Top Jock

What makes a pop record pop? The man who writes catchy tunes, say the men who write them. The artists who give it an attractive performance, say the record companies. There are also experts who claim that the disk jockey, who does nothing but spin the platter and talk it up on the radio, is the most important of all. Of the 2,000-odd deejays, a scant dozen wield the bulk of influence. They are strategically situated in such cities as Cleveland, Detroit, Boston, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, which are unaccountably sensitive (but not New York, Chicago or Los Angeles, which follow along more slowly). When a tune catches the fancy of such cities, its chances of national success soar. Manufacturers sprint into action to "cover" it with their own versions and open heavy promotion campaigns. For the past year, the top U.S. deejay has been Cleveland's Bill Randle, 31, a confident, prepossessing fellow who spins his tunes six afternoons a week (from 2 to 7 p.m. on station WERE).

Crew-Cut for Sh-Boom. Disk Jockey Randle has predicted every tune but one* that appeared among the first five bestsellers in 1954. For years he has also discovered and masterminded tunes and stars. Examples :

P: In 1951 he heard Singer Johnnie Ray in a Cleveland spot, plugged his record (Whisky and Gin) until Ray caught on, and sent him on his way.

P: A year ago. he heard a struggling male quartet called the Canadaires. He clipped their manes and changed their names to the Crew-Cuts, fixed them up with a tune (Crazy 'Bout You Baby) and sweet-talked Mercury into releasing it. It smashed, and so did their Sh-Boom; this week another Crew-Cuts tune that Randle heard on an obscure label, a noisy item called Ko Ko Mo, is riffing its way up the bestselling ladder.

P: Later last year he got his hands on one of the few copies in the U.S. of a South African ditty called Skokiaan, and talked the major labels into recording it. It became one of the year's biggest hits.

Just Merchandise. Randle's explanation of his success: "I'm constantly getting a mass of records. I weed out those that are obviously bad and play the rest on my program to get listener reaction. Then I feed the results into a machine. I'm the machine. I'm a Univac. It's so accurate that I can tell my listeners 'This tune will be No. 1 in four weeks.' " A tune must have certain universal appeal, says Randle, usually primitive rhythm or words that express what "everybody has in common, sentiment that ranges from the most innocent to the most hardened."

Detroit-born Bill Randle expects to make $100,000 this year from 102 sponsors, drives a Jaguar and hopes to conquer New York City (he already has one weekly spot on WCBS). To keep in touch with his audience, mostly teenagers, he makes constant personal appearances at high-school assemblies, roller-skating rinks and dance halls. On his program he has become an expert at the suspense buildup. At 4 p.m. he will announce: "Coming up in about an hour, we've got a record we think is phenomenal, tremendous." At 4:30: "I've been deluged with calls to play it now. It's tremendous. But I'm going to hold off for a while." Finally: "Now here it is." Does he like the things he plays? Not at all. "I'm a complete schizophrenic about this," he says cheerfully. "I'm in the business of giving the public what it wants. This stuff is simply merchandise, and I understand it."

*One of the biggest hits of the year, I Need You Now, which he still can't see. Randle also predicted a group called the Penguins would never hit, but their version of Earth Angel last week was No. 8 on The Billboard's bestseller chart; the Crew-Cuts' was No. 19.

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