A Remembrance of Michael Yockel
As one ages, it’s a matter of semantics about people who can be considered “lifelong friends.” I met Michael Yockel, who passed away last week at the age of 71, in late-1979 when he began writing for Baltimore’s City Paper. We hadn’t yet hit 30, but kept in contact and got together often since that time, so “lifelong friend” it is, and Michael was a wonderful and delightfully eccentric man. He’s survived by his wife, the lovely and buoyant Betsy Boyd and their twin sons Tex and Miner.
A working relationship, and long friendship, goes through many phases over the course of so many years, and as this isn’t a standard just-the-facts sad tribute, I’ll offer various impressions of the fellow whose nickname, to those who knew him well, was “The Yoke.” When he arrived at City Paper, Michael was understated but flash: he wore shades inside our office, drove an Alfa Romeo, spoke conversantly about horse racing (but wasn’t much of a gambler) and was one of the first significant contributors, and then an editor, who didn’t come from the valuable but insulated coterie of Johns Hopkins students who were present when the paper began in 1977. Among others, he clicked with photographer Jennifer Bishop, and they were the closest of friends.
A native Baltimorean, he brought a well-needed “foreign” element to the paper, and during those early years wrote entertaining and smart stories about lunch boxes, sports, junk snacks (he later became a vegetarian), old TV shows (an insomniac, he logged tube time well after midnight) and pop music. About a year before my mother’s death, he interviewed her for a CP cover story about her jingle-writing and 25-words-or-less contest career—and she was thrilled, telling me, “Rusty, what an intelligent, well-mannered man Michael is. I’ve sent him a note of thanks, but please express my appreciation.”
I’m not sure if Michael ever recognized it—sometimes personality traits are apparent only to close friends—but he was a champion of the underdog. Not politically—we rarely spoke more than passingly about national current events—but culturally. For example, when the inevitable Beatles vs. Stones topic came up at bars like the Club Charles or Mt. Royal Tavern, Louie’s and the Brass Elephant, Michael protested, saying that the Kinks and Who, in their prime, had both the obvious bands beat. He was never swayed by “conventional wisdom,” but kept his own counsel, and as someone who was well-read, and conversant about fiction, magazines and newspapers, was argumentative in his opinions, and I’d often come away thinking, “Hmm, that makes some sense.” At CP, we ran an anonymous “gossip” column called RUMP, and he contributed off-the-wall items to that. (For five weeks, RUMP became “born again,” and Michael cracked up and embraced the satire.)
Our mutual friend Michael Gentile, CP and then NYPress art director, was stunned upon learning of The Yoke’s death, and, after a long conversation last week, he emailed me the following: “In the early-1980s, a big wooden desk sat in a Charles Village rowhouse [our offices at 2612 N. Charles St.], front bay windows facing the street; the spot was known as “the Crow’s Nest.” This was where Michael read proofs before the paper was shipped to the printer. As staff members scurried about the production department, a boom box played a variety of tracks from mixed-tape cassettes. Michael added his distinctive touch to the workplace conversation with an amazing memory for obscure pop culture trivia and songs from the 1960s… One time I asked him what he thought about Talking Heads. He just smiled, and said, ‘Well, David Byrne was my roommate.’ Typical of his understated wit… Michael ran a weekly radio station on WJHU, which operated from a tiny studio on the Hopkins campus. I was a guest once, and it was pretty amazing watching him operate the station singlehandedly, effortlessly working all the knobs, buttons and microphones. His dedication to achieving the perfect sound was unwavering.”
In 1982, when the paper was in desperate financial straits, my partner Alan Hirsch and I delivered bad news to Michael and Phyllis Orrick, fellow editors, that one of them would have to be laid off. An hour later, Michael took me aside, and said, “I know it’s a tough time, and Phyllis and I have decided that we’ll work at half-salary so that both of us can stay.” We were happy about the decision, and Alan accurately said, “The Yoke is a mensch.” As it happened, the paper became more successful and order was restored. Talented writers drift away to better opportunities—one of the functions of a “alternative” newspaper back then—and Michael built a successful career, writing and editing for the New Times chain of weeklies, as well as many local outlets, so many I can’t keep them straight.
In 1988, after starting New York Press, I went away for two weeks on an extended family vacation, and Michael came up from Baltimore to fill in. He quickly made friends with a new group of writers, who likely preferred him to me. He was also editor of City Paper after I left, and ran a marvelous, daring paper, so much so that the skittish owners fired him in 1993.
When my family returned to Baltimore in 2003, after 16 years in Manhattan, we saw Michael a lot, in particular attending ballgames at Camden Yards; an Orioles fan, a better baseball companion I’ve yet to meet. He chatted about the A.L. East Division races with my son Booker, but also talked about length about garage rock and with my older son Nicky, who wasn’t a big sports fan, but loved the atmosphere of the park. Later, his wife Betsy would join us, and those are very happy memories. Ever-polite, when he emailed me about a professional or personal matter, he always closed with, “Please give my best to Melissa and the boys.” That’s not so common today, but The Yoke was a gentleman who didn’t give in to, or maybe even recognize, today’s text and email shorthand. A private man, he eschewed social media, but was non-judgmental about those of us who do.
In the past five years, Michael, Jennifer, Alan and I met for coffee four times a year and had a ball chewing, and chewing, the fat for a couple of hours. We’d stray, exuberantly, from topic to topic (family news first) and then reluctantly get on with our schedules, even though we could’ve spent an entire afternoon enjoying the company. If that sounds corny, so be it; it’s accurate. That’s just one of the things I’ll miss about Michael Yockel, a generous and fine man.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023