worst BR talk show host, take your pick

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loud mouth, Citadel radio puts its trust in wild man Ricahrd Condon; you kiddin' me?
By Alexander, Amy
Publication: The Greater Baton Rouge Business Report
Date: Tuesday, February 4 2003

Richard Condon's in the studio. Outside it's as dark as a frickin' cup of chicory. Condon's already runnin' his mouth like it's gonna break if he don't work it.

Pen in hand, he's tappin' til you think he might just break that sucker right off. And he's talkin'. Going on and on. What's he yellin'
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He's goin' off on war protestors and hicks who hang out in deer stands. He's challenging the serial killer to come and get a piece of him. He's sayin' that with Black Entertainment Television on the air, there ought to be a White Entertainment Television too.

Ratings jump when Condon's on a good tirade, so he pushes it as far as he can. It's a risky game.

Condon's bosses at Citadel Communications admit they often listen with white knuckles, hoping Condon doesn't say something that goes too far, alienates advertisers or gets the station in trouble with the Federal Communications Commission.

Condon, meanwhile, lays it on.

He grips the maroon edge of a counter filled with radio gauges and dials, swivels back and forth in a wheeled chair, hovers over the microphone like an auctioneer, his stiff black hair combed into a tiny peak, beads of sweat swelling on his brow.

"I think the average soldier out there has got two things: He wants to come back safe and he's hoping that when he's gone for six or seven months to go to war for this country and protect our democracy and our freedom, he's hoping that the special woman in his life is not having an affair ... I would say that the average woman, 50-55 percent have affairs, and probably if you talk about military ladies, I think that rate increases a little bit."

Spit sprays over the microphone and lands on the counter. Condon leans forward. His chair squawks. He hunches his shoulders and presses down hard.

He needs to.

Condon is a key part of Citadel's comeback strategy. It's widely acknowledged at Citadel-in third place among local radio groups-that Condon is their star, their hope. Upper management is betting he has the muscle to power its newly formatted 100,000-watt rock station, Rock 93.7 FM, to stronger ratings as the morning show co-host.

Condon's target audience is guys, ages 25 to 49. They spend a lot of money on beer and cars and fast food. Score with them in the ratings, and they'll bring in a lot of ad revenue.

But can Condon be trusted to deliver?

He got fired from Guaranty Broadcasting in 1996 for making violent comments in a rant about gays.

Dick Lewis, head of competing Clear Channel Communications, says Condon has a loyal following, but he's not sure it's one that will raise revenues much.

"There's a point when you have diminishing returns," he says. "The broader the appeal, the bigger the fan base. I think there is a relatively small number of people in Baton Rouge who particularly care for that type of humor."

The folks at Citadel aren't worried. As long as people are talking-or griping-about Condon, that means he's on people's minds. And that's good for business.

"Even when people hate him, they're listening to him," says Kevin Calmes of Calmes Motor Sports, one company that sponsors Condon.

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In 1996, he pushed it too far.

"I went off on Clinton wanting to allow same-sex marriages to have health benefits and all that," he says. "I said something I regret saying. It's probably the only thing in radio ever that I regret saying ... I didn't mean it, it was just off the cuff, I said, 'As far as I'm concerned, you can shoot all those son-of-abuggers in the head. I could care less.' "

Condon called his wife a few hours later, half-drunk, from Pastime Pizza. He'd been fired. It was rough. But a few weeks later, Condon landed on his feet.

Don Nelson, now general manager at Guaranty Broadcasting, hired Condon to do sports at Citywide Communications.

"I said, 'Richard, this is your last Baton Rouge hoorah. This is it. If you want to make it work, if you want to be in radio, this is where you're going to have to make it work. I'm a big fan of yours, but you've got to try to play ball with us and not always be out-of-bounds.' To his credit, he's made it work. I tip my hat to him."

Condon hosted a call-in show on WIBR-AM from 6 a.m-10 a.m. until late last year, when his bosses shifted his act to the same time on Rock 93.7 FM. The higher-ups hope his co-hosting the FM morning show boosts ratings for the newly formatted rock station.

Not everyone is sure Condon will be an asset.

"When's Richard going to shoot himself in the foot?" posits Ann Edelman of Edelman Advertising and Public Relations.

"I'm not worried about him shooting himself. I'm worried about other people," jokes another prominent ad agency owner. "He is a loose cannon. You do not know what's likely to come out of his mouth. Most of my clients will not allow me to buy on the radio station that has him on it."

Richard's a menace

State Sen. Cleo Fields says he gets calls from people in Baton Rouge's African-American community who want him to get Condon to stuff it.

Fields' usual response: "My bottom line is that if you think it's trash, don't listen to it."

Robert Kinchen, a Baton Rouge financial advisor and member of the Capital City Alliance, a gay rights organization, says Condon's success is a reflection of Baton Rouge's smallmindedness.

"I feel sorry for Mr. Condon that he has to make comments like the ones he makes to get ratings," Kinchen says.

At Citadel, they don't try to rein in Condon.

"He's thought-provoking," says Rebecca Breeding, Citadel's general manager. "I have enough confidence in him to know where the line is. He's learned that the hard way."

Condon's got a big fight ahead of him if he hopes to win the ratings war. In the most recent ratings period, much of his target demographic was listening to morning stars Walton & Johnson on Eagle 98.1.

That's okay, Condon says. He can fight.

It's Friday afternoon at Calmes Motor Sports on Florida Boulevard in Denham Springs.

Beat-up pickup trucks pass the motorcycle dealership, where Condon has been hired to do a remote broadcast. Rush-hour traffic whooshes past through the chilly January air. From one truck comes a sharp tenor cry. It's either obscenity or praise. No one can tell which.

Condon, surrounded by a legion of beefy guys, puffs up his chest and says he wishes the son-of-a-bugger had the guts to get out of the frickin' truck and square off face-to-face, fight like a real man, just fists and cold air between 'em.

He's got no time for sissies.

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