No soap, radio

By Tony Carnevale Catalyst

Send comments to: catalyst@wildcat.arizona.edu

Wildcat File Photo Arizona Daily Wildcat

Yes indeedy, I would undulate gently to the latest indie-rock flavor of the month before "indie-rock" was even a macro on a Rolling Stone writer's word processor. I heard the Stone Roses when they were still the Stone Buds. I cried for Kurt Cobain not just when he killed himself, but when he was born. Oh, how very cutting-edge I was.

OK. There weren't any university stations around, and if there were I wouldn't know about them. I listened to Sally Jesse Raphael's syndicated talk show.

Yes, Sally Jesse Raphael had a radio program. Please have mercy. I feel so dirty for even knowing about it, let alone staying up until the wee hours just so I could hear the mellifluous tones of America's favorite trash-television personality. I swear, I didn't mean to hurt anyone.

But really, think about this: I was a young, impressionable teen. I couldn't drive, but I didn't need to. Any $5 Sanyo made by Chinese political prisoners could give me my fix. And I liked it.

Oh, how I liked it.

"Hi, Sally. Longtimelistenerfirsttimecaller. Anyway, my husband says that he doesn't think I'm beautiful anymore..."

"Mm-hm. Oh, how terrible. Can you hold on? I'm really interested, but we need to take a commercial break." Cue "Sally" jingle, which espouses how wonderful the guru of gab truly is.

"When you're on the verge of slitting your wrists, and don't know who to blame-o/There's just one person you should call, and Sally is her name-o."

OK, it's been a while.

I have no excuse that can justify my egregious transgressions. I didn't even care what I was listening to, as long as there was a voice echoing within my skull. (You know, to talk with the voices that naturally occur there. OK, I shouldn't have said that.) I can only point to one fact: I was hooked.

In the old days, whole families would just sit around the radio and listen to FDR's variety show. Radio was the modern form of entertainment, next to chopping down trees, farming and stuff. The people in charge of programming actually made sure that the medium of radio fulfilled its potential. But then television rolled around, and who's going to bother with the old receiver when Hugh Grant is on Leno? In the words of Abraham Lincoln, arguably our greatest president: "Four score and seven years ago, I subscribed to the Spice Channel." So radio has become the ghetto of broadcast media, forever doomed to the wrong side of the tracks.

Every city in this great land of ours has its own collection of local radio stations that tiredly fulfill what is perceived (by whom, I don't know) as the Holy Trinity of Formats: Oldies, Classic Rock, and Adolescent Girl Trash. On your oldies station you get that "I Can't Wait Forever" song, on Classic Rock you get more Led Zeppelin than could fit in an actual zeppelin, and on AGT you get Backstreet Boys. And even though the blonde one is hot, the Backstreet Boys do not make for good radio. There's a universal lack of ambition among today's radio stations.

Truth be told, the actual content of a radio broadcast is the annoyingly brash advertisements. It's more important to sell used cars and cellular phones than provide a meaningful form of entertainment. The crappy programming is mere mayo in the sandwich of commerce. And still I would force myself to stay awake, wide-eyed, as the sun was mere moments from cresting over the horizon, grasping desperately at the pearls of wisdom so eloquently strewn by dear Sally, that veritable Pez dispenser of consolation. That says something: radio is a powerful medium. It says another thing, too: I needed to go on more dates.