Sublime "What I Got"

Here's another "Dismissive One Sentence Reviews By Friends" posts . . .

Sublime's "What I Got" had probably been out for a few years at this point.  I was riding in the car with my Dad, and I'd flipped the radio to WFNX.

As the song played, I noticed my Dad look at the radio once or twice, with a furrowed brow.

Finally he said, "Is that noise in the song?  Is it supposed to sound like that?"

I thought about trying to explain the whole concept of Turntable Mixing And Scratching, but I realized that Yes, to a guy who grew up on Buddy Holly and Chuck Berry, the DJ noises on "What I Got" probably did sound like something was wrong with the radio.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Foo Fighters "This Is A Call"

My friend Lori had this up as a status on Facebook last week:

I was in my bedroom up sorta late listening to the radio when I heard P.J. introduce a new tune from a new band that was fronted by that stringy-haired guy from Nirvana. It was the first time he had played it on the air, and I shared his giddyness. "This Is A Call." What a fresh new sound: poppy, upbeat & full of frenzy. I must admit, I haven't been too impressed with a Foo Fighters record in several years, but that song, that night, ignited a spark in me that I haven't forgotten in the 15 years since.

She's writing about 1995, when she was a kid still in school, and I was the host of a nightly alternative rock show on a local radio station.

WABN was a small, family owned AM/FM.  Sometime later I'll write the story of how I walked through their door, and was a DJ on the radio not long after.

Lori was an avid listener, who became a volunteer at WABN, then an intern, and then a board operator, then a fill-in DJ and by the time she was a senior in high school, she became the Saturday night host of my show.

Sometime later I'll write the story about how this little family-owned independent radio station ended, with all of us saying a tearful goodbye and turning the transmitter off, as the station had been sold to a larger group.

Lori posted the above last week, because it was the anniversary of that day when we all said goodbye to the only station in the small town of Abingdon, Virginia.  The company that took it over used the FM signal to rebroadcast their syndicated Talk station, and they simply turned off the AM signal.  12 years later, the building remains empty and no one is covering local sports, or broadcasting from the Abingdon Relay For Life or bringing in local teens to train them to be the next generation of broadcasters.

So then it was a shot in the gut to hear the news, on the same day that Lori posted the above status, that WFNX in Boston had been sold to Clear Channel.  Friday, I listened to Julie Kramer, who'd been on FNX for 25 years, play her last shift for the station and it brought back some pretty dark feelings.

There just aren't that many independent radio stations left anymore.  And there are those who think radio is dead, or who want radio to be dead, or who don't give a shit if radio dies.

Why rely on radio, when there are iPods and Spotify and Pandora and Youtube and you can program all this technology with songs YOU want to hear?

And the answer is simple.  It's in Lori's statement.

ABSOLUTELY NO ONE, fifteen years from now will say, "I vividly remember the first time I heard that song shuffle randomly on Pandora!"

I work for an independent radio station now, one that is struggling just like any other small business effected by the Recession.  So I do take it personally.

But I also have some firsthand knowledge that most people don't have, or don't consider.  I've seen what happens when a community, or an audience, loses an independent station in their midst.

Radio, even independent radio, is not perfect.  Sometimes it sucks.  It isn't for everybody.

But if you are a person that misses your local record store, because it's gone, or can't stand that the restaurant chains have replaced your local eateries, or have found that the places that used to have live music don't bring concerts to your town any more, or that you can't walk into a video store and ask a clerk for a recommendation because the damn video stores don't exist any more . . .

If you are that person, then this is a call.

If you love human interaction when you make a purchase, make a musical connection or want to put something in your damn stomach, then this is a call.

If you don't want to wake up one day and find that you and your neighbors have no participation in the process, the management or the creation of what is around you to consume, then this is a call.

Drive the extra mile for the cup of coffee from the local bakery, instead of the chain drive through.  Spend the extra 2 bucks on the CD at a downtown record store instead of having some online service ship it to you.  And support your local, independent radio station, by listening, by telling their advertisers when you frequent their business, by supporting their fundraisers when they have them.

There is so much human interaction slipping away from our every day existence, and people rarely celebrate it when it's here---they only complain when it's gone.

I can tell you that at no time in the last 6 months, did I hear anyone say "Thank God we still have WFNX."  But the web was filled with anguished cries over its demise when it was announced.  Too little too late.

This is a call.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Garbage “Vow”

Thinking about last week’s Neko Case post, and the YouTube video that went with it, brought me back a decade and a half, to the Orpheum in Boston.

We had gone to a WFNX (the alternative station in Boston) event. You know, one of those throwdowns where the local radio station twists the arm of a few labels, to put on a free show featuring some of their bands. The shows are usually an eclectic mishmash of artists---you go for one particular band, and end up seeing some others you might not have otherwise.

We were hanging in the front row of the balcony, enjoying Black Grape and our faves, Letters To Cleo. We figured since we were there, we’d watch the headliner, Garbage.

“We” was me, my sister, her then-boyfriend (and now husband) and my girl friend. Not my girlfriend. Just a friend. You know how that goes.

I liked Garbage’s records well enough, though I don’t know that I would have gone out to see them specifically.

But seeing them live, there was certainly much more going on. Maybe it was the really understated, ace playing of Steve Marker and Duke Erikson. Or maybe it was the near mechanical precision of drummer Butch Vig. Or maybe . . .

“Uh, PJ. Maybe you want to close your mouth . . .” my friend suggested.

Yeah. Shirley Manson. In big boots and a short skirt. Red hair whipping around. Moving, strutting, grinding, vamping in a way that I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

“C’mon. Her moves are so cliche, it's practically scripted. You’re really falling for that?” she asked.

Umm. Yes.

After a minute of back and forth, I had to bring in my sister and her boyfriend.

“Is Shirley Manson really sexy, or fake sexy?”

My sister said something dismissive. I don’t remember her exact words, but they were along the lines of, “She’s dancing like a woman who’s doing a performance of what some man told her a sexy woman should look like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and then my future brother-in-law said:

“It worked on me.”

Me to.