A Capella in Northfield

Chapter 23

September 16, 1978

An excerpt from Courtesy Boy: A True Story of Addiction

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The second hand swept north, bound for the 12 at the top. The song was fading fast, and Mitch Burns was ad-libbing a promo about a weekend bake sale, benefitting the St. Olaf Choir.

“...the premier a capella choir in the nation. Mutual News is next. Clear skies, sixty-seven degrees at ten o’clock on

K-Y-M-N, Northfield.”

To be officially and formally identified, the call letters needed to be verbalized, followed immediately by the city in which the radio station was officially licensed with the Federal Communications Commission. You could say whatever you wanted before and after, but regulators required that legal ID at the top of every hour.

The federal regulatory expectations had been hammered into them at Brown, though the consequences of not adhering, remained murky.  

“It’s Acapulco.” Matson said it with a straight face, as he leaned on the countertop opposite the control board.

Mitch’s foot in this door was secured purely by his voice. The KYMN general manager needed a weekend part-timer yesterday, called a friend who taught at Brown, who pulled Burns out of class and put him on the phone right then. That very weekend, Mitch was on the air, pimping the bake sales and nailing the station IDs. Everything seemed to come easy for him. 

“What?” Burns, flushing red, fearful he had just committed an on-air screwup.

“You said ‘a capella,’” Matson kept a poker face. “It’s pronounced ah-kuh-PULL-koh.” 

Make the man for whom everything comes easy squirm a little.

“Horseshit, it’s ah-kuh-PELL-uh,” Burns said, missing the humor entirely. “It means they sing without instruments.” 

“I know what it means, genius,” feeling the need to take Burns by the hand. “It’s a play on words.”

The unspoken competition among the Brown Institute radio announcer-wannabes seemed more pronounced between these two. Burns had more raw, natural talent, Matson had the edge in imagination and smarts. Each looked for ways to lead with their strengths.

Add a real deejay job at a real radio station to the list of things Mike envied about Burns.   

Mitch signed his name and time on the KYMN logbook, relieving himself of the federal regulatory responsibility for what was left of Saturday night.  

An hour due south of the Cities, Northfield was home to a pair of liberal arts oases in the heart of farm country: Carleton College and St. Olaf College.

For generations in southern Minnesota, Catholics and their deeds-driven notion of salvation jostled for supremacy with Lutherans, who believed faith alone would turn the trick. By 1978, the zeal for Martin Luther’s reformation long since fizzled, Northfield’s goings-on manifested themselves in a comfortable, predictable pattern with little desire—much less expectation—for change, regardless of one’s denominational persuasion.

The bake sale succeeded last year, didn’t it? Why, the choir traveled to such far-flung exotic locales as Omaha and Fargo. 

“This place may be Bumfuck, but it’s not without its advantages,” Burns said over his shoulder as they entered the bar, met by a wave of Charlie perfume in a sea of halter tops and bell bottom blue jeans. Burns wore a down-filled vest and tight jeans. It was still summer, but Mitch liked the look. Matson was togged out in his standard Saturday night uniform: polyester shirt and Levi button-fly’s.

Entering a bar always required at least a little pregame planning. Entering a bar in a college town where meat market rules were in effect required extra thought. Burns led the way, smiling at girls, gathered in groups of two or three, making eye contact and mental notes about the ones who smiled back.

They’ll think I’m his coat holder, for Chrissakes.

“Where’s Malea tonight? You two are normally inseparable.”

Until now, he had never really considered how he had compartmentalized the people in his life. Mitch, Donna, Kenny, and Mike were a hermetically-sealed foursome at Brown and for breakfast at the arches which are, were, and shall ever be golden. He was usually good for one Special Export beer at the bar across Lake Street after the Friday tests, then off to meet Malea.

“She’s doing something with her family.” Nine months into their relationship and this was actually the first time he and Burns had done something together, just the two of them. 

At least he thought she was doing something with her family. He had no reason to suspect otherwise.

“Watch and learn,” standing up, grabbing his bottle of Old Style by the neck, and making his way directly to two of the girls who smiled at him on the way in, all before Matson had a chance to settle in, achieve a buzz, or even get the lay of the land.

“Hi there, my name’s Mitch.” Lots of teeth, tilt of the head, natural deep baritone radio voice. “Perhaps you’ve heard me on the radio? Mitch Burns, K-Y-M-N, Northfield.”

My God, he actually used that line out loud?

Nothing made him more uncomfortable than being by himself in a crowded place where social discourse with one or more fellow human beings is the accepted norm. Especially in a bar filled with college girls. At Pogo’s, when he found himself alone, he could always get up, walk around, go to the game room, fetch more pitchers from the bar. Anything to kill the time until his table mates returned.

He felt everyone was watching him, drawing conclusions. He slugged down his bottle of Old Style, providing a reason to get up from the table where he was sitting alone. Oh, he’s getting another beer, everyone would think. He visited the men’s room. Oh, he had to take a leak, everyone would think.

After exhausting his tried-and-true perception-management tactics, and with Mitch now zeroing in on his target, Mike chose the nuclear option.

If I’m not there, they won’t think I’m a loser at a table in a bar all by myself with no friends.

As he sidled up, before Mitch had the chance to introduce his new friends, Matson said, “I’m headed back to the Cities, man.” He wasn’t due at SuperValu until 2 p.m. the next day but wanted to leave a loftier impression. “Got a late date.”

He didn’t, but Burns would buy it. It was important the two girls did, too. Two girls he had not met and would never see again.  

“I’ll be right back, girls,” Mitch smiled at one girl, then the other. “I gotta give my friend some advice.” Again, with the one-upsmanhip.

They had driven separately to the bar, in case of this very contingency. 

“Thirty seconds. Clock me.” Broadcasting technical school habits. Practicing precision any chance they could.

“Listen, quit sweating placement, you’re gonna get a few offers.” Placement. Fully assimilated to Brown lingo.

“They’ll all be in Bumfuck, so pick the best one.”

Why does he think I’m worried about not getting a job offer? Does he just assume he’s more talented than me?

“Get thee to a college town,” looking around the bar, in his element. “It’s a veritable smorgasbord and you’ll be a big fish in a small pond.”

Veritable?

He glanced over Mitch’s shoulder at the two girls. Clapton blasted from the corner jukebox—something about trying all night long to talk to Sally after encouraging her into the supine position.

“Plus, you’re twenty years old. Too damn young to get married. Don’t you see how I operate? Be like Burns!”

“Twenty-nine seconds, exactly,” Matson said, extending his right hand. “Thanks, Mitch. Seeya Monday morning at the arches which are, were, and shall ever be golden.”

He did see how Burns operated, and as much as he envied the voice and the material things, he preferred the peace of mind that came with monogamy. He thought of Lindsay’s reaction on Oscar night. Mitch’s approach was not aimed at peace of mind. It was pure, unadulterated wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

“Hey Mike, wait!” as Matson reached the door. Loud enough now for newfound female friends to hear, “You think they sing a capella in Acapulco?”

The bastard boosted my line.

“Hard to say.”

Sometimes it’s just easier to surrender. Still, as he drove back to the Cities, he worried about what the dozen or so total strangers within earshot of his response thought of him.

Only if the trumpets and marimbas give out. That’s what I shoulda said.