VINYL KNIGHTS - THE COLLEGE CONNECTION - BY KENNETH HOWARD SMITH

 THE COLLEGE CONNECTION 

By Kenneth Howard Smith

Ritchie and Don Podolor’s recording studios once sat proudly on the Studio City side of the Hollywood Hills — a creative hub where music dreams met California sunshine. Years later, their mother sold the land to actress Jennie Lee Harris of Three’s Company and Dallas fame, who turned it into a shopping center. But back when the tape reels still spun, that place was electric.

In those days, our desert radio station, KUTY, could be picked up loud and clear in North Hollywood. My voice carried over those airwaves so often that, to some folks, I’d become a familiar sound — and to a few others, a surprising one.

My first encounter with Don Podolor happened at Antelope Valley College. He came through with a handful of rising acts under his wing, and we hit it off instantly. Before long, we were teaming up on shows like we’d been doing it for years. Our early bookings included Eric Burdon and the Animals, followed by Iron Butterfly. Then came Don’s next idea — a comeback show for Rick Nelson, whose new single Garden Party had yet to find radio airplay.

After convincing my council members and getting Sue O’Connor’s signature on the deal, I found myself holding a box of 100 promo singles from Decca Records and a challenge: make the world care again about Rick Nelson.

So I did what any hungry promoter would do. I got in my green ’68 Volkswagen Bug, loaded with singles, flyers, and a stubborn sense of purpose, and I hit the road. Bakersfield. Ventura. Santa Barbara. Barstow. San Bernardino. I stopped at every country station I could find, handing out Garden Party records like they were gold. I even made copies of homemade flyers — courtesy of my side job in the college English department — and slipped them into grocery bags at night, urging folks to call their favorite stations and request the song.

In Bakersfield, at the crack of dawn, I met Jeff Johnson — the bleary-eyed DJ, engineer, and music director of the top country station in Central California. He wasn’t exactly eager to listen, but after some friendly prodding (and a small wager), he agreed to spin Garden Party once.

When the song hit the airwaves, something magical happened: the phone lines lit up. One call, then five, then ten. Every listener but one loved it. Jeff grinned, cued it up again, and gave Rick Nelson his first big push back onto the charts. Within weeks, Garden Party broke into Billboard’s Hot 100 — thanks not to sales, but to sheer turntable power. And just like that, one small-town college concert became part of music history.

We booked Rick Nelson for $2,000 — a steal — with Poco featuring Richie Furay as his backup band. The show was a triumph, and our confidence soared.

The next local poll asked for Stan Kenton, so we brought him too. The crowd was small but the music was glorious — a swing through the 1940s that still felt alive. Even in the loss, I learned something about risk, taste, and timing.

Don came back soon after with two more deals: Ike and Tina Turner, and a new act called the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band — plus a young comedian named Steve Martin. I hesitated on the unknowns, but we took the gamble. It paid off big.

Years later, I met Tina again in the Hollywood Hills, newly free and rebuilding her life. The spark was there — the strength, the focus — even when the world hadn’t yet caught back on. By the time she hit Seattle in 1983, opening with Let’s Stay Together, the comeback had begun.

There were other victories too. While at KUTY, I was the first DJ to play Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World,” a record that would sell six million copies and earn a Grammy nomination. That moment launched my own reputation — the guy who broke the record.

From there, doors opened fast. I worked with Steppenwolf, B.W. Stevenson, Jimmy Buffett, and others. I learned from legends like Leroy Lovett, who went on to found Birthright Records, and Denny Rosencrantz at Mercury Records — a man whose ponytail and instincts both belonged in rock folklore.

Denny once took Etta James’s I’d Rather Go Blind — a record I’d brought in for Billy Foster — and handed it to Rod Stewart. Rod recorded it for Every Picture Tells a Story, an album that sold over ten million copies.

By 1969, my world had shifted again. A car accident sidelined my football career, but it didn’t stop the music. Hollywood’s lights began to move closer, and I found myself exactly where I’d always wanted to be — right in the mix, where persistence meets opportunity.

That’s what The College Connection was really about: one student, one radio signal, and a belief that a single record — if pushed hard enough and loved deeply enough — could change everything.