Yesterday's show was so much fun!
I’m still getting used to the station’s quirks. For instance, I showed up an hour early yesterday to reacquaint myself with the space. I felt a surge of relief when I found a functioning lamp, but my hopeful feelings deflated when I discovered the microphones weren’t working. Sweating, I called the one staff member I’ve met and he stayed on the phone with me while I crawled around under the table looking for what dusty wires connected to where. For a minute I worried I would have to abandon the whole idea, but then I found a wire labeled “MIC 1” and plugged it into the board. The mic came on. God is good. (Or whatever.)
A few friends tuned in live and sent supportive texts while I blahdy-blah’d and that felt very nice indeed. The spooky season music put me in a good mood and the playlist, in my opinion, really worked. I also read a piece by Eve Babitz; a great one from Eve’s Hollywood where she declares she’d rather die a heathen in L.A. than a virgin zealot in Texas. I stood up while I read so I could take deeper breaths and the confident stance paid off; I didn’t flub a single word. (I had also stayed up late practicing the night before. Eve wrote some tricky, sloppy sentences and I love her for that.)
When I had maybe half an hour left in the show I heard the front door open. Startled, I grabbed the dull pocket knife I bought at a garage sale last year and went to see who it was. The friendly staff member from earlier smiled at me and said he was there to check on something. I smiled back and slid the knife into my pocket.
“Does the show sound ok?” I asked.
He pursed his lips and made a high-pitched “Hmmmmmm…” sound that suggested ever so diplomatically that he answer was “Not really.”
He tooled around while I played The Beatles and David Bowie and Roy Orbison, and at the very end of the show, after I signed off and put on Dr. Nina Simone’s version of “I Put a Spell on You,” I heard him make a discovery.
“There we go!” he said. “The compressor was off!”
I never assumed such a thing was even possible. Who in their right mind—like seriously, who the hell—would turn off the compressor in a room where people broadcast sound? I wanted to rant and rave, but I opted for diplomacy.
I looked at the all-important machine and noted the glowing red light.
“Wait, is it still off?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “The red light means it’s on and the green light means it’s off.”
I considered biting my tongue again, but instead I spoke my truth.
“What the fuck?”
“I know,” he said. “It’s…endless.”
Perhaps part of the fun of hosting the show will be embracing the tricky, sloppy style of the station. For now, I think I can do that. I think. I can. I will.
If you can also embrace some sloppiness—such as a radio show sans compressor—hit this link.
You are the best!! And that knife!!!
the whole show and all it's levels sounded great to me!! thank you for the education about compressors. never knew what they did. and i never noticed that you didn't have one functioning on yesterday's broadcast. you sounded like a regular casey kasem to me!!