I'm a commercial radio personality in my late
20s who sold-out some time ago so I could do what I love--being
behind the mic, spinning fresh music. And all the while
coming to grips with the daily routine of corporate rock
insanity.
Don't get me wrong; I love my job. Got a good
contract with benefits, and I even like some of the music
that I'm "forced" to play on a regular basis. With that,
I'd like to invite you inside the studio and say 'welcome
to my world.' I'm on what's known as the midday slot. So,
after my requisite 4 cups of coffee before noon, I do my
best to answer the deluge of email from kids that profess
"ur so kewl, can I please hear more Limp Bizkit because
it's the bomb"--usually in one huge run-on Grammar Teacher's
nightmare of a sentence.
"Our
transmitter lets out a groan and attempts to switch over
to a backup in what must be a small outhouse, sweltering
115 degrees on the edge of hell."
Then there's the task of waking up one of the
other DJs, found fast asleep out in the trailer where our
own version of Survivor has been transpiring for
the past week. [Someone thought it would be hip to make
us DJs suffer together in a trailer for five days à
la the hit show]. He'd been down for the count for a good
3 hours and wouldn't come-to, despite a good shaking, yelling
and a swift spank on the ass. Meanwhile, our own version
of the Survivor kids gave me vacant, exhausted and
hungry stares. After 3 minutes of this, I realize my song's
probably over and retreat, utterly defeated, back to my
little room where I entertain the world.
At precisely 12:14, our transmitter goes down
for the count, just like it does every Thursday for some
insane reason. Now I'm propelled into the teeth grinding
seconds of the "dead zone." There's a sea of static on our
frequency as somewhere (in lower Slovenia?) our transmitter
lets out a groan and attempts to switch over to a backup
in what must be a small outhouse, sweltering 115 degrees
on the edge of hell. The signal comes back, and the calls
flood in from everyone in a 60 mile radius who is just trying
to "help out" by telling me that our radio station's "broken
or something!" The rest of the day, I'm tortured by the
tantalizing view of the river, the clear skies and skin-tanning
sun. Meanwhile I'm cursing the reality that playing anything
older than '95 in CD player four invites miscues, mid-song
drops and me looking like an idiot. But I still love my
job.
One of the reasons for that is the music I
get to taste. My current favorite is the release from BT
entitled Movement in Still Life. BT (aka Brian Transeau)
is a 29 year old classically trained musician from Maryland
who's put together a brilliant collection of his work of
the past 2 years. Of course, being the electronic music
fanatic that I am, I'm horribly biased, but in a world that
throws around the buzzword "Electronica" like it did "Grunge"
back in the early '90s, people should pay attention to this
one. Included on this CD is the current radio darling "Never
Gonna Come Back Down," featuring M. Doughty from Soul Coughing
on vocals. And there's the beat and sample heavy title track,
"Movement in Still Life," complete with breakdancing, inspired
scratching and samples from Grand Master Flash and the Furious
Five. But my super favorite has to be cut number seven,
"Godspeed," which is a lush and atmospheric trance track,
complete with burning female vocals and a house-music-inspired
"four on the floor" beat. A couple of the tracks have some
rapping, which doesn't meld with my preferences, but at
least it tends to play backdrop to the instrumentation.
At a whopping 56 minutes, I get the impression that several
tracks were omitted for this release. Maybe some B-sides
in the future? Yum, Yum.
Well, my three minutes and fifty seconds is
up. Gotta go front-sell the next song so you will buy it.
Just remember, if you should see me at the grocery store,
I didn't make the songs, I just play 'em. And, no, I don't
remember meeting you about two years ago at such and such.
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