Seventy years ago, a 17-year-old Peter Bergman recorded his first attempt at a commercial release. He didn't have a record deal. He didn't have a recording studio. And he certainly didn't have the Firesign Theatre. What he had was a Webcor reel-to-reel tape recorder, three friends from Shaker Heights High School, an interest in political satire, and a fascination with the new art of the “break-in” record.

The result was “Attention Convention” by the Four Candidates, released in 1956 on the small Cleveland label Buddy Records. It is an obscure footnote in the history of the Firesign Theatre—but it is also an extraordinary glimpse of Peter Bergman discovering, while still in high school, some of the techniques that would eventually become central to his career.

The Four Candidates

The group consisted of Bergman and three fellow Shaker Heights students: Bergman later remembered the origins of the project quite simply:

I got 3 guys together in Shaker Heights—Jerrad Wininger, Bobby Fisher and Bruce Berger—and called ourselves The Four Candidates, and did ‘Attention Convention’ on my Webcor tape recorder.

The idea came out of the extraordinary media spectacle surrounding the 1956 presidential campaign. For the first time, Americans were getting extensive television coverage of the national political conventions. Bergman and his friends decided to turn that spectacle into comedy. Their model was not conventional political parody, however. They were inspired by the new “break-in” records—sound collages assembled from snippets of recordings and spoken material.

The most important precedent was Buchanan and Goodman's “The Flying Saucer,” a 1956 novelty hit constructed from fragments of popular records and comedy dialogue. Bergman remembered it as a record “where they take snippets from popular songs.” The Four Candidates would apply the same basic idea to the Democratic convention.

From the Webcor to the radio

The first version of “Attention Convention” was assembled on Bergman's home Webcor machine. But the teenagers needed an audience. That came through Cleveland radio personality Carl Reese, a disc jockey at WERE. Reese heard the original tape and played it on the air. According to the later account of the recording's history, Reese encouraged the boys to polish the material and make a new recording. The revised version eventually made its way to Buddy Zelman, a Cleveland producer who operated the independent Buddy Records label. Zelman saw enough potential in the teenagers' political comedy to put the record into production. And suddenly, Peter Bergman's home tape experiment had become a real 45 RPM record.

“Convention Attention” becomes “Attention Convention”

There is even a small mystery surrounding the title. Bruce Berger later recalled that the group's original title was “Convention Attention.” That title was also the one used in a contemporary Cleveland Plain Dealer article about the teenagers and their record. But Buddy Zelman changed the title. The commercially released record became “Attention Convention.” Berger later recalled that Zelman thought the new title had more “zing.” It was a minor change, but it gives the record an interesting dual identity: the title the teenagers gave it and the title under which it entered the record business.

A real release—but almost impossible to find

The record is sometimes described as though it was withdrawn before it was released. That isn't quite what the surviving evidence shows. The Firesign chronology gives August 31, 1956 as its release date, and the record was reported in the Cleveland Plain Dealer the following day. Bergman later remembered that it received airplay in Cleveland and Pittsburgh, and possibly Detroit as well.

The problem came afterward. The record appears to have been pressed but was never broadly available to the public. Years later, Bruce Berger recalled that people were continually trying to buy copies but that the record was essentially unavailable. The members of the group never received the royalties or sales reports they expected under their agreement. Bergman estimated that no more than 5,000 copies were pressed. That figure should be treated as his estimate rather than a documented pressing total. And that scarcity turned the record into something of a holy grail for Firesign collectors.

The Record Detective

By the 1990s, “Attention Convention” had become sufficiently elusive that Firesign archivist and collector Chris Palladino launched a search for it in the pages of Firezine. His investigation eventually produced something remarkable. Bruce Berger still had a copy. Berger supplied Palladino with a cassette of the recording, a copy of the original contract between Buddy Records and the Four Candidates, photographs of the group, and photographs of his copy of the record. The mystery record could finally be heard again. Palladino described it as a roughly two-minute blast from 1956—a tiny artifact from the teenage years of the man who would eventually become one of the founding voices of the Firesign Theatre.

The story also led Palladino to track down Buddy Zelman himself, who confirmed that the Four Candidates' record had been pressed. The precise fate of the thousands of copies, however, remains unclear.

A glimpse of the future

It is tempting to listen to “Attention Convention” simply as an amusing piece of teenage political satire. But its importance is larger than that. Peter Bergman was already experimenting with collage, recorded sound, political absurdity, borrowed media, and the collision of voices—all ideas that would become increasingly important throughout his later career. More than a decade later, Bergman would join Phil Austin, David Ossman, and Phil Proctor to create the Firesign Theatre.

By then the technology had changed dramatically. The jokes had become more elaborate. The productions had become surreal, densely layered audio worlds.

But the impulse was already there. A teenager in Shaker Heights had a tape recorder. He heard what could be done with pieces of other sounds. He watched the political conventions take over television. And he decided to splice the two things together. That experiment became a record. The record became a rarity.

And, in retrospect, “Attention Convention” sounds like the first small broadcast from a career that would eventually redefine what comedy could sound like on record.

Seventy years later

The Library of Congress now holds a Peter Bergman collection containing a folder specifically devoted to the Four Candidates and “Attention Convention.” That may be the most fitting destination for this strange little record. It began as four high-school students fooling around with a tape recorder. It became a commercially issued 45 that almost nobody could find. And seventy years later, it survives as one of the earliest audible traces of Peter Bergman's lifelong fascination with the possibilities of recorded comedy. Before the Firesign Theatre, there were the Four Candidates. And before the elaborate sound collages of Firesign, there was a Webcor in Shaker Heights.

As of 2026, the National Recording Registry includes 14 full-length albums classified by the Library of Congress as Comedy/Novelty. These recordings are preserved for their exceptional cultural, historical, or aesthetic importance. I contend that The Firesign Theatre's 1970 masterpiece Don't Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers (2005 inductee) deserves a category of its own. Treating it like standard stand-up or sketch comedy does a disservice to its revolutionary format. It's written and performed as an interconnected one-act theatrical sound play. I would classify it as a "Surrealist Audio Drama"—a category in which it might remain alone for generations.

The majority of the Registry’s comedy album inductees fall broadly into the Comedy/Novelty genre. Bob Newhart, Don Rickles, and George Carlin were stand-up comedians, while Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks worked primarily in improvisation. The differences between those recordings and the Firesign Theatre’s work mark a major structural milestone: Dwarf was the first comedy album to employ sophisticated studio techniques as an integral part of its construction.

Firesign Theatre aside, I'm not dismissing any of those seminal Registry recordings representing four decades of vinyl comedy. Those albums, from the 1950s through the 1970s, served as both a mirror to American societal changes and a beneficiary of evolving audio technologies. The widespread adoption of the 12-inch Long Play (LP) record allowed for 20 to 25 minutes of continuous audio per side. Post-WWII America was defined by the rise of white-collar corporate culture, suburbanization, and underlying Cold War anxieties.

Bob Newhart captured this era perfectly on his 1960 multi-Grammy-winning album, The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart. His routine relied on the conceit of a one-sided telephone conversation. This format directly reflected the newly corporate, bureaucratic world of advertising and middle management. His low-key, hesitant delivery resonated with an audience navigating the pressures of modern conformity.

The late 1960s to mid 1970s was an era of technology that benefited the Firesign Theatre. The leap from two-track to 8-track and 16-track studio recording allowed for complex layering, tape splicing, sound effects, and stereo panning. This period was marked by the Vietnam War, political disillusionment, the rise of the counterculture, and the omnipresence of television. Firesign’s work reflected a media-saturated society. They were the first comedy troupe to immerse themselves in the studio as a canvas for dense multitrack editing.

That distinction reinforces how the Firesign Theatre's telling of George Tirebiter's life through infinite channel surfing makes it even more worthy of renewed recognition today. Engagement with contemporary re-evaluations, such as author Jeremy Braddock's academic texts are gratifying. My hope is that more people, from Boomers to Gen Z, get to experience those remarkable 46 minutes of "Cinema for the Ears" by Austin, Bergman, Ossman, and Proctor.

In July 1966, Paul V. Dallas, the program director of Pacifica Radio's Los Angeles station KPFK, approached writer Paul Jay Robbins and actor/comedian Peter Bergman to launch the station's very first overnight programming, following the duo's involvement in a twenty-four-hour fundraising marathon. This collaboration led to several historic milestones for the station and American counterculture.

The Bergman and Robbins show was called Radio Free Oz, blending satire, live call-ins, poetry, and avant-garde music, perfectly capturing the spirit of the late 1960s. Following Robbins' departure in October, Bergman continued the show as solo host. KPFK staffers Phil Austin and David Ossman (who oversaw the marathon), along with Bergman's former Yale classmate Philip Proctor, occasionally made informal appearances on Radio Free Oz, with all four of them collectively staging the on-air “Oz Film Festival” in November. All of this set in motion by Dallas' decision to launch that first ever KPFK overnight program with Robbins and Bergman.

Paul Dallas later documented this era and the chaotic, groundbreaking history of KPFK's free-form radio experiment in his 1967 self-published book, Dallas in Wonderland: The Pacifica Approach to Free Radio. The text offers an insider account of the countercultural radio landscape, detailing the station's creative experiments, conflicts with the Pacifica Foundation board, and early underground programming like Radio Free Oz.

Download book PDF

Book from the Edgar Bullington collection—digitized by Taylor Jessen.

Origin of The Edgar Letters

When I began planning my Firesign Theatre fanzine in March 1972, I had to source my news about the "four or five crazy guys" from Rolling Stone magazine. I had no access to Los Angeles radio where Firesign's show Let's Eat was ending its run with the Martian Space Party broadcast. I'd written a letter to Columbia Records in L.A., hoping it would find its way to one of the Firesigns. In its infancy, I assigned the name "The Firesign Theatre Cult" to my fan club.

About a month later, to my surprise and encouragement, there arrived at my post office box a large 9x12 envelope from Columbia. It contained publicity photos and other materials, and a note from Phil Proctor. Thus began my direct contact with the guys—regular correspondence from David Ossman in Santa Barbara soon followed.

It was sometime in 1972 when I first heard from Edgar Bullington. I can't recall if he saw my first Rolling Stone ad, or he got my address from Proctor or Ossman. He'd been attending Firesign radio shows and the Bozos recording sessions the previous year. (More details on his interactions with the group are in the "Finding Firesign" section below.) Because Edgar's earliest notes were lost, the collection begins with the October 1972 entry. At that point the letters covered the Martian Space Party movie, the TV or Not TV sessions, and other Firesign-related activities. These updates were used for the earliest issues of my Firemail fanzine. (According to Edgar, his note taking began at the Bozos sessions, which occurred prior to us knowing each other.) Over the next several years he continued to correspond with me and provide news items for my rebranded fanzine It's Just This Little Chromium Switch Here. Many of those notes remained unpublished until they were included on my website in 2009 as "The Edgar Letters."

In My Own Words: Edgar Bullington

I was born in Los Angeles, near the Coliseum, on New Year's Day, 1947—my mother's 21st birthday. Yes, a double New Year's whammy. I was "due" at Christmas, but I much prefer New Year's. So, yes, I'm a native Angeleno.

My folks were from Arkansas. Mom was from the Little Rock area; Dad was from Augusta, Arkansas, a commercial port town on the White River, about 70 miles due west of Memphis. He worked at the port as a teenager. So, I was a native Angeleno raised in a distinctly Southern culture.

I was their only child, and I grew up "listening to the radio" and to their small collection of 78 rpm records. My favorites were Al Jolson and the Mills Brothers. Dad had been in the Navy during World War II and remained in the Naval Reserves afterward, while finding a job at a local "factory bakery," Gordon's Bread. He was not a pastry chef; he loaded dozens of raw loaves of bread per hour into a long oven. He eventually retired from the company, by then part of the Certified Bakery chain, as a supervisor.

I was three when Mr. Truman activated the Naval Reserves for the Korean conflict, and Dad was stationed in Newport, Rhode Island. Mom and I spent some time in Arkansas with family, then eventually followed him to Rhode Island, where we stayed until 1953. Just before the activation, my folks had purchased a newly built home near the San Gabriel River in Bellflower, California. It was rented out while we were away.

When Dad was discharged, we moved into the house. And there we stayed. There were still dairy farms and sand lots with tumbleweeds in the neighborhood, and that remained the landscape until I was around ten, when it was all developed into housing.

The public library was nearby, and I was a regular. They had a small collection of 78 rpm records that could be checked out. After my folks signed the proper papers, I was allowed to check them out. A few years later, when collection policies changed and the 78s were to be discarded, I was given dozens of them. That triggered my collecting bug.

During elementary school, I tried to learn the accordion because of the current star Dick Contino, the clarinet because of Benny Goodman, and tap dancing because of Fred Astaire. I failed at all three. No discipline.

At Bellflower High School (Class of 1965), there was a drama program. I discovered that I could easily learn lines and that I loved pretending to be someone else. I was in the program all four years, culminating in my senior year with the role of Ernest in The Importance of Being Earnest. If I wasn't in a show, I was the house manager. By that senior year, thanks to contacts our drama instructor had, I was working in the sound booth and appearing in walk-on roles at a community theater in nearby Long Beach.

In college, I remained with that theater as its official house manager until it finally folded. At Cal State Long Beach (Class of 1969, Bachelor of Arts in English), I continued taking theater classes, and I was now trading 78 rpm records with Norman Belkin, a DJ at KPFK-FM. He was in charge of a late-night program called Nightsounds. It was a themed collage program that often incorporated 78 rpm recordings. The program originated at Pacifica's San Francisco sister station, KPFA, and Norman then extended and added to it for the Los Angeles broadcast. That was my introduction to KPFK. I spent many an afternoon chatting with Norman in the studio.

Following two years of graduate study at Cal State for teaching credentials and library certification, I combined substitute teaching with part time employment at Knott's Berry Farm. I'd been with Knott's since 1967, working mostly at the Berry Market.

In 1976, I accepted a library position at an elementary school in Encinitas. I traded substitute teaching, part time jobs, and the L.A. freeways for a career and the sunny beaches of Encinitas. I was given an empty room and a budget sheet, and told to design and run a Library Media Center that could serve roughly 1000 students. I did, and was there until 1985, when I became a reference librarian at Glendale Central Library. Two years later I transferred to a Glendale Branch Library as Children's Services Librarian, where I remained for 27 years until my retirement in 2014.

Edgar's descriptions for the photos above:

The black and white photo is me, at about the age of three, in front of our Philco radio/phonograph. It was taken in L.A. before we went to Rhode Island. That Philco was with us until the late 1950s!

The sepia photo is from one of Knott’s Berry Farm’s employee photo contests in 1974. Although my regular job was stock clerk, employees were pulled from their usual positions, costumed, and stationed around the park for photographers. Both years, I was assigned as the Grave Digger in Boot Hill. The regular Ghost Town stuntmen asked to join me between their scheduled shootouts, and we improvised scenes together. This photo was taken during one of those improvs.

The Funny Names Club of America

Finding Firesign: Edgar’s Story

On Sundays in 1968, I worked until 9:00 in the evening. The car radio lived at KRLA. The Radio Free Oz Magic Mushroom shows were on from 9:00 to midnight. I never heard the first few minutes of any of those broadcasts. I'd tune in several minutes after the beginning, and listen as I drove home for roughly 45 minutes. I didn't even hear all of the series. Suddenly, it was gone, and so were they. Around that same time, I was trading 78s with KPFK's Norman Belkin. One day I dropped off a box of records at the station. Norman wasn't there, but an engineer was. Thin, longish hair, kinda lanky and quirky. I strongly believe now that it may have been Phil Austin.

Starting in 1970 the Firesign Theatre were on KPPC with the Radio Hour Hour show. It was an accidental discovery—I recognized the voices. That's when I started writing to them, sometimes sending newspaper clippings and such. That went on for some time. By the end of the year I stopped writing. Couldn't keep up with them, and no direct feedback or return notes. However, a few of my letters were read on air by Phil Austin.

It was college friend Michael Renz—who knew all the Firesigns—that had the opportunity to interview them. He's the last piece of the puzzle. He mentioned my letters to them, apparently asking if they ever got them. They recognized my name, and through him, extended an invitation to come to one of the Dear Friends shows. By then, Michael and I were no longer seeing each other on campus, so he wrote me, and after fighting with myself about being an intruder, I eventually decided to appear. It was at one of those 1971 Dear Friends shows that Firesign invited me to the upcoming Bozos sessions.

You know, Bergman is directly responsible for me contacting you to begin with. At that first Bozos session, when we were accidentally alone in a hallway, he asked "Why are you here? What do you want?" He was under the Hollywood impression I had ulterior motives, and wanted nothing to do with me. I had no such thoughts or intentions, but it made me think about justifying my presence. The solution was to take notes, to be the witness. Perhaps Peter was right in being wary of me. It probably did look like a set-up. Once I had a purpose, he relaxed.

As my life was in a bit of a limbo at the time, I was able to attend the bulk of those Bozos sessions, including the full album mix. The sessions themselves were gold—often party like. Many guests, spouses and friends present, much laughter along with the hard work. That historic radio studio (CBS Columbia Square) was enormous, as was the control room. My guess is the booth was large enough to allow radio execs and maybe writers and other staff to be close to the action. Almost from the beginning, I was available for errands, as the commissary was just around the corner.

Those of us present got to add ambience to the Funway crowd. I remember a moment during the Mr. President scene when one of the guys was alone in the studio at the mic. Suddenly the other three, who were in the booth, jumped and ran to the studio excitedly, and jumped into the scene. I don't remember that it was a missed cue. I think it was a sudden inspiration moment.

There were several of us who tried to hang out—groupie like—and who were trusted enough to be allowed to do so. We all did stuff as needed. I was "first name" credited with others. A couple of times it came to light that three "full name" credits were enough to apply for Union membership—and therefore be allowed to vote in the Grammys. Suddenly, I was getting "full name thanks" for hanging out and helping when needed. It wasn't really an official or paid position—it was more a gesture of thanks. The guys really were/are Dear Friends.

The next radio series was Let's Eat, and I attended nearly every broadcast—all of us (including Glen Banks) part of the laughter from the studio floor of KPFK—passing Blackberry Brandy, cheese logs and balls, and other treats. On one of the broadcasts, Phil Austin complains about the terrible Chick-O-Stick. Never admitted to him I was the one who brought them in. Oh, and he was right.

So, with the letters I'd written, and my presence at KPFK and the Bozos sessions, the guys were nice enough to ask if I'd be House/Floor Manager for the Martian Spece Party show/broadcast/film that would end the Let's Eat series in March 1972. What that really meant was decorations and clean-up in the performance space, button distributor, and general audience greeter. I helped generate some of the participation and the mood that encouraged it. Something I would have happily done for free, which I did—along with the other group of volunteers, known to fans as "The Grass Roots." On subsequent album productions I was one of the pirate kids in TV or Not TV; "Mr. Straight" in Everything You Know Is Wrong; and in the audience for the Next World awards show.

In the new millennium, I reconnected with Firesign at the Barnsdall Gallery Theatre in Hollywood—for their four-show run in October 2009. Phil Fountain and I ran the sales table. I saw Phil Proctor from time to time, and when David was a guest on Phil and Ted's KPFK Sexy Boomer Show several years ago, I was in the studio for old times sake—this time not on the floor, but in a chair!

The Edgar Letters, Part One

Not Insane, Martian Space Party, TV or Not TV, and others

Monday, October 25, 1972

Tom,

A quick response. Thanks for OK on buttons, etc. Have use for them. Item on reverse of this sheet was found in a college bar in Long Beach, where I placed Papoon stuff until new manager took over. Not Insane album finished last Friday, should be released by first of November. Also, book is supposed to reach LA stands this week. Album is basically a strange and wonderful mix of Martian Space Party material, plus Ash Grove, plus new stuff. “Radio Prison”, a time lock echo a-la a couple of the radio shows, where-in Filipino culture is bounced through the ages, showing its component parts from English, Spanish, Oriental cultures. That's from Proctor. It is, indeed, a spacey album. More later, if you wish. Martian Space Party film just optioned by same people who have Reefer Madness. They will play either separately or together (it wasn't clearly explained to me) on campuses around country. Grassroots Doug Feldman and Lee McLaren run a film festival at a Temple on Pico near Fox Studios, LA. Steve G. has arranged for them to show Martian Space Party Oct. 6. They'll run it with What's Up Tiger Lily?

As to other news, Proctor is appearing on Ralph Story AM TV today, and possibly as a regular in near future. A Safe Place opens in LA this week. Suggest you write David for other news. Must go, as work beckons, and I'm out of space.

NOT INSANE, Edgar

12-3-72

Tom,

Out of my unanswered mail pile now comes your brown letterhead. As usual, by the time I've gotten to you, you have all the news and more accurately than I do. This comes from not keeping up correspondence.

Spent last Sunday in Santa Barbara with David and Tiny, plus grassroots Lee, Doug, Rose, and special guests Harry and Penny Shearer. (He is from Credibility Gap.) All in all, it was a good day, but not much news came from it, as it was a group thing. David now finally has a stereo reel to reel tape deck, now needs a 78rpm turntable to complete his home studio. He and Tiny still do Rainbow Café on UCSB radio station - 10 watts of power every Sunday, 11pm-1am. All of us were present for Sunday's show, with Harry and Penny (who does folk-song trip) as on-mike guests. The show is a relaxed talk-music thing very much like Radio Free Oz was at one point in its history. The show is basically Tiny, but David gets in a lot of his trips, i.e. the old music from 20's-30's, and "pure radio things" such as the tape he played us of the first show with guest Wally Cox. The dream is to do the show directly from their living room—the college seems willing but not ready. After the first of the year, they go to an earlier time slot Sundays (8-10) allowing me more of an opportunity to visit. (On Sunday's show, I was named President of “The Funny Names Club of America.)

Footnote: December 6 is David's birthday. Not Insane is not available in any Santa Barbara record store. As to the film, it's been blown up to 35mm, and is being distributed to theatres. The 16mm is making the college circuit. Both prints seem to be doing well where shown, but neither has been released to anyone in California. WHY? Well, that's show biz. Word has it we may get one of the prints after the first of the year.

David, Tiny and Annalee are writing a film. David is producing and directing, with Peter Acting Producer. It will be the first production for Hot Roach Productions, and the working title is "The Life and Times of Mercedes Savoy." It will star Tiny and Annalee, featuring The Three Marks (a local trio of young freaks) with cameo roles by a number of Dear Friends. It goes into production around the first of February. All the above is news from Santa Barbara.

Now, as to your "confusing" - well so am us. Have not had any communication with other three or four funny guys. There is a strong rumor about the Austin music album, but no facts exist here in Long Beach, Calif. I asked David, and he said, "Well, I certainly hope he finally does it." No word at all on Columbia TFT contract obligations. Have you heard by now? Also no explanation concerning label confusion on Not Insane. That could possibly be solved thru Phil/Phil, as they produced with no collaboration or cooperation from David/Peter. About the split: David and Austin are still not speaking. Greatest friction from Austin without doubt. Much of the fighting centered around: 1) Austin's desire for TFT to make R&R comedy supergroup status 2) Austin's frustrations at not being a R&R superstar 3) Austin's inability to travel for fear of dying (read accounts of Oscar Levant) 4) Austin's insane jealousy over Annalee, which evidently spread itself into the group. All this is based on innuendo and second-hand reports. There were other problems, many quite petty, but much stems in one way or another from Austin. Big blow-out last June, second week of Not Insane production, came when Austin threw others out of the house. Why? All of the above. I do believe I'm not supposed to forward any of the above info, but since things have leveled themselves off somewhat emotionally, I thought you'd like to get some light.

By now, it's quite dark here, and I must be off. It strikes me we should try to know each other better. How does it strike you? If it doesn't, that's cool. Please write when motivated, whether by humanity or force of the full moon. Will eventually answer.

Stay well, Edgar

Expanding his contributions into production and broadcasting, Chris served as the Executive Producer for the album In The Firezone / Firesign Theatre Live - Bagley Theatre Seattle. Additionally, he shared his passion for the group's comedy by hosting The Radio Oz Fighting Clowns Radio Show, which broadcasted on Lost World Radio out of Hagerstown, Maryland.

The Interview—Part One

• "...I helped produce Brooke, who was Peter's girlfriend at the time, and I produced the Magic Mushroom shows. I'd always been, I guess, a sort of glorified gopher. God forbid the feminists should hear this, but, you know, it's like I ran the lights, I did the sound effects, you know. They produced the sound effects on reel-to-reel. I had the script, and I pushed the button. I called the cues. I ran the lights. I schlepped the costumes..."

• "...Hot Roach Productions, David and myself. And that was sequestered at the old same place in Santa Barbara where we lived for 11 years...and sometimes they (Firesign) would come up and write, and he would go down there to produce records and stuff like that. But David and I did a weekly radio show. First we did one at the university…which was a variety show which had local musicians and visiting actors and literature and a variety. It was like a variety show. And then we did a popular American music prior to Big Band...at KCFB the university radio station. And then Easy Street was the name of our radio show at KTYD, which is a commercial rock and roll station."

The Interview—Part Two

• "I just went to the desert for a year and a half to think about the times that we live in, you know, to paint and just to think, you know, what am I supposed to be doing because I've been single for 11 years. And I thought, well, what's important to be doing? I'm a child of the 60s. I know we're supposed to participate in some way. And anyway, I'm in graduate school. I'm getting a teaching credential, and I'm working with kids. And let me tell you, they're a sorry lot. They're a very unhappy bunch with no heroes and no hope for the future. The possibilities seem pretty grim. Yeah, it's very sad, very sad."

The Interview—Part Three

• "They enjoyed making each other laugh. They loved coming in with weird clippings out of newspapers and the Inquirer and all that weird magazines and exploitation stuff and bringing it in and reading it to each other. It's like found art, you know, and they really like to amuse each other and make each other laugh."

• "They have some incredibly wonderful and poignant theater pieces that are short and cheery and timely. You know, you can ask them about ‘The Towel Play.’ That's one of their pieces...There's some really early, early surreal ones. You could ask them about ‘Mother and Child’...a classic surreal comedy turn that, like, they would come out and do it and there was, like, stone silence in the house..."

Tinika “Tiny” Ossman-Steier (born Maria Veronica Rosza)—the second wife of Firesign Theatre co-founder David Ossman—performed as a St. Louis Aquarium Choraleer and as part of the “Ambient’s Noyes Choral” (singing the Porgie and Mudhead theme song) on Don’t Crush That Dwarf. She later appeared as “Ann” on I Think We’re All Bozos, as Nurse Angela and news reporter Chiquita Bandana on How Time Flys, and provided vocals and percussion on Not Insane.

A classified ad that cost only a few dollars changed the course of my life. I placed it in the March 30, 1972 issue of Rolling Stone hoping to find other fans of the Firesign Theatre. Nearly two hundred people replied. One of them would become my wife. The newsletter that ad inspired would introduce me to the Firesigns themselves, eventually take me to Los Angeles, and keep me connected to the group for more than five decades.

In the 1970s, I was in my twenties. Today I'm in my seventies. My introduction to the Firesign Theatre came in 1968, thanks to a local FM radio station. They programmed classical music throughout the day until 8:00 p.m. That's when they switched to "progressive rock," playing entire albums—rather than just the promoted singles—until midnight. It was on this station where I first heard all four sides of The White Album and the voodoo rhythms of Gris-Gris by Dr. John, the Night Tripper. One night, the DJ introduced a "spoken-word recording" by a group called the Firesign Theatre. Waiting for the Electrician or Someone Like Him was a fascinating discovery. Ed Ward's 1969 Rolling Stone feature about Firesign certainly piqued my curiosity. George Carlin said listening to Firesign was “like having the American culture explode in front of you and land all over the wall.”

Although I owned the first four Firesign Theatre albums and listened to them often, it was the compilation of KPFK broadcasts collected on the 1972 Dear Friends album that inspired me to create Firemail. That first ad in Rolling Stone—and the response it generated—created a unique community of fans. They weren't all the stereotypical young male fans one might expect. One particular subscriber not only shared my affinity for Firesign but before long became my partner and soulmate.

Later that June I was in Los Angeles with my father, who was attending a Goodwill Industries conference. I arranged several Firesign-related activities in advance to coincide with the trip. Thanks to Mark Leviton, who was then on the staff of the UCLA Daily Bruin, I was a guest at the premiere of the Martian Space Party film at the Director's Guild Theatre in Hollywood. Following the screening I met the Firesigns for the first time. A few days later Mark and I visited Phil Proctor at his Beverly Hills home.

The first Firemail issue was mailed in August 1972 and included "Papoon" and "Shoes for Industry" buttons and bumper stickers, Ossman's Sun Duck, and Mark Leviton's Daily Bruin review of Martian Space Party. I published two more Firemail issues—October 1972 and March 1973—before rebranding the newsletter to Chromium Switch.

In early 1973, along with publishing Chromium Switch, I was volunteering my time with Sunrise Communications, a Nebraska nonprofit corporation formed to establish a community radio station. I was one of the charter board members and remained active with the project for several years, assisting with fundraising and FCC filings. By the time the station first went on the air in 1978 as KZUM, I'd been living in Los Angeles for several years.

I ran another classified ad in the December 20, 1973 issue of Rolling Stone. The ad brought in another wave of subscribers, as did the 1974 album The Tale of the Giant Rat of Sumatra. Firesign was kind enough to mention my fanzine's mailing address in the liner notes. That same year, I traveled to Chicago to see their Anytown, U.S.A. tour at the Auditorium Theatre and visited with them after the show.

This is Side Five. Follow in your book and repeat after me as we learn three new words in Turkish: Towel... Bath... Border... May I see your passport, please?

I met Deborah in the analog age, long before social media and video calls. Our postal correspondence—initiated by my newsletter mailings—was soon augmented by long-distance phone calls. Little did I know back in 1972, when I first met the Firesign Theatre, that Los Angeles would become my new home in a few years. Deborah contributed to the Chromium Switch "letters to the editor" section—using various pseudonyms—for the fifth issue. We exchanged photographs and eventually arranged to meet. In February 1975 I flew to Los Angeles where Deborah was waiting for me at the airport. Over the next ten days we visited my future in-laws, spent time with Edgar Bullington (the longtime Firesign production assistant), did some sightseeing around Hollywood, and connected once again with the Firesign Theatre.

Along with Edgar we attended an afternoon recording session for In the Next World, You're on Your Own at the Warner Bros. Recording Studios in Burbank, then wandered around the Kung Fu western backlots during a studio break. Later that week, Deborah and I were overnight guests of the Ossmans in Santa Barbara. After a few more days in SoCal we flew back to Lincoln (with transportation to LAX courtesy of Edgar), and a few days later were married in a brief ceremony by a county judge at my parents' house. That afternoon we left on a three-day honeymoon, driving through Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona before the City of Angels welcomed us once again.

A friend named Ron—also a board member of the nonprofit community radio station—published a local underground newspaper on his small offset press. At a reduced rate, he printed three issues of Chromium Switch (February 1974, August 1974, and March 1975). I finished the layout of the early 1975 issue a few weeks before my marriage and move to California. Ron later printed it and shipped the copies to our apartment in Los Angeles. The return address on that issue was a post office box in Buena Park that Deborah had rented for me while I was still in Lincoln. At that time I didn't yet know what our physical address for L.A. would be. The things you do for fandom and love! There was a final, one-sheet mini-issue of Switch (typewritten and photocopied) mailed in October 1975—it coincided with the release of the Next World album—with postage and envelopes provided by Columbia Records.

Our apartment was only a few blocks from the Ambassador Hotel, home of the Cocoanut Grove nightclub. We'd occasionally walk over, visit the coffee shop, and stroll through the ballrooms. Nearby on Wilshire Boulevard was the Brown Derby restaurant, often frequented during the 1950s by director Ed Wood and his entourage, including the Amazing Criswell. Walking around that neighborhood, I'd often think about the Hollywood stars that trekked the sidewalks, stopping to sign autographs.

Years later, I learned that our L.A. apartment building had been used for exterior shots on Seinfeld, representing the Manhattan digs where Jerry and Kramer lived. In 1976 we relocated to South Pasadena, where we enjoyed an annual preview of the Rose Bowl Parade floats as they were staged near our apartment. At the end of the decade, after several years in North Hollywood—not far from KPFK—we returned to Lincoln.

You'll be getting a handsome simulfax copy of your own words in the mail soon.

In 1983, on a whim, I wrote to David Ossman at his Santa Barbara address, not knowing what he was doing professionally at the time. This was just before he headed to Washington, D.C., to produce programs for National Public Radio. He told me about a new Firesign newsletter, Four-Alarm FIRESIGNal, edited and published by Elayne Riggs (writing as Elayne Wechsler). It began as a section of her Inside Joke newsletter, a publication Deborah and I later joined as contributors. As the obvious successor to Chromium Switch, it went on to be published from 1984 through 1996.

Following Elayne's tenure as the primary Firesign news source came Firezine, a full-color magazine of Firesign articles and interviews. Its eight issues were edited and published by Frederick C. Wiebel, Jr. and Chris Palladino. Wiebel also authored the encyclopedic compendium Backwards Into the Future: The Recorded History of the Firesign Theatre—with key research and interviews by Palladino.

Thirty years after publishing Chromium Switch, I found myself preserving its history online. I began designing my first website for Firesign fans. This is where the “Edgar Letters”—which will be shared once again in an upcoming Substack series—first appeared. I had two other web projects—WikiRococo, the first Firesign wiki, and Fireheads, a discussion forum. All three of those websites closed in 2019.

Four decades after discovering Firesign, the circle closed unexpectedly. In 2010 Peter Bergman contacted me—he was rebooting his Radio Free Oz show as a podcast—and asked for my assistance in distributing the episodes. For the first month or so, the shows were streamed live from his website. Once we had the podcast infrastructure in place, I was able to download the weekday programs from Blue Ewe Studios, coordinating with owner/engineer David B. Malony. The next step was uploading the audio to my domain server and generating the RSS feed for our subscribers. Radio Free Oz was recorded in Whidbey Island, north of Seattle, with David Ossman serving as co-host. Peter eventually moved back to Los Angeles and continued the shows remotely with David.

In May 2010, Deborah passed away after a long illness. Just a few weeks earlier, she had spoken with Peter when he called me about production scheduling for his show. I'm grateful she had that moment of connection with Peter, being such a devoted Firesign fan. Deborah was familiar with them before I was—having lived in Southern California and listening to their radio shows. Peter was kind enough to dedicate an episode of the podcast in Deborah's memory. As I've recounted in this story—without the Firesign Theatre, she and I would never have met.

Over the next several years, Phil Fountain and I published three PDF editions of the Chromium Switch webzine, a digital version of my original fanzine. Those issues were highlighted by interviews with David Ossman, Phil Austin, and Phil Proctor. Others to participate in conversation included Shadoe Stevens, Taylor Jessen, William Stout, Bill Griffith, and Joel Hodgson.

Unfortunately, a planned fourth issue of Switch with a Peter Bergman interview never materialized due to his passing. Phil Fountain and I were part of the "Oz team," along with producer Bill McIntyre, social media director Scott Wild, and of course Peter. Back then, Skype was the video client, and we had conference calls several times a month regarding the podcast.

No anchovies? You've got the wrong man. I spell my name Danger!

My last interaction with the Firesign Theatre came in April 2012 when I attended Peter Bergman's memorial in Kirkland, Washington. I had the opportunity to visit backstage with Phil Austin, David Ossman, and Phil Proctor prior to the services. For the three surviving Firesigns, it was their final live performance. Their presentation of "Exorcism in Your Daily Life" was unforgettable. The show ended on a darkened stage, with a solo spotlight on an empty stool where Peter would have sat alongside his fellow performers. It was also the last time I would see Phil Austin—the creator and voice of Nick Danger passed away a few years later in June 2015.

The track aired on the October 11, 1970 broadcast of Dear Friends, the Firesign Theatre's weekly Sunday show on KPFK. It later appeared on the 1971 Dear Friends syndicated collection—a 12-LP set distributed to radio stations. "Yale Distorts" is on side 1 of the fourth disc—"Somebody Put A Mickey In The Ground Zero!" I've included what immediately follows "Yale Distorts" on the original broadcast—David Ossman's reading of an ad for "Conk's Coal."

Apparently, I wasn't finished with the literary corpus of Firesign Theatre after all. In my recent piece, The Printed Legacy of Firesign, I attempted to trace the journals, reviews, and books that have carried the Firesign story beyond the albums, broadcasts, and recordings. A respectable effort, perhaps—but two omitted titles are now included to correct a temporary bout of academic tunnel vision: Frederick C. Wiebel Jr.'s Backwards Into the Future: The Recorded History of the Firesign Theatre and Gene Santoro's Highway 61 Revisited: The Tangled Roots of American Jazz, Blues, Rock, & Country Music. Both deserve a place in the record, and both tell us something different about how Firesign's history has been documented, interpreted, and remembered. So consider this not a correction so much as an overdue encore.

Frederick C. Wiebel Jr.: Chronicler of the Firesign Theatre

Wiebel has spent decades documenting the intersection of comedy, radio, music, popular culture, and American counterculture. Among his most significant accomplishments is his extensive work preserving and interpreting the history of the Firesign Theatre, the groundbreaking four-member comedy troupe whose influence extended from underground radio into recorded comedy and avant-garde performance.

Wiebel served for five years as editor and publisher of Firezine, the official fan publication devoted to the Firesign Theatre. His work with the magazine brought him into direct contact with Phil Austin, Peter Bergman, David Ossman, and Philip Proctor and established him as one of the troupe's most knowledgeable chroniclers. That work ultimately led to his landmark 2006 book, Backwards Into the Future: The Recorded History of the Firesign Theatre, published by BearManor Books with Chris Palladino and Gregory J. M. Catsos.

At 365 pages, Backwards Into the Future is far more than a conventional biography or fan book. Its centerpiece is a series of four extensive interviews—one with each Firesign Theatre principal—conducted between 1994 and 2001. The interviews explore the troupe's origins, creative process, individual histories, recordings, performances, and place in the development of American audio comedy. The transcripts were reviewed and approved by the Firesign members themselves, giving the volume an unusual degree of firsthand authority. Historical timelines and supporting background material further establish the book as a substantial documentary record of the group.

Critics particularly praised Wiebel's interviewing technique. Brad Schreiber, among others, observed that he possessed the rare ability to listen carefully and encourage his subjects to elaborate, while keeping his questions concise and perceptive. Reviewers in publications such as Filmfax recognized the resulting interviews as unusually substantive portraits of the four performers.

Reflecting on the 1967 Easter Sunday event at Elysian Park, Peter Bergman discusses how producer Gary Usher approached him about a Love-In album:

That’s right and we said we’re not going to do a Love-In album, we’re gonna do an Oz Firesign Theatre album. Disney told us we couldn’t use the word Oz; it was a bluff, but we took them at their word. I’m glad we did. Usher didn’t have any concept at all, he just saw 40,000 people appear, and he had no idea at all. We said we’ll do a Firesign Theatre album. He said, “What’s The Firesign Theatre?” I said, “Don’t worry, you’ll love it.” He said, “Ok!” (Wiebel 46)

The book earned Wiebel the affectionate title “Grand Poobah of Firesigniana,” reflecting both his long involvement with the troupe's history and his success in transforming the work begun in Firezine into a definitive print volume. For serious “Fireheads” and students of avant-garde American radio satire, Backwards Into the Future became an important historical resource.

The book also places the Firesign Theatre within a larger cultural context. Its discussions illuminate how Austin, Bergman, Ossman, and Proctor anticipated aspects of the modern media environment through their experiments with recorded sound, nonlinear narrative, satire, and the collision of popular culture and technology. Ken Kesey's back-cover endorsement—“these people are revolutionaries”—underscores the book's broader argument: that the Firesign Theatre was not simply a comedy group but a pioneering force in American audio culture.

Wiebel's Firesign Theatre scholarship has received recognition beyond the fan community. His essay on the troupe's classic album Don't Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers appears on the Library of Congress National Recording Registry website. This honors the album's selection for preservation and establishes him as a serious contributor to American recorded sound.

His interests, however, have always extended well beyond Firesign Theatre. In 1978, Wiebel created a bust of 1920s jazz legend Bix Beiderbecke for Davenport, Iowa. The work was presented at the city's annual Beiderbecke Jazz Festival, where Wiebel was awarded a key to the city by the mayor before an audience of approximately 20,000 classic-jazz enthusiasts.

Over the years, Wiebel has also interviewed or encountered a remarkable range of musicians, performers, personalities, and cultural figures. His subjects and acquaintances have included actor Vincent Price and comedian Mark Russell; blues legends Otis Rush, Robert Lockwood Jr., Willie Dixon, Johnny Winter, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Luther Allison, John Hammond, Catfish Hodge, Cephus and Wiggins, and Kelly Joe Phelps; and numerous musicians from the 1920s, including members of the Paul Whiteman, Jean Goldkette, and McKinney's Cotton Pickers orchestras. His roster of subjects even includes such wonderfully eccentric figures as the Roswell Aliens, Judge Crater, Deep Throat, and the Grassy Knoll Trio.

Taken together, these accomplishments reveal a consistent theme in Wiebel's career: preserving the voices, stories, personalities, and cultural artifacts that might otherwise disappear from the historical record. His five years with Firezine, culminating in Backwards Into the Future, represent his most sustained contribution to that effort. The book transformed decades of firsthand engagement with the Firesign Theatre into a carefully documented oral history and remains one of the most substantial records of the people and creative ideas behind one of America's most influential experimental comedy groups.

Gene Santoro's Highway 61 Revisited: A Map of American Music History

In chapter 21 of Gene Santoro's 2004 book Highway 61 Revisited: The Tangled Roots of American Jazz, Blues, Rock, & Country Music (Oxford University Press), The Firesign Theatre is discussed, placing their unique, improvisational style and countercultural humor alongside artists like Bob Dylan and The Band. Located in Part IV ("In the Garage") on pages 216–222, this chapter highlights the comedy group's influence on American pop culture.

Santoro vividly describes and quotes from the troupe's late-1990s millennial satire, specifically reviewing their 1998 album Give Me Immortality or Give Me Death:

Y2K obsessions? Replacement body parts, from and for Americans ("You can live forever while your friends fall apart like rotten fruit")? Celebarazzi taking pictures of each other? Contests like triple ripoff, millennial scratch and lick, and, of course, itch-and-sniff (one winner exults tearfully, "Finally I can afford to have someone kill my husband")? Dr. Onan Winkydink, expert on self-help? Promise Breakers causing massive traffic tieups in Metroburbia? Fundamentalist preacher-politicos running eternal sales on mattresses? Slo-mo SUV chases down freeways infested by plagues of locusts and "helmet heads" checking motorists for circumcision, while "funny foam blocks the seven exits between Perdition Pass and Great Satan's Village"? Straitjacketed formats ("desensitized environmental radio") that change up on DJ Bebop Loco with every shift, thanks to endless focus groups? Low-key corporate-image ads, complete with plausible deniability, for US Plus ("We own the idea of America")?

Santoro places the Firesign Theatre within the broader 1960s counterculture as a uniquely innovative force in American comedy. He argues that Phil Proctor, Peter Bergman, David Ossman, and Phil Austin transformed the language and techniques of classic radio for the television and psychedelic era, combining stream-of-consciousness writing, jazz-like improvisation, technological experimentation, and deliberately fragmented narratives. In doing so, they helped revolutionize both comedy and recorded comedy.

Unlike more visible contemporaries such as the Smothers Brothers and George Carlin, Firesign operated largely outside mainstream media. They toured only occasionally and received little national exposure, yet developed an intensely devoted following through word of mouth. Santoro emphasizes the almost cult-like persistence of that audience: decades later, fans still recognize and reenact the troupe's characters, sketches, songs, and surreal transitions.

Most importantly, Santoro sees Firesign's comedy as a uniquely American cultural collage. Their recordings moved effortlessly from high-school satire and Hollywood parody to radio, television, war, and Vietnam, using channel-surfing, fractured narratives, and recurring characters to reflect the bewildering experience of contemporary America. His central point is that Firesign did not merely participate in the counterculture—they created an audio language for making sense of it.

For Santoro, How Can You Be... uses the absurdity of a Ralph Spoilsport car commercial as an entry point into something much larger: a surreal indictment of the American dream, in which the hapless “Little Guy” discovers that the country's grand promises have historically depended upon somebody else paying the price.

And that's an important distinction from simply calling the album “surreal comedy.” Santoro is arguing that beneath Firesign's verbal pyrotechnics is a coherent political and historical critique—the car salesman, the road trip, Woody Guthrie, immigration, Native dispossession, and Babe's humiliation are all parts of the same satirical machine.

It was silly, strange, exhilarating, scary—a roller-coaster ride of the mind. Santoro recalls that Proctor once told him:

Remember, the Firesign Theatre was an opportunity for a bunch of mavericks to liberate people from set ways of thinking, which came out of accepting a certain presentational form as a reality. If you heard it on the radio, it must be true. If you saw it on television, it must be true. But we all know how slippery reality can be. Truth is a relative idea. We built our comedy—our comedy, mind you—on that premise.

In the late 1960s and 70s counterculture, the suffix "-head" was a common colloquialism (e.g., "pothead" or "acid head") for someone deeply immersed in a particular lifestyle, art scene, or psychedelic interest. Because the Firesign Theatre's highly surreal, politically charged comedy deeply resonated with the era's counterculture movement, fans organically became known as "Fireheads".

Being a Firesign Theatre fan means belonging to a niche community built around a shared passion that exists largely outside the mainstream. Many of us remain devoted collectors, still pursuing rare, unreleased recordings—a passion greatly rewarded by the archival compilations assembled by Firesign archivist Taylor Jessen. Equally valuable are the contemporary publications that documented Firesign's influence on comedy during their formative years. Reviews of their live shows, radio series, and albums—another archival necessity—helped sustain fan interest.

Preserving and sharing those historical documents is why I continue to champion Firesign's legacy. My naturally autodidactic curiosity has led me to become an information hobbyist, searching for digital breadcrumbs about Firesign. Although I have decades' worth of Firesign material in my personal archive, I'm always searching for obscure discoveries worth sharing. Whether in my Facebook group or this recently revisited Substack environment—such details regarding their career seem to be appreciated by Firesign enthusiasts.

From the beginning of their 1967 publication launch, I was an avid reader of Rolling Stone. I made my every other week trip to the local convenience store in anticipation of the latest music news—presented in that tactile tabloid newsprint experience. The ephemeral aesthetic of those early issues captured the raw energy of the counterculture. I'd also buy the occasional copy of Fusion, Creem, and Crawdaddy! (which started in 1966 as a mimeographed, hand-stapled fanzine—they'd eventually feature Firesign Theatre authored content).

Ed Ward's Rolling Stone reviews were among the earliest major pieces to treat the Firesign Theatre as artists whose albums deserved the same critical attention as important rock records. At a time when Rolling Stone was becoming the national voice of the rock counterculture, positive coverage there greatly expanded the group's visibility beyond Los Angeles radio and their growing cult audience.

Download Ed Ward PDF

Ward's December 1969 review of Waiting for The Electrician or Someone Like Him and How Can You Be in Two Places at Once When You're Not Anywhere at All—titled "Ask the Cop on the Rooftop"—emphasized the albums' sophisticated structure rather than isolated jokes. He noted the seamless integration of radio drama, advertising, politics, and popular culture—and the need for repeated listening because the dense layers of dialogue and sound revealed new material each time. It reinforced the image Columbia Records hoped critics would embrace—presenting the Firesign Theatre as innovators creating an entirely new audio form—a reputation that became central to the group's identity.

Another important Ed Ward review from October 1970—"Through Tirebiter's Television"—helped establish Don't Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers as a landmark recording rather than simply another comedy release. He treated it as a unified dramatic work built around George Tirebiter's surreal television viewing. Ward highlighted the record's complex narrative, cinematic sound design, and emotional ending—qualities rarely associated with comedy albums in 1970.

Rolling Stone journalist Alec Dubro's profile—"The Firesign Theatre: The Beatles of Comedy?"—was published in 1971 and played a significant role in cementing the troupe's legendary status. That "Beatles of Comedy" label was used by the Library of Congress when they inducted the Dwarf album into the National Recording Registry in 2005.

One more periodical that caught my attention while I was in high school was New York City's The Village Voice. Founded in 1955, it was the nation's first alternative weekly newspaper. The reference room of my downtown library held copies, and finding an article about Firesign in its pages was always exciting. That article was Susan L. Pansey’s "A Vest Has No Sleeves," which serves as a rare critical counterpoint to the widespread acclaim for Firesign during their peak.

Like the hazy boundaries of Woodstock Nation, the unseen essence of the Firesign Theatre exists somewhere in a psychic playland. By loose definition, they are a comedy troupe, four very bright, clever guys named Peter Bergman, Phil Proctor, David Ossman, and Philip Austin.They're together after some years of individual hanging-out around Broadway, Hollywood, Yale, and KPFK radio in Los Angeles, and they have two albums out on Columbia. Their material is everything, their humor a verbal onslaught on puns, parody, anachronisms, character sketches, and stoned-rapping. It hits fast and hard, and at first it's practically impossible to say exactly why it's funny, why it's good, or even what it is.

—Susan L. Pansey

Published on June 18, 1970, just before the release of Don't Crush That Dwarf, it stands out against the overwhelmingly positive reception from other media outlets at the time. Her piece prompted responses from Ossman, Bergman, and Austin on their Radio Hour Hour [sic] show, broadcast June 28, 1970 on KPPC.

I remember talking to her (Pansey) at a party, sort of drunk and like, trying to explain everything to her. You always do that with newspaper interviewers. They come up to you and you wind up trying. I mean, you've got 20 minutes with them and you try and cram as much information into them as possible in hopes that they'll remember some of it. And what you see back in the newspaper is always a little weird. It always is never quite what you said or what you had in mind.

—Phil Austin

Proctor wasn't on the broadcast that evening—he was in New York City filming Henry Jaglom's A Safe Place, with Tuesday Weld, Orson Welles, and Jack Nicholson. It was filmed using improvisational techniques—entirely on location in Manhattan—focusing on Central Park and real apartment interiors in surrounding neighborhoods, eschewing any soundstages. A few weeks later Phil phoned in during another Hour show with tales of his New York adventures.

In further contrast to Pansey’s earlier assessment—citing over-engineered "audio wallpaper"—were the reviews by legendary critic Robert Christgau. His take on eight Firesign Theatre albums (including How Can You Be; Don't Crush That Dwarf; I Think We're All Bozos on This Bus; and Everything You Know Is Wrong) were included in his monthly Village Voice "Consumer Guide" columns. His framing of the revolutionary studio production values on Dwarf is often cited in the group's media bibliographies—he awarded the album a rare A+ grade.

Returning to my opening thoughts about Fireheads and the value of contemporary journalism of printed media, the press coverage of the Firesign Theatre was almost unanimously favorable. Absent from that were a few traditional critics who overlooked Firesign, finding their production techniques too dense and confusing compared to conventional stand-up comedy.

Columbia Records marketed them like a musical act, famously calling them "the only rock group in the world that doesn't need music." Their strongest champions, however, were the independent counterculture press. The Los Angeles Free Press (the "Freep") was vital to the Firesign Theatre's early career. The group members frequently interacted with its staff, and the paper tracked their evolution from their KPFK Radio Free Oz roots into their early Columbia Records era. The Berkeley Barb—a fiercely independent, countercultural weekly that regularized dense, anti-establishment media critiques—covered Firesign's live performances in Northern California and reviewed their early albums.

The Oracle of Southern California was a short-lived but influential Los Angeles underground newspaper published from March 1967 through January 1968. Inspired by the San Francisco Oracle, it combined psychedelic graphic design with articles on alternative spirituality, Eastern philosophy, music, and expanded consciousness. Although only nine issues were produced, the publication became an important voice of the Southern California counterculture and a meeting place for many of the artists and activists who helped define the era.

The Oracle also marks the point at which the future members of the Firesign Theatre emerged as a unified creative force. The inaugural March 1967 issue featured a major interview with Peter Bergman, in which he discussed Hopi philosophy, spirituality, and cultural transformation as alternatives to mainstream American values. Reflecting the issue's "Mutate or Dinosaur" theme, Bergman advocated a conscious evolution of society while promoting the upcoming Elysian Park Love-In, which was co-sponsored by the Oracle, the Los Angeles Free Press, and the Hog Farm commune. The same issue established David Ossman's role within the publication as poetry editor, featuring his poems "The Hopi Set" and "The I Ching," both reflecting the period's fascination with Indigenous traditions, mysticism, and expanded awareness. In the following issue, Ossman continued these themes with his poetic suite "Songs of the Ghost Dance."

The Oracle's importance extends beyond its brief publication history. Its first issue stands as a landmark document of the Los Angeles counterculture and the earliest published record of the artistic collaboration that soon became the Firesign Theatre. Peter Bergman and David Ossman later reflected on their experiences with the newspaper during a July 25, 2011, episode of the Radio Free Oz podcast, underscoring the Oracle's lasting significance in the group's creative origins.

Other publications from this era included the UCLA Daily Bruin, which treated Firesign's structural and linguistic audio collages as serious contemporary literature rather than standard comedy acts. Bruin staff writer Mark Leviton introduced me to the Firesign Theatre in June 1972 at the premiere of Martian Space Party at the Director's Guild Theatre in Hollywood. That was just a few months after I began publishing my Firesign fanzine in Lincoln. Mark's definitive feature articles for the Bruin—“Being Everywhere at Once with the Firesign Theatre” (March 2, 1972) and "Firesign: Thinking in Every Direction at Once" (February 27, 1974)—became standout pieces in their media coverage. Today, Leviton's extensive catalog of historical music and culture journalism is preserved and accessible via Rock's Backpages.

The East Village Other (New York, NY), and The Fifth Estate (Detroit, MI) were two other foundational underground newspapers that actively chronicled the counterculture of the 1960s and featured reviews of Firesign. Phil Proctor was a writer for EVO before heading to Los Angeles to pursue acting.

The critical conversation didn't end with the underground press. In recent years, the Firesign Theatre has also become the subject of serious academic scholarship. Such studies have included deconstructing the transition from analog radio to early multi-track recording studios—connecting surrealist sound art to modern media theory and digital culture—and analyzing political satire as a critique of late-20th-century authoritarianism.

Firesign is rarely the exclusive focus of a doctoral dissertation, however, David Michael McCarthy's "On the Appearance of the Comedy LP, 1957–1973" (Ph.D. in Music, City University of New York, 2016), devotes one of its five major case studies to Firesign.

McCarthy argues that the Firesign Theatre's recordings should be understood not simply as satirical comedy albums but as a distinctive form of radiophonic art. Rather than relying primarily on jokes or political commentary, the group used multitrack editing, overlapping dialogue, music, sound effects, and simulated broadcasts to construct richly layered soundscapes. Their recordings function almost like musical compositions, with structure and sonic architecture carrying as much meaning as the dialogue. He further contends that this formal innovation—not political satire alone—is the group's most enduring achievement, transforming the comedy LP into a sophisticated artistic medium whose influence extends well beyond comedy.

The Californian Firesign Theatre comedy troupe had a cult following among students in the North American university. But what especially interests me is how and why a comedy troupe found a quasi-musical radiophonic style grounded in characteristics of radio as a broadcast medium serviceable for dealing comically with the apparent setbacks of 1968 as these appeared to college graduates critical of a society which was supposed to serve college graduates.

—David Michael McCarthy

McCarthy also argues that Firesign's albums immerse listeners in history rather than merely commenting on it. Through rapid shifts in time, identity, and media, listeners become participants in fluid, contradictory narratives that reflect the cultural uncertainty following 1968. To illustrate the group's unconventional approach, he cites an anonymous reviewer who dismissed Firesign as a "Californian comedy troupe popular with the dormitory debauchee set" and references Susan L. Pansey's observation that the group could be "somewhat annoying." For McCarthy, such reactions underscore how Firesign's dense, collage-like style challenged conventional expectations and depended on innovative formal techniques as much as humor.

Jeremy Braddock, Professor of Literatures in English at Cornell University, has released academic work primarily focused on modernist literature, material archives, African American culture, media studies, and sound cultures. His recently published book Firesign: The Electromagnetic History of Everything as Told on Nine Comedy Albums (University of California Press, 2024), explores the comedy troupe's work in Los Angeles from 1967 to 1975.

Reviewers agree that this is the definitive scholarly study of the Firesign Theatre. They praise its depth of research, originality, and interdisciplinary approach, noting how it combines media studies, sound studies, popular music history, archival research, and technical analysis to place the group's work within a much broader cultural and technological context. Rather than treating Firesign simply as a comedy troupe, Braddock demonstrates their importance as innovative artists who reshaped radio, recorded sound, and multimedia storytelling.

Also noted is the book's appeal beyond academia—it's described as an engaging and accessible work that deepens appreciation for the Firesign Theatre's albums while preserving the group's legacy for future generations. Reviewers emphasize that the book encourages readers to revisit the recordings with fresh ears, revealing new layers of meaning in their intricate satire, political commentary, and sonic craftsmanship. Firesign is an essential resource for both scholars and longtime fans.

Aside from his Firesign Theatre monograph, Braddock has published shorter essays, multimedia audio pieces, and ongoing commentary dedicated specifically to Firesign. In 2017, he wrote a piece for the sound studies journal Sounding Out! called "The Firesign Theatre's Wax Poetics: Overdub, Dissonance, and Narrative in the Age of Nixon." His article looks at how the comedy group used multitrack audio and sound layers to critique the Nixon era. He also curates a personal Substack newsletter—Giant Slide 19 Holes Underground Parking—where he routinely publishes supplemental historical research and asides about Firesign.

In an upcoming post I'll turn from the printed record to my own history with Firesign—from publishing a 1970s fanzine, to creating a webzine in the 2010s, and now concentrating on Substack content dedicated to that singular community of Fireheads.

Young Girls of the Sixties

April 1, 2010

So, Ginger’s gone. Flown away.

Long ago, some thousand or so years it seems, the Firesign Theatre was forming itself through a series of accidents in the hills of Los Angeles and making friends among the artistic communities of Hollywood and Mixville and Silverlake.  In those hills live and have lived and will live many most inventive and strange people and generation by generation, the hills absorb these people and house them in the jungle of  little bungalows that dot the twisting lanes and canyons. We made friends with a number of women, younger than ourselves by seven or twelve years or so, the girls of the Class of ’67 (in Oona’s case) and of the years and classes surrounding. In a couple of cases, we married into them (Oona and I, Tiny and David for a time) or lived with them (Phil Proctor and Cathy Cozzi) or romanced them (Peter and Liz Plum) but most were friends and associates and Ginger Russell was chief among them along with her friend Cappy, now known by her real name of Kathy O’Mara. And the three friends from Nightinjail Jr. High – Tinika and Cappy and Ginger – were in attendance at virtually every early FST performance, had their pictures taken in strange masks, were witnesses to an older world that, I suspect, they barely noticed through the hilarious fog of their youth and beauty and charm and – sorry – innocence.

And Ginger had the laugh. She had such a ringing of a laugh, such a stunning laugh. And it’s on every recording of everything we did; on all the old shows, the old radio recordings. And I’ll always remember Ginger for her amazing forthright intelligence, for her immense kindness and mostly for her friendship.  She was one hell of a girl, among a bunch of women who were somehow smart and funny and exceptional. We were lucky, us guys.

Originally published on Phil Austin’s Blog of the Unknown. Used with permission courtesy of Oona Austin.

In the months ahead, I plan to continue sharing selected excerpts from Phil Austin's remarkable Blog of the Unknown, a wonderfully eccentric collection he described as "Everything that's known is pretty much wrong." Beyond its essays and observations, the blog also includes sections such as Beaver Teeth (A Novel) and Long Stories and Short Stories, offering readers an even deeper glimpse into Austin's singular imagination. My hope is to preserve and celebrate this often-overlooked body of work, introducing both longtime Firesign Theatre fans and new readers to the wit, insight, and boundless creativity that made Phil Austin one of America's most original comic voices.

Listen to this audio drop-in from the Firesign Theatre’s 1969 single “Forward Into the Past” (backed with “Station Break”).

That Firesign soundbite was a popular choice by free-form underground DJs of the counterculture 1960s. It was likely housed in a Fidelipac or Audiopak cart, universally known as a "NAB cartridge." You never had to rewind the tape; hitting stop automatically cued it back to the exact beginning. There were numerous brands of machines used to play the carts. These included Spotmaster, ITC, ATC, Pacific Tomcat, Tapecaster, Criterion, Ampro, Audicord, and Viking.

These cart machines revolutionized radio broadcasting by automating the playback of short, repetitive elements like sweepers, station IDs, jingles, and commercials. Introduced in the 1950s, it remained an industry standard for nearly forty years until digital automation rendered it obsolete.

Before the invention of the cartridge, radio DJs had to manually cue vinyl records or reel-to-reel magnetic tapes for every break or transition. This manual process was clumsy, prone to human error, and time-consuming.

The breakthrough came from inventor George Eash in 1954. Building on earlier endless-loop magnetic tape designs by Bernard Cousino, Eash experimented with a loop of tape stored inside an enclosed plastic bin. To prevent the tightly wound tape layers from binding as they slid past one another, Eash utilized a unique back-lubricated tape treated with graphite. He patented the protective plastic cartridge shell, and a Chicago firm licensed the technology under the trade name Fidelipac.

The commercial lifespan of the cart format truly launched when Collins Radio Company showcased the system at the 1959 National Association of Broadcasters (NAB) Convention. It caught on instantly. Recognizing its enormous potential, the NAB established unified dimensional and mechanical standards for the format. This ensured that any brand of cartridge would seamlessly operate in any manufacturer's player. The standard broadcast setup used ¼-inch analog magnetic tape running at a high speed of 7.5 inches per second (ips) to ensure optimal, punchy frequency response for AM and FM airwaves.

Hardware companies quickly sprang up to fulfill the demand, including Broadcast Electronics (makers of the Spotmaster equipment pictured above) and Automatic Tape Control (ATC). Unlike consumer 8-track cartridges later derived from this design, the rubber pinch roller was not built into the Fidelipac shell. Instead, it sat inside the machine deck itself, swinging upward through a cutout hole in the bottom of the plastic cartridge whenever the operator slammed the cart home and hit the "Start" button.

As FM radio grew into a dominant, high-fidelity stereo medium throughout the 1970s, the original Fidelipac design faced criticism for mechanical stability issues. Subtle physical tolerances inside the plastic housing caused the tape to weave up and down across the playback heads, causing phase cancellations that degraded stereo imaging. In response, newer competing tape cartridge form factors hit the market. Audiopak, Aristocart, and 3M's Scotchcart offered internal mechanical improvements—such as advanced internal pressure pads and guidance mechanisms—to hold the running tape perfectly flat against the machine heads. To keep pace, Fidelipac introduced the Model 350 and the Master Cart, which shifted precision tape alignment entirely over to the playback deck.

For nearly four decades, walls of labeled color-coded carts filled every radio studio control room in the world. However, tape loops inevitably degraded, graphite lubrication wore off, pads crumbled, and tape splices snapped over time.

By the early-to-mid 1990s, high-quality digital options arrived. Hardware systems like the 360 Systems DigiCart temporarily bridged the gap, but the final blow came from computer database technology. Once hard drives became cheap enough to store thousands of compressed audio files reliably, computerized broadcast automation systems replaced physical media entirely. By the turn of the century, the decades-long reign of the physical broadcast cart had effectively come to an end.

Still popular on today's free-form radio shows are classic Firesign Theatre drop-ins like "Bear Whiz Beer," "Ersatz Bros. Coffee," "Napalmolive," and "Shoes for Industry!"—listener favorites that are short, micro-parodies of consumerism that lasted under a minute.

Over this freewheeling 67-minute aircheck the boys riff on all those hippie-era things we don't care about anymore, like abusing protesters, Orwellian schemes to preemptively jail the public, the drug war, pornography, censorship, and enslavement to the machines! It's really retro! But don't worry, they're still funny as hell!

This digital download from Bandcamp (with suggested price of only $3.00) includes a PDF that lists every topic discussed, from "Disneyland invaded by the Minutemen" to "Fresno High School vs. Communist Martyrs." Produced by acclaimed Firesign archivist Taylor Jessen.

This is not so much a radio program as a filing cabinet with the drawers open during an earthquake. The Firesign Theatre arrive live on KPPC, October 22, 1969, one day after the death of Jack Kerouac, and proceed to sort the American moment into improper categories: police weather, border logic, drug-law metaphysics, patriotic static, machine dependence, and the small domestic problem of whether anyone is still actually speaking English. It leaps from psychedelic chatter to theatre of the mind. —Rod Stasick

It's Just This Little Chromium Switch Here was the first newsletter for Firesign fans, published from 1972-1975. Since 2009 I've continued to provide news and notes on my Facebook group page. Along with contributions from fellow Fireheads you'll see my archival material that encompasses the history of Firesign Theatre in radio, recordings, books, films and live performances.