The Cavalier daily :: Thursday, October 26, 1972 :: University of Virginia Library

By 5:30 in the morning I had
completely wilted. All the fun
and excitement of witnessing
an all-night radio show had
slowly slipped away as the
evening wore on. Now there
was no glamor. There were
only heavy heads, bloodshot
eyes, and scratchy, sleepy
words and thoughts.

But the guy sitting next to
me in the broadcasting booth
was more awake, more alive,
than he had been seven hours
ago when he first walked into
the radio station. This,
however, was to be expected,
as he was in the habit of
staying up all night. For Norm
Sprouse, pulling all-nighters
was a way of live.

***

The first few minutes in the
studio were spent curiously
looking for Norm Sprouse. I
had no idea what to expect,
having only heard his sleepy,
slightly Southern voice; but I
had a feeling that anyone doing
WCHV's midnight to six shift,
and anyone playing the kind of
music he played, would
somehow be different.

I waited in the rear of the
studio, surrounded by the
ominous computers, the
industrious UPI machines, and
the long rows of records.
Several persons passed, none of
them looking too
extraordinary, and I was
certain that I had yet to see
Norm Sprouse.

I was right. Tom Ulrich,
WCHV's seven to midnight
D.J., walked to a darkened
room down the hall, informed
Norm Sprouse that the C.D.
reporter was here, and told him
that he'd better get his ass off
the couch because his show
was starting soon. We heard
nothing.

Several minutes later he
emerged from the darkness, his
eyes squinting to keep in the
sleep and keep out the light. As
he drew closer I was glad to see
that he looked as
unconventional as I had
imagined he would.

He was a tall, wiry figure,
with straight, light brown hair
falling over his shoulders and
down his back. A shaggy
brown beard covered his thin,
pleasant, blue-eyed face. His
shirt was maroon, embroidered
at the top with greenery and
golden mushrooms, and his
blue jean pants led down to
gold socks and worn out white
tennis shoes.

We shook hands and
exchanged "Howdy's" as he
rapidly went about his
pre-show ritual of collecting
records and tearing off yellow
UPI weather reports. I thought
it best to be out of his way,
and moved into the cluttered,
poster-covered, broadcasting
booth.

Norm Sprouse soon rushed
in. He took the "Hot Air
Chair" from Tom Ulrich, and
began shuffling through the
stacks of records on the floor,
looking for the song he would
play next.

"I can play anything I want
as long as it's in good taste."

Whatever is played on
"Nightwatch," though, will likely
be progressive rock–perhaps
John Mayall, April Wine,
Bloodrock, or Jethro Tull.
Norm Sprouse's show, with its
underground music, small
number of commercials, and
lack of "top 40 chatter," is
really F.M. rock on A.M. radio.

He put his feet on the
broadcasting table, brandished
a can of Shenandoah
applesauce, and explained,
"When I first started here,
people kept calling up saying it
sounded like I was falling
asleep. It's just that I'm not a
toforty screamer."

Sprouse:

A Long Night's Work

Sprouse:

Brandishing A Can Of Applesauce.

I asked him how he liked his
job.

"I can't think of anything I'd
rather do–well, a stud service
would be nice. No, really, it's a
good job. You don't have to
work too hard. It's not bad
getting paid for sitting around
playing records for six hours."

"I've always enjoyed staying
up all night. This like fits in.
And what else is nice is that
you're always dealing with
people's leisure time."

"But like every job it's got
its good points and bad points.
The hours get bizarre and the
pay isn't so good. You have to
be basically crazy to want to
work in radio. You have to be
a masochist. But I've pretty
well decided that that's what
I'll do for a 'career'."

Neither of us had noticed
that the record was nearly
over. He rapidly returned to
the mike, smoothly turned
several dials, and told all those
listeners still awake, "Yayess.
That was April Wine from the
album April Wine." A button
was pushed and on came the
Nordee Al commercial that
would be heard over and over
throughout the night. After
having mimicked and mocked
the thirty second commercial
he explained, "I've gotten to
the point now where I've got
all the commercials
memorized."

Another record was cued up
and played. He had learned to
work the control board deftly
and professionally. There were
no assistants on his "Nightwatch"
program, and he was forced to
play records, answer
telephones, read meters, and
gather and report the news by
himself.

Throughout the night we
talked as he did his show. We
sat back, relaxed, and listened
to the music–I, downing
dozens of cokes in a desperate
effort to stay awake, and he,
smoking cigarettes, eating milk
and potato chips, and
occasionally brushing his hair.
It seemed more like a living
room than a radio station.

I discovered that the 23-year
old Sprouse has been doing
"Nightwatch" since March of
1972. He had been working the
Sunday morning shift, or God
shift, but thanks to a
"personal shakeup" he left the
religious Sunday morning
hours for the more sinister
hours from midnight to six.

Before WCHV he worked
odd jobs in Richmond and
Fork Union, and before that,
he went to VPI for a year, but
was forced to leave "due to
academic difficulties beyond
my control."

Most of his life, he informed
me, has been spent in Fork
Union, where he now lives with
his parents. He likes the area.
He doesn't plan to leave
anytime soon.

During the long course of the
night, I learned a lot about
Norm Sprouse. He told me that
he didn't have time to read
much except "an occasional
Playboy or Road and Track."
As a matter of fact, most of
Norm Sprouse's life is whiled
away at the station (11 p.m. to
7 a.m.) or sound asleep in bed
(9 a.m. to 7 p.m.)

"My social life is definitely
hurt by this job. My love life is
at a low point now. It's really
strange to tell a girl that I have
to be in at 11:00."

But even though he may
complain, he'll be the first to
admit that life is good. He's 23.
He's single. And he has a job
that both he and his listeners
enjoy.

That's not bad.