Stevie Ray Vaughan "Riviera Paradise"

I know people were wondering---were concerned, even---as to what we would play as our last song on 92.7FM.

We didn't have to think about this question for long, before coming to the conclusion that there was really no right answer.

Anyone who cares about 92.7 probably had their version of the "ideal" last song.  And it was going to be different for everyone.

So were weren't likely to please the majority of folks.

Instead, we talked about the criteria for a good final song.

It should be something we regularly play.

It should be something thoughtful and reflective, but not necessarily sad.

It should be something that we (and hopefully our listeners) associate with listening to on the radio.  (Songs that remind you of videos, commercials, TV themes, youtube clips, were off the table).

It should be something that listeners associate with listening to, specifically on MVY.  Meaning, this is the kind of tune you rarely hear elsewhere.

It should be beautiful.

Barbara was the one who suggested "Riviera Paradise."  It seemed like a great choice to me.

When I came to MVY in 2000, I had never heard the song before.  And I have never before, nor never since, heard another radio station play it (I'm sure a few do, but I haven't heard it anywhere but MVY).

Way back when, when we would do the station's legal ID ("You're listening to WMVY, broadcasting on 92.7 . . ."), a portion of "Riviera Paradise" was the music bed.  So, for many of our longtime listeners, the tune is forever hitched to us saying our frequency.

But that wasn't the last thing heard on 92.7.

Again, it was Barbara's very clever idea, to end with the Legal ID, stripped down.

Normally, we say "This is listener supported mvyradio, broadcasting on 92.7 WMVY, Tisbury, Martha's Vineyard, Cape Cod, Nantucket and Newport."

But legally, the legal ID only needs the frequency, the call letters and the city of origin.  So that's what Barbara did.

"This is 92.7 WMVY, Tisbury, Martha's Vineyard . . ."

And then we let silence hang there.  Dropping the rest of the Legal ID created an absence, which was filled only by silence, to mark the end of a chapter, and an era for this little Island station.

We did this at 11:30, but we still had a half-hour before the official switch over at midnight.

It was my idea to fill the rest of our time with ocean waves.  It was a peaceful passing to another plain . . .



Hear the song on Youtube.

Stevie Ray Vaughan "Cold Shot"

This isn't so much a story about the day Stevie Ray Vaughan died (which happened 22 years ago, this Monday).

This is a story that takes place on the day Stevie Ray Vaughan died.  So as the story reaches it's culmination, you can imagine SRV songs being played in the background.

But before we get to the culmination, let's go back, to the Spring of 1990, to the end of the semester at UMass.

I had just met this amazing girl.  I'd known her from around for a while, but we had both recently become single again and we had connected.  Really connected.  Hearts pounding.

But the semester was winding down, and I didn't know what the summer would bring.

Meaning both, I didn't know if we would be able to maintain something as we returned to our hometowns, and I really didn't know what I was going to do with my summer.

This was the summer between my Junior and Senior year, and I was aware that I should probably be doing something to prepare for a career.  But hadn't spent any time planning anything.

Somewhere late in the game, I lined up a TV production internship in my hometown, but to make it official, I had to get one of the Professors in the Communications department to sponsor me.

I looked down the list of Professors.  There were many I liked.  Several I respected.  And a few I was totally impressed/slightly afraid of.  But none of them were likely to deal with me, so late in the game.

No, if I was going to slip one under the wire, I knew who I had to go to.

There was this tenured professor, who must've been a few seconds away from retirement.  I'd had him for a couple of introductory classes.  He was very nice, but clearly he was some combination of a) noticeably kinda senile, b) somewhat flaky and c) not really giving too much of a shit.

"I only give two grades for internships," he absently told me, while signing off on my paperwork.  "And all I ask is that you write me a 3 page paper on your experience.  Turn that in on time, and you get an 'A.'  Don't turn it in, and you get an 'F.'"

Seemed simple enough.

Okay, quick summer montage . . . I work a ton of hours at the local cable company doing TV production and learning valuable skills . . . to make some cash I work the graveyard shift at a local gas station . . . I fall head over heels in love with the girl, and any waking second that I'm not working or sleeping, I get in the car to go visit her.

August.  The Finns take a vacation.

With this being my last summer "off," before entering the Real World, my folks decided we should take one more family trip, to Disney World.

In the planning stages, this sounded great.  But now, I was devastated that I'd go for a week without seeing my girl.

I visited her the night before we were supposed to leave for Orlando.  Before our tearful goodbye, I asked her to do me a favor.

(Remember that this is 1990, before email, before cell phones)

I gave her my 3 page paper, outlining all the terrific things I had learned on my internship.  She was headed back to UMass in a couple of days.  It seemed much safer for her to drop the paper with my professor, than for me to trust the US Postal Service to get it there on time.  She agreed.

The Finns had a fine time in Florida, and it WAS the last chance for my parents and two siblings and I to all vacation together.  But I missed my girlfriend terribly.

After touching down at Logan, we headed up Route 1 to home, WBCN had the news:  Stevie Ray Vaughan had died in a helicopter crash.

We listened to Stevie Ray songs for the ride home.

The first thing I did upon arriving home, was call out to UMass to talk to my girl.

After a bit of chit-chat I asked, "What did my professor say?"

"Oh my God . . ."

There was a long period of what seemed like silence.  Then I realized that she was crying.

She had forgotten to turn in my paper.  It was due 2 days ago.

My internship was for course credit.  Not just the weight of a single class, but for the weight of four classes.  I tried in my head to figure out what the equivalent of a full semester's worth of "F"s would do to my already weak GPA.  Probably something I would never recover from, academically.

But you know what?  After about 5 minutes, I didn't care.  I just wanted to see her.

I got in the car at the crack of dawn and raced to see her.  Stevie Ray Vaughan played on the radio as a barreled down Route 2.
 
It was a tearful and joyful reunion.  She had hardly slept, so upset at missing my deadline.  She'd gone down to my professor's office in the middle of the night and slid my paper under his door.

I took the stoic approach.  What was done, was done.  Nothing to do about it.  "Well, you're going to have to support me, when I can't get a job," I told her.

Flash-forward to a month later.  My grades come.  I may have acted stoic, but in the moment, I felt ill, my heart pounded.  I opened the envelope.

"A."

I got an "A."

What would the equivalent of a full semester's worth of "A"s would do to my GPA?  Well, hopefully make me moderately employable.

And, the post-script . . .

In my wise years, I have learned to leave well enough alone, but in 1990, I couldn't.

How did I get an "A"?  How did he not notice that the paper was days late?

I couldn't resist.  I went to my professor's office, and asked for my graded paper back.  (Again, this was in the days before real computers, so I didn't have a digital copy of the paper; he had the only copy)

"Uh . . .hmmm . . ." he shuffled through disheveled stacks of books and folders and papers on his desk.  "Where is . . . hmm . . . uh . . ."

"Well thank you for the 'A'" I said.

"Hmm . . . yes, if I gave you an 'A' I must've read it, right? . . . hmm . . . but I don't see it here.  Well . . . "  He just trailed off, and gave me a look that said, "Is there anything else?"

I don't know if he ever got the paper, or read the paper, and I guess it didn't matter.

My academic career, much like SRV at the end of this video, was magically resurrected.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Vic Chesnutt “Flirted With You All My Life”

Of the many musical passings that I’ve heard about over the years, for one reason or another, the ones that have struck me the most have been the ones I heard on the radio in the car.

Certainly, since about a third of my life is spent inside the walls of a radio station, my memories of getting the news of this person or that person dying, are closely tied to radio.

But the couple I really remember, have been in the car.

I was with my Mom and my sister Julie, coming home from Logan Airport after a trip to Disney World, when I learned about Stevie Ray Vaughn’s death. Hearing his music that day was really the beginning of my understanding of how important his guitar playing was.

I got the news of Bob Stinson death (who was the guitarist for my favorite band, the Replacements), as I was pulling away from the radio station that I worked at in Virginia, at midnight, just after my shift. I actually ran back inside from the parking lot, to confirm what I had heard on the ABC Newsbrief.

Is it something about the safety, the womb-ness of a car that makes radio news so indelible? I’m not sure. I just seems to be, for me.

This past weekend, on the radio, I got the news about Vic Chesnutt.

I was down in Newport, spending a couple of post-Holiday days with family, and I had been dispatched to the grocery store, to make sure we had breakfast food for the following morning. After several days of caroling to and fro, visiting all our relatives, engulfed in the madness of the season, this was the first moment of peace I’d had in a while. I was in the car, by myself, alone on the wet streets of Newport, in the post-Christmas quiet.

I was flipping the dial as I drove. I like to check out the local public radio stations whenever I’m on the road.

“We’re starting out the show with some sad news,” the announcer said.

They didn’t have a lot of information, only that he had been in a coma for a short time, and had died, due to an overdose. Intentional or not? They weren’t sure.

I wrote a little about Vic in an earlier post. Knowing that he had struggled with depression his whole life, I guess it’s not a shock that he left us this way.

But despite his physical and mental troubles, he was incredibly prolific. He’d put out two records just this Fall.

And strangely, one of those records had a song called “Flirted With You All My Life,” which he had called his break-up song with suicide. He sang like he was ready to start living.

There are many tributes and obits out there worth reading, if you’re not familiar with the man, his songs or his story, but this one has a wonderful Vic quote. And Vic Chesnutt was a highly quotable man. Check out his lyrics, but I’m glad he left me with this thought about his career, which I think can apply to all of us who live a creative life:

“I thought I had a calling. Anyway I just kept dialing.”



See him perform the song in concert, here