A Voice in the Box: My Life in Radio

Susan

Professional marriages are even more difficult than the romantic variety , and the divorce rate is much higher. Mine survived a tepid honeymoon to blossom into a rewarding on-air partnership and enduring friendship. Susan Stamberg was a writer and tape editor for All Things Considered when the program debuted in 1971. Women didn’t anchor broadcasts in those days. They worked behind the scenes and made occasional contributions on the air. But when Susan filled in as cohost one day, the phones lit up with calls from appreciative listeners. She was a sensation—refreshing, intelligent, engaging, and honest. She wasn’t just warm and personable; she was way out there, reacting to a guest’s humor with an infectious laugh that defied description. Men were charmed by her. Women took her to be their champion. By sheer force of personality, Susan took over the broadcast, becoming the first woman to anchor a nightly national news program. Susan was great radio, the perfect performer for the aural medium that appeals to the ear and the mind. You’d think that a guy like me who’d spent his life loving radio would recognize a natural-born radio personality and be thrilled to work with her. Not Mr. Prig. I was in shock, wondering what in the name of Edward R. Murrow and all that is holy is this woman doing on a news program. S U S A N There was more to it, of course, including jealousy. Susan had been carrying the network on her back and was treated accordingly. We were supposed to be a team, cohosts, and yet all the attention was going to Susan. Later I learned that the policy of NPR’s publicity department at the time was to throw everything behind Susan. Not only was she marketable , but the suits thought I wouldn’t be at NPR for very long. Given that I was in the CBS newsroom on the most important news day of 1975, that was a reasonable assumption. Susan made more money than I, though not nearly what she was worth. She also got whatever interviews she wanted, including some that I wanted. We tried interviewing one or two guests jointly, but without success. I persisted in trying to get John Erlichman to admit that his participation in the Watergate conspiracy was not a good thing while Susan steered Erlichman down a more productive path. Her workday was shorter too. All Things Considered was broadcast from 5:00 pm until 6:30 pm and repeated on tape at 8:00 pm. Susan routinely went home at 5:30 pm to be with her family. To facilitate her early exit, the middle half-hour of the program was prerecorded in the midafternoon. Then Susan would read the introductions to a couple of stories that were scheduled to run in the final half-hour. At 5:30, Susan would go home and I would remain in the studio doing my half of the program. If there was breaking news or the need to do a live interview, it was my responsibility. I also had to do the updating for the 8:00 pm feed, though on special occasions, such as the night Nixon resigned, Susan would return. Professional jealousies likely would have doomed our partnership had not other factors come to the rescue. Success offers a certain remedial balm for one’s troubles. Susan and I were successful. Whatever tensions were in the air, we kept them off the air. Listeners heard a couple of people they liked and kept tuning in. The audience was growing. When I made my peace with NPR, I also made my peace with Susan. She was my partner, and the professional thing to do was to make it work. She was also winning me over. In fact, I discovered that I’d been unconsciously learning from her. Susan changed the very way I sound on the air, talking with listeners and not at them. In a long-form 51 S U S A N 52 A V O I C E I N T H E B O X program such as All Things Considered, the interviewer’s questions are just as important as the guest’s answers. I learned from Susan how to ask interesting questions—turning an interrogation into a conversation . The most important thing I learned from her was how to extend my...