The FM signal pops and hisses subtly, so I move the antenna and nudge the tuner a couple of times in each direction. Clunky headphones are an umbilical, link me to my Panasonic as I ready a blank cassette in deck two. The cell is dark, save for the forty-five watt lamp at the desk. I am awake enough, thanks to the ritual eight o'clock coffee — sufficiently caffeinated to ride the airwaves into the small hours. The familiar voice of a friend and some favorite music will be my companions along the way.
It may be difficult to recognize as a scenario from this post-millennial decade, not from twenty years earlier. Radio? Cassettes? But each and every Saturday night this is how it goes. The station, an independent, listener-supported outfit, has an eclectic schedule, offering programming as diverse and divergent as techno, Tejano, and talk. Nowhere on commercial terrestrial radio (not in this Midwestern market, at least) could I hear album tracks from Peter Murphy, Depeche Mode, New Order, nor anything at all, for that matter, by the Legendary Pink Dots, Cocteau Twins, or VNV Nation. My friend's show features mostly a mélange of that sort of retro, electro, New Wave, New Romantic, post-punk fare, as well as contemporary acts inspired by the same. She and I often joke about the "format-free format" of her if-I-like-it-I'll-play-it approach.
As scattershot as her playlists might seem, they're often the stuff of my life's soundtrack. Many songs played are bound up inextricably in the strings of my memory, leading me every week on a tangled, tangential tour of the past as I follow the thread.
Learn to leave me / assemble the ways // Now, today, tomorrow / and always My father has just given me my first Smiths album, Louder Than Bombs. We listen to it on his intimidating hi-fi, seated attentively on the living room sofa. I study the scant liner notes and lyrics. He explains the band's history, their monumental relevance, how they'll never, ever get back together. I am fourteen and forever changed.
I feel so extraordinary / Something's got a hold of me // I get this feeling I'm in motion / a certain sense of liberty My friend Jamie's Barbie-pink Ford Taurus, during our first week in Saint Louis. We are driving down Clayton Road, headed from our new apartment in Universal City, bound for the Central West End. The city, our new home, sprawls out in every direction, replete with exciting promise. True Faith surprises us from the speakers. We sing.
We have a random on the west side / Personality malfunction // He said "I can't give you anything at all / just a room with a bad view of you" This is my old apartment on 38th and Central. I am playing the Star Wars: Episode One edition of Monopoly with my roommate. Instead of "Coruscant," we say "Croissant," because we are geeks and think doing so is terribly droll. I hate Monopoly, and let her win most every time just to get it over with.
Tune back to the moment: the final song of the 8:30 hip-hip show is finally fading out. Here comes the two-minute science segment. I shift in my seat and glance at the darkened world outside my window, anticipating what comes next.
A brief, nearly imperceptible instant of dead air, like an intake of breath.
Shh! The show is starting!
