Remembering The Last DJ: Pierre Robert

Philadelphia lost a legend late last year with the passing of WMMR’s bedrock personality, Pierre Robert. Like so many who grew up in the Philadelphia area, I feel like I can call Pierre my friend—part of my family. Flip through my photos and there we are together, at a show or a charity event. Of course, Pierre was everyone’s friend, and he was at every charitable event that mattered. That’s just who he was.

Attending Pierre’s funeral, I couldn’t get Tom Petty’s “The Last DJ” out of my head. (I know it was inspired by L.A.’s Jim Ladd, but it could just as easily have been about Pierre.) Take a few minutes to listen to that 2002 song if you can. It tells the story of a disillusioned free-form DJ who moves to Mexico to start his own station. Petty calls him “the last human voice”—and while we know that’s not literally true, it certainly feels prescient. Something very special in radio ended suddenly last year.

Pierre was a mystical figure who sputtered into Philadelphia in 1981 in his VW Microbus after his hometown rock station, KSAN, switched to country. He didn’t sound like the typical rock DJ of the time with their booming voices and haughty attitudes. Saying he had his own sound and style doesn’t say nearly enough. He’d often arrive late for his shifts and stay on long after they ended. You could hear his clanking hippie jewelry on the air. Sometimes he played what he wanted—or skipped songs that clashed with his progressive ethos. But more than anything, he loved the music, and he loved everyone he met.

Pierre’s 1972 VW Microbus (Credit: DracoGTO, Wikimedia Commons)

This isn’t just a story of longevity. It’s not just that Pierre was on the air for 44 years—it’s that he made magic for 44 years. He sprinkled pixie dust on Philadelphia every single day because he gave everything of himself, on and off the air.

Is Pierre the Last DJ? I sure hope not. But I often think about how Pierre became the icon that he was. A few thoughts:

1. He was beyond authentic. The word “authentic” is overused today and doesn’t fully capture Pierre’s complexity. His personality was shaped by fascinating influences—his father, a principled lawyer; his mother, who must have nurtured his heart, curiosity, and energy; and the counterculture of Haight-Ashbury and the Bay Area, where he grew up. There were so many dimensions to him—facets that listeners discovered only over years—that could never be scripted or stereotyped. Pierre was always consistent yet surprising.
2. He did radio because he loved the art form and the music. Pierre could have been a poet, a painter, a dog walker—anything. But he loved the magic of radio. He loved creating something special every day and sharing it with people. He loved his relationship with the audience. And he always had something to say—because he lived it. He went to every show, did his homework, and spoke from firsthand experience.
3. He had clarity of purpose. Pierre knew what mattered—to him and to his audience—and he never compromised. If he believed “Alice’s Restaurant” must be played on Thanksgiving or the world would be slightly off its axis, he played it. If he thought a song was politically incorrect, he skipped it. Deep down, you knew he was right. I like to say Pierre never broke his rules while breaking yours.
4. He had his own language. Pierre created his own vocabulary for Philadelphia—nicknames for sports teams, venues, and, of course, his signature salutation: “Great Day in the Morning.” He called us all “citizens.” Sound corny? It never was. It became a language of endearment for generations of Philadelphians.
5. He listened in his own way. Pierre never ignored advice—but he always needed to interpret it for himself, and in a loving way. He might not take everything at face value, but he did listen. That was part of his genius.

So how do we honor Pierre—and make sure he isn’t The Last DJ? By finding people who have something to say, a unique take on life, and giving them the space to spread their magic on the radio. In this new era of AI, when we’re all rightly suspicious of anything artificial, can we nurture people who are truly unique, multi-faceted, imperfect—those who spill coffee on the board, run late, but radiate clarity, purpose, love for the medium, and love for the music?

WMMR, circa 2000ish. That’s me and my son Max on the left, Pierre and his beloved dog Lucy front and center

Great Day in the Morning, I sure hope so.