DECEMBER 26 • 7:30 P.M.

Barnaby Wilde was not his name.

BARNABY WILDE was what it said in block letters, in neon, above the plate window which held him.

He danced, his eyes tight shut, a faraway look in them, listening to Janis Joplin as she tore her heart out in passion and drugs. He was dancing in the window of the KQBU street studio under the eyes of an admiring crowd, but he was not a dancer. He was the disc jockey.

“Get down!� came from the multitude.

“Barnaby! Bar-na-BEE!�

“Sucker’s all right.�

“You asshole!�

He danced in the studio window, and he danced in the darkness of his mind, staring back down into Janis’s eyes, as hazy as the room. She was riding the biggest wave in rock and everybody in the room knew it, most of them better than she did. He’d heard her do “Piece o’ My Heart� at Wesleyan tonight, and he’d known she was unstoppable.

He was thinking about majoring in journalism, but only because he’d had to make some sort of choice and had no real direction. What he really was, he had learned since then, was a disc jockey. He’d sought out a show as a freshman for the same reason he’d sought out a poker game, used skis, and Marvel Comics: you came north to college to diversify. WESU had offered a folk show, Thursdays, 1 to 3. What did he know about folk? But he took it.

He became Barnaby Wilde, Rock ’n’ Roll Requests, Fridays 8 to midnight. It played hell with his social life, but he didn’t mind. The phones never stopped ringing. The February ratings had listed WESU for the first time ever; a college station was challenging both Hartford and New Haven. Barnaby Wilde was a Name in central Connecticut. And so he was invited to Columbia Records’ party on the Wharf. And so, the moment came when he danced with Janis Joplin.

But don’t get it wrong. When the dance was over, she giggled throatily and wandered off to find the bar. He went back to Nancy and they talked about the game against Amherst on Monday.

Still, it’s memories that make the man.

Now, whenever Barnaby Wilde of KQBU San Francisco, weekdays 4 to 8, played a Janis cut for an oldie, he remembered her glazed eyes, and how her red hair flew in the green light. And, almost always, he danced . . . even if he did it in a street-front studio.

Some of the crowd on the sidewalk danced with him. Three guys in identical down vests did the Latin hustle. Two girls, not together, pressed against the glass like bookends, tits flattened, feet doing all the good moves. Barnaby’s head was thrown back, his hips bobbed and wove with the horns. Janis started to scream in earnest, her voice out on the edge between artistry and hysteria. The drums were deafening, the sax afire. She rose, and she flew . . . and then she brought them all back home. A final four bars and the storm was past, leaving them all in the wake.

Barnaby brought his mike up as the echo died. “Janis Joplin, as if anybody needed to be told,� he said, his tone warm and his words crisp, if slightly breathless. “The one and only-ever J.J.!� He punched the prime cartridge. “K-Q-B-U,� sang the chorus, “thirteen ninety!� “Did you like that?� he called out to the crowd, opening the street mike for their “Yeahhhh!� “I mean J.J., not the jingle,� he taunted, screwing up his face at them. They laughed. He punched up the next song. “I knew that you would! Hey, how was your Christmas? All right?� “Yeahh!� “All right! And the year-end Golden Greats keep on a-comin’, with Barnaby Wilde on the Barbary Coast!� A lion roared: his trademark. The song’s intro ended, and Hot Chocolate sang.

He flipped switches without benefit of glance; music swamped the small studio as his mike cut out. His hands moved across his control board like Elton John’s on keys. Now they shifted his earphones to his neck, where they hung like a horse collar, and he swiveled toward the bright white box of cartridges Dymo’d “1966.� The voice of his engineer rumbled in through his collarbones. “The Madwoman just called down.�

Earl’s voice was carefully neutral; he, too, was in the fishbowl. Earl had been an engineer since an engineer was somebody. It was he who had set up mikes for concert remotes from Chicago’s Avalon, he who had invented the right mix to give the Lone Ranger’s desert chases that windswept ambience. Up until the mid-60s, he had played the announcers’ records for them. But now he sat on Sutter Street and made sure Barnaby Wilde kept to the schedule. He was way past his prime, and he hated his job, but he liked Barnaby Wilde, and he liked earning a living.

They both disliked the Madwoman.

Barnaby found his next cart and swiveled toward the side window, through which Earl was peering nearsightedly. He flipped his mike switch to “2.� “What’d she want?�

“Didn’t say. Just wants to talk to you when you’re off.�

Barnaby glanced at the clock: 7:38. “She’s coming down?�

“No. You go up.�

“Okay. At least it’s not another memo.� Both men laughed. “How was your Christmas, Earl?�

Earl lifted his skinny shoulders. “Ehh. Easier in some ways, with the kids all gone. But emptier, too. Less giving, and laughing, and mess.� He shook his balding head. “Cost just as much, though. That didn’t help. Somehow, with all the money I take out of this station, we’re still on the edge of bankruptcy.�

“I hear ya, big fella. Don’t you wish somebody could explain—really explain—why money just ain’t worth shit anymore?�

“Well, if they do, it’ll be this week, when nobody’s listening. This time between Christmas and New Year’s is just dead air, as far as the world’s concerned.�

“A good time for coming around to fix my amp, though.�

“I’ll fix your amp, you poor doomed soul—if you’re still working here after to night. Hey, don’t forget the...