My Father’s First Records: the Passing of Boom Boom Brannigan and Tales of a Bygone Era

Original story: Boom Boom Brannigan Dies

Fifteen years ago, my father received a frantic phone call from his friend Bill. 

“Johnny,” he said. “You’re not going to believe who I have sitting here.”

My father drove over to the pizza place Bill owned at the time, and there he was: radio legend “Boom Boom” Brannigan.

Boom Boom Brannigan

I remember my father relaying the story to me. I had no idea who he was, but I knew he must be someone important. Not only because of my father’s reaction, but because the man’s name was “Boom Boom” Brannigan. Nobody could have a name like that and not be an important figure in the early days of rock and roll.

In 1995, my father and his friend were 45 years old. Meeting Boom Boom brought back memories of when radio personalities were the regional equivalent of rock stars. In those days, people didn’t make a distinction between regional and national media, because it didn’t matter. “Boom Boom” Brannigan was their rock and roll Walter Cronkite. He was the conduit for their love and appreciation of music, and he was way cooler than Dick Clark.

It was also a different industry. DJs were still disc jockeys, navigating stacks of vinyl to find just the right mix. It was also important to have a unique personality that came through the airwaves and grabbed the listener. The modern equivalent – “On-air Talent” is the industry term – can’t hold a candle to guys like Brannigan. They all possess the same voice with the same phony pep trying to sell you on songs that were already programmed to play days or weeks before. There’s no sincerity or even an appearance of it, and there’s certainly no cool in it. Radio’s been taken over by large media conglomerates, and the DJs have been replaced by shills. None of them have the personality or zest of a Boom Boom Brannigan, who was bigger than any radio station he was on.

But back then, boy. Back then getting on the air meant something.

My father, at 11 or 12 years old, became the envy of every kid in his neighborhood when he got to talk to the man himself. He had won a radio contest by answering a trivia question. The prizes were Neil Sedaka and Bobby Vee albums that contained the hits “Oh Carol” and “Take Good Care of My Baby,” respectively. They were the very first record albums my father ever personally owned.

In those days, when your parents listened to music that was accompanied by bubbles on “The Lawrence Welk Show,” owning your own album was a step towards establishing your own identity. It’s a rite of passage that, sadly, has passed in the days of mp3s. Without the physical properties and weight of a vinyl album contained in paper and cardboard sleeves, the acquisition of music has lost much of its luster and prestige. But back in the early 1950s and 1960s, it still meant something to own your own music. Having records around the house was one thing, but having that album or record that was yours and nobody else’s was a thrill that can’t be duplicated by a digital download.

Sure, Sedaka and Vee weren’t as dangerous as Jagger and Bowie, but it was a beginning of a fantastic journey for my father and his generation. Boom Boom Brannigan is the man that guided them.

On that day in 1995, my father and his High School friend Bill were taken back over thirty years to the days when rock and roll, even at its tamest, was the harbinger of impending change and a forthcoming socio-political revolution. Sporting Roy Orbison shades and his trademark jacket, his demeanor was friendly and appreciative. And, like Orbison, his contribution to music is woefully underappreciated by a new generation of listeners.

To the previous generations, though, he was and always will be a figure of great importance.

I informed my father of the passing of Boom Boom Brannigan, a man from an era where radio was King and his live broadcasts on location would back up traffic for blocks, by messaging him on Facebook. The irony in messaging him on Facebook to inform him of the passing of a figure from a bygone era was not lost on me. I received a message back from my father, who relayed some of the tales (and more) I just shared.

He ended his message with a proper and fitting summation.
　
“All of upstate New York, Vermont, Massachusetts, wherever WPTR reached…Boom Boom was the MAN.”

Goddamn right, and there won’t be another like him, ever.

Rest in peace, Boom Boom.