11.12.09
Now, if you don't believe that this story is true ( it is ), we understand. Where is there a big-city, commercial pop station today, you ask, where such a person could wander in, chat for a few minutes with the DJ, hit him up for spare change, and be on her way?
Fair enough. The days of the locally oriented, brick-and-mortar commercial radio station are long gone, replaced by automated playlists, centralized studios, and digitized personalities. Driving in your car, you're lucky to hit a terrestrial frequency that tells you the name of the tune you just heard.
Although Internet radio is great, most of it isn't really "radio" in the mid-20th century meaning of the term. Largely bereft of live local voices, the big streamers are more accurately classified as "audio services."
But there's still a place where vibrant, daring, local radio lives; where you can walk right into the main studio and hang out with the gurus; where the music comes from down the block, and the on-air monologues touch your soul.
That place is called, colloquially, "the movies."
Spill your guts out
"We're on 92 FM tonight," says a disembodied voice speaking into the Arizona night. "It feels like a nice clean little band so far. No one else is using it." And that's fine with the teenager who has turned the short wave radio equipment his dad gave him into a pirate radio station.
(1990), Christian Slater played Mark Hunter, a pathologically shy high school junior who morphs into "Happy Harry Hardon" at night, regaling his audience with fake masturbation stunts, Leonard Cohen tunes, and subvert-the-dominant-paradigm monologues.
"You ever get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up?" Hunter asks. "You know that feeling, that the whole country is, like, saying, that's it—forget it!"
His fans agree. They bare their souls in letters sent to the post office box Harry advertises on his station, especially after he reveals that one of his classmates has been expelled for getting pregnant. Listeners send him love notes or disclose that they're about to commit suicide. When one correspondent actually kills himself, local TV stations blame Harry for the tragedy. A witch hunt ensues. The Federal Communications Commission comes in for the carcass, only to find itself overwhelmed by copycat pirates who heed Harry's battle cry.
"I'm calling for every kid to seize the air," Harry pontificates from his jeep-transported radio station. "It belongs to you. Spill your guts out. Say shit and fuck a million times if you want to, but you decide! Talk on!"
Welcome to radio in the movies.
Today's forecast
In celluloid form, local radio stations and their fans just pop out of nowhere. Take Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing (1989), a film (1973), broadcasting to the city of Modesto, California. But unlike the Wolfman, who hides out in a remote studio on the outskirts of town, Daddy parks himself right on main street. He announces birthdays, water shortage alerts, and lets a pizza delivery guy (Spike Lee) dedicate a song to his girlfriend when he brings over a chicken parmesan hero with extra cheese and sauce. He even celebrates Mookie's arrival over the airwaves: "Peoples, my stomach's been grumbling but help has arrived," the Señor declares. "My main man Mookie has saved the day, straight from Sal's Famous Pizzeria, down the block. Come up to the mike, Mookie..."
Meanwhile, a more mobile, stripped-down operation is provided by "Radio Raheem" (Bill Nunn). Raheem wanders around the 'hood lugging a huge suitcase-sized hip hop broadcasting boom box, offering sermons about the endless struggle between love and hate to whoever will listen.
"STATIC!" Raheem poetically declares. "One hand is always fighting the other. Left Hand Hate is kicking much ass and it looks like Right Hand Love is finished. Hold up. Stop the presses! Love is coming back, yes, it's Love. Love has won. Left Hand Hate KO'ed by Love."
I don't know how she did it
In the cinema, radio is immediate, compelling, and totally accessible. Take (2005) as another example. It's the story of a disillusioned pimp played by Terrence Howard. He wants out of the business and starts writing and producing his own rap tunes via the persona "DJay." He's in and out of all kinds of trouble throughout the film, but while in prison his girlfriend and collaborator (Taraji P. Henson), walks the streets of Memphis promoting his demo tape to every "shake joint, radio station in Memphis and then some," flirting with DJs as needed.
"Now I don't know how she did it..." a friend explains to Jay in the slammer. "But let me say that girl got some skills." The song becomes a hit.
It's a touching conclusion, and, as anyone who has looked at the Future of Music Coalition's research knows, almost completely unbelievable. Your garden variety commercial radio station won't go anywhere near local, independent artists these days.
"Radio's long-standing relationships with major labels, its status quo programming practices and the permissive regulatory structure all work together to create an environment in which songs from major label artists continue to dominate," FMC concludes. That's why an entire generation has turned to Internet sites like AccuRadio's Future Perfect Radio for local and regional pop, or set up sharing blogs with domain names that say it all, e.g., whoneedsradio.com .
But you wouldn't know that by looking to Hollywood, which prefers to celebrate a different sort of radio.
Source:
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