How Luther got into the National Radio Hall of Fame

I’ve waited a while before I’ve shared this story, but somehow now seems like a good time. On October 20, 2014, Luther Masingill died after a brief illness, at the age of 92. I’ve written several blogs about his life and career, but I’ve never really shared the story of how he got into the National Radio Hall of Fame. The short version: it wasn’t easy, and it was a lengthy, frustrating process. Now it can be told.

I became aware of the National Radio HOF several years ago. It was based in Chicago, and each November they inducted five or six radio greats into the Hall. Many were the big names I grew up with. Sportscasters like Vin Scully, Mel Allen, and Ronald Reagan (yes, THAT Ronald Reagan). Newscasters like Paul Harvey, Charles Osgood, and Douglas Edwards. Entertainers such as Jack Benny, Bob Hope, and Arthur Godfrey. Talk show hosts like Larry King and Rush Limbaugh. Most of these radio stars had national followings, because they had become affiliated with networks.

However, other inductees were considered “local” personalities. Deejays and hosts who broadcast to local audiences in New York, LA, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Dallas were also in the Hall of Fame. Each, very deserving, whether they had made their impact on a national or local level.

In its thirty year history, the National Radio HOF has inducted 247 radio personalities. In 2009, I noticed a glaring omission, in my opinion. The longest-running radio broadcaster in the history of the world, Chattanooga’s Luther Masingill was not in the Hall of Fame. I was on a mission to change that.

(Let me make this clear: I in NO WAY take credit for the fact that Luther was eventually inducted, as you’re about to read. He’s the one who logged the hours, days, weeks, months, and years to become the world-record holder for most consecutive years on the air. I am proud, however, to be among those who brought Luther to the attention of the 24-member board that helped select the HOF inductees. And let me emphasize, I was not the only one.)

In 2009, I began a personal e-mail campaign to notify and inform these board members about Luther’s extraordinary career.  I anticipated the obvious questions: “If this man is such a big deal, why didn’t he go to a larger market? Why didn’t he take his talents to a larger audience, like Atlanta, Nashville, or Philadelphia? Why didn’t he try out for a network job with NBC or CBS? Why did he never make it out of small-town Chattanooga?”

I explained to them, in great detail, that Luther was simply loyal to his hometown, and to WDEF, the employer that gave him a chance when he was 19 years old.  Luther DID get offers from larger markets, but he preferred to live in Chattanooga near his mom, his siblings, and he liked the stability for his wife and children.  Nothing against the big names listed above, many of whom left their small towns for the bright lights and big cities.  That life simply wasn’t for Luther.

For three years, I “pitched” Luther to the National Radio HOF board, and each time I was shot down.  They continued to ignore Luther (and many other deserving “small-market” radio personalities) in favor of the network and big-city radio stars. All were Hall of Fame-worthy in their own ways, although many had been on the air for just a few years, a fraction of the time Luther had spent behind the microphone.

At that time, the public voted from among a list of nominees approved by the HOF board.  That sounds fair, except for one major flaw.  Once I convinced the board to include Luther on that list, I noticed he was up against other “local” radio personalities from San Diego, Milwaukee, Houston, and Chicago.  Most of them would solicit votes from their listeners, encouraging them to go online and vote for them.  Of course, Luther would never do that, and even if he did, the voices of his listeners from little ol’ Chattanooga would be drowned out by the sheer volume of listeners in San Diego.  So, he never had a chance with a public vote.

I appealed to the board to either change the process, or make an exception in Luther’s case.  He would never win a national poll, but they (the board) had the power to right a wrong, and recognize this local legend, who had made an impact on his town like no other.

My most memorable exchange with the Hall of Fame powers-that-be was in 2011.  After they had rejected Luther yet again, I sent a more pointed message than usual, strongly criticizing them for their short-sighted view of radio, and pointing out that at age 89, Luther was running out of chances to be honored during his lifetime.  I sent this as a “mass e-mail” to all 24 board members.

Have you ever replied to an e-mail and hit “reply all” when you didn’t really mean to do that? Well, that’s what one board member did.  She was intending to comment on my email, and she THOUGHT she was replying only to her fellow board members.  In a very snide way, she noted Luther’s advanced age, and wrote, “We’ve waited this long, so I don’t see the big rush. We can always induct him posthumously.”  You guessed it.  She hit “reply all,” and her snotty message landed in my inbox.

I went off. I “replied all” intentionally, and I let them know that this was an insult, and it was unacceptable. If Luther deserved to the in the Hall of Fame (which he obviously did), he deserved it NOW, while he was alive to enjoy and appreciate the honor.  Case closed. End of story.

Well, you probably know what happened next.  That particular lady board member, along with many others, immediately apologized for the insensitive comment, and pledged they would seriously “look into” changing the voting method and taking steps to recognize smaller market radio personalities like Luther.  The next year, we got the good news.  Luther would be inducted, in November 2012.

I told him about it, and he was quite humbled.  Many of his friends from the Chattanooga area planned to make the trip, and my TV station even hired a Chicago news videographer to record the event for our newscasts.  Luther’s family would accompany him for this grand event, the pinnacle of an unparalleled career.

About four days prior to the awards ceremony, Luther’s co-worker James Howard called me. “David, I was just thinking. Should Luther wear a tuxedo?” I told him I hadn’t even thought of that. I called the chairman of the National Radio HOF. “Well, that’s up to the inductee,” he said, “although I think most of them usually do wear a tux.”

I called Luther. “Do you have a tux?” He replied, “I haven’t worn one since Mary and I got married in 1957,” he said. “Well, we’ve gotta get you one,” I told him.  “Meet me at Cooley’s in Red Bank as soon as they open in the morning.”

The store’s owner, Jimmy Cooley was thrilled to provide the tux for Luther.  He did the fitting and measuring, and by that Saturday night, Luther was the best-dressed man in the room.  Jimmy still has this picture hanging in his store.

That night in November was one of the most unforgettable of my life.  Luther stole the show.  Watching this 91-year-old man dance up to the stage and dazzle a national audience, was such a thrill.  Watching his adoring family wipe away tears of laughter and joy was a beautiful thing.

At that time, we had no way of knowing that Luther would pass away within two years, and that his beloved daughter Joanie would herself pass away, much too young shortly thereafter. She was only 56 when she died of lung cancer in 2017.

At evening’s end, a tired but joyful Luther Masingill was sitting in the lobby of a beautiful downtown Chicago hotel, accepting congratulations from friends and strangers.  It had been an award-filled year for Luther, who had earlier been inducted into the Tennessee Radio Hall of Fame as well.

I smiled at Luther, and half-jokingly said to him, “Well, old pal, we got you into the Tennessee Radio Hall of Fame, and now we’ve gotten you into the National Radio Hall of Fame.  You know what? I’ll bet I can get you honored at the White House too.” Looking at me through a tired pair of eyes, no doubt dreading the flight home the next morning, he shook his finger at me and said, “You’d better not,  David.  You’d better not.”

I think deep down inside, he would have liked that, if we had hatched the idea a few years earlier.  I wish I had. But at least his name, his photo, his plaque, and his story is where it belongs.  In the Hall, with the other legends of radio.