on his "Change of Subject" blog I would highly recommend, along with links to pieces he has written about him in recent years. One archival story not included was a particularly well-done profile Zorn that ran on May 3, 1982, the week before news broke that Schwartz would be leaving WIND-AM for Tribune Co.'s WGN-AM 720. : That story wasn't readily available online, so I have re-typed it (and apologize in advance for any typos I have left in haste) because I can't imagine a better tribute to Chicago Eddie than to go back and spend some time with him in his heyday, like this: : Bright 'Chicago Eddie' lights day's dark side : By Eric Zorn : Big Eddie Schwartz is a big man with a big heart who scores big ratings at a big radio station where he works the wee hours. : At night, when Chicago's daytime luminaries are asleep, Schwartz is far and away the city's most popular figure. His 11 p.m.-to-5 a.m. talk and comedy show on WIND-AM 560 annihilates the competition with its blend of whimsy, public service, true confession and controversy. : The host is equal to his nickname "Chicago": He keeps his fingers on the pulse of the sleeping city all night long, calling the police and fire department, and watching an ambulance scanner for unusual activity. : When listeners call with bureaucratic problems, he knows just what they should do to get action. When a situation is particularly bad, he has been known to holler so loud that streets get fixed, laws get changed and city ordinances get enacted. : He works obsessively hard during the day to be the ultimate talk-show host to 50,000 listeners at night. He sleeps from 7 a.m. until noon, prepares his show for five or six hours by reading, gathering information and taping interviews, then naps briefly in the evening. : His morning is 9 p.m., when he rolls out of bed to look from his 50th floor apartment onto the lights of the city where he was born and raised. "It's like living on top of a birthday cake," he says. Police scanners are winking and the TV is tuned to the news. Both telephones are silent, almost buried under magazines, tape cassettes and the ubiquitous plastic bags in which Schwartz carries his life around with him. : Hanging on the wall is his Emergency Medical Technician's license. His hobby is riding around in ambulances or squad cars or riding around in his telephone-equipped car to watch the action first-hand. Deep down, even though he is a superstar, Schwartz is just a street kid. : At 10:15 p.m., the 35-year-old salt-and-pepper-haired bachelor wedges himself behind the wheel of an aging luxury car, drops a plastic bag filled with news clippings, books and sundries beside him and heads down Lake Shore Drive toward WIND's studios on North Michigan Avenue. Along the way, he points out to a passenger the "Trauma Center" directional signs the city installed after one of his on-air crusades. : Schwartz made his biggest headlines in late 1980, when he persuaded the city council to raise the minimum nighttime temperature in Chicago rental apartments from 55 to 63 degrees. : At the studios, he reads the latest news on the wire and calls the fire department to check on a blaze in Hegewisch. The evening crew is drowsy, but Schwartz is ready for bear. "In nine years, I've been tired at work only three times," he says. "I can't stand it when night-people sleep on the job. Nothing makes me angrier." : Schwartz has been on the all-night show since 1973 (except for two years in the afternoon drive slot) and with WIND since 1966, when he started as a music librarian. : He grew up in South Chicago "between a garbage dump and a steel mill" and became fascinated with radio, TV and especially headphones. His wet tenor voice and sharp "Chicawgo" accent made chances of an on-air job seem remote, but whenever he could he visited studios to watch the action and dream of being a sound engineer. : He studied mass communications at four area colleges but came up a few credits shy of a degree. He drove a cab, shelved groceries and sliced corned beef before landing a job at the radio station at age 20. He is obviously no pretty-boy graduate of the Famous Broadcasters School. When he jabbers all night to graveyard-shift workers and lonesome night owls, he speaks as one of them. He'll talk about anything from smelt fishing to pediatrics. When their stoplights don't work or their garbage isn't collected, "I get politicians on the horn the next day," he says. : "A late-night announcer has much more intimacy with his listeners than a daytime announcer," Schwartz says. "During the day, people do lots of other things while they've got the radio on, but at night the pressure's off, and what I say gets comparatively more attention. I talk to individuals. It's us, you and me ... not me and all of you out there." : Illusion and reality are one on the Eddie Schwartz show: He is a lone voice from the darkness, sitting all by himself in a dimly lit room, where he runs the whole show, cuing commercials, reading news, running tapes and spinning comedy records. The only other person around, an assistant producer, screens telephone calls. : Almost every night, cops and firemen drop by for a cup of coffee and some company. Eddie is their main man because he has a public good word for them once in a while. "The secret to having influence in this town is to be fair; to pick on problems, not people, and to notice and point it out when someone has done a good job." : He is forever boosting causes and charities he deems worthy and is such a natural with his "I love everybody" routine that it is not uncommon when call-in listeners exclaim "God bless you, Eddie!" or "You're such a swell guy." : He is a swell guy. A bit righteous and loud at times, but he can convey great personal warmth over the airwaves without getting sappy or too revealing. He likes to keep his personal life mysterious enough that he can play the innocent son, brash brother and dream date all at once. "It's very important to my listeners that I'm not married," he notes. "I'm just Eddie." : After the news broadcast at 11 p.m., he pops three Tums ("breakfast"), lights a cigarette and cues the "Chicago Eddie Schwartz!" introduction tape. His phone-bank lights up immediately: A man has broken a souvenir dish and wants to buy a replacement; two young mothers call, seeking information about infant inoculations; a TV newsman checks in to discuss a story he has done; and an angry man blasts working women. : Every so often, despondent, suicidal listeners call for help, and Schwartz talks to them off the air. This year, more drunks are calling than ever before. : While Schwartz conducts interviews, he calls for weather information, talks to visiting policemen, cues up commercials and natters at his assistant. : The night wears on, but Schwartz just gets stronger. He flirts with a long-distance operator, joshes a caller about his talkative wife in the background. : Mostly young women call. "They seem to be alone a lot at this hour," he says. Despite some interesting propositions, Schwartz says he behaves. Instead of setting up dates for himself, he started one of the first listeners' dating services several years ago. The station, fearing legal problems, made him shut it down, but not until after he participated in 22 weddings. : Chicago Schwartz never signs off. He leaves the studio at 4 a.m., but the second hour of his program is rebroadcast to fill the last hour of his obligation. "Not my idea," he sighs. "The station wants to save my voice." : He leaves the studio as "dreadful, hateful day" dawns. The sky is steely blue and no one stirs on Michigan Avenue as Schwartz turns on three law-enforcement monitors and drives uptown. His own voice honks on WIND. He stops at an all-night deli on Clark Street for a bite of, ah, dinner. There, a policeman he has never met approaches his table to pay respects. : Schwartz orders a salami omelet. "Sometimes I think everything is backwards," he says. "People with problems don't know where to turn, and I feel like if I don't help them, nobody will. It takes an indignant person, and I am naturally indignant. I was born that way." : The world outside begins to stir and people more famous than Big Eddie awaken. It's almost past his bedtime. : He offers one last thought before retiring: "It pays off to be nice."

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