An Open Letter to Radio

This letter is courtesy of the silence I had to experience periodically during my four hour drive across northern Minnesota on Sunday, about mid-afternoon.

Dear Radio (particularly that which is broadcast between Fargo, North Dakota and Minneapolis, Minnesota):

I will admit, I am no longer an avid radio listener. With technology today, I choose to download music, use free Internet radio which is programmable to my finicky musical likes and dislikes, or use portable music devices such as an mp3 player or those archaic "Compact Discs" that the kids are still playing. However, in my flurry to leave the balmy 2 degree weather in Minneapolis for the mildly chilled -15 degree Fargo atmosphere, I neglected to pack along any portable music. No full-color, video-enhanced multimedia player (that's right-- it's more than music now!), no CD mega-mixes, and even the Josh Groban Christmas album wasn't wedged between the passenger seat and the door like I thought it could have been. Alas, it was just me and the good ol' FM.

Friday afternoon, Radio, your selection was very palatable and I flitted gracefully between your Top 40's, modern country, some nice twangy country (thank you, Fergus Falls broadcasters), and some oldies to bring me back. . . to a time a time I didn't exist. I even took a break from my one-woman American Idol: Saturn Coupe Edition to relax to some world news on NPR/MPR. It was a veritable smorgasbord of listening pleasantries. I arrived in Fargo feeling up on current events and with little to no voice after Aretha and I demanded a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Insert: excellent weekend with college friends.

Imagine my excitement to meet up with Aretha and the gang again on Sunday morning, as well as join Garrison Keillor on a sunny stroll around Lake Wobegon.

Car fully fueled, windshield wipers finally wiping? Check.
Mittens (it's still cold there)? Check.
Water and roadside snacks? Check.
Driver's out-of-tune vocals set to a volume unreachable by most human voices? Check and Check.
Radio bursting with excellent songs, spanning 5 decades and 32 individual genres, including the ever-popular, always catching Mexican Polka. Radio? Are you there? Can get a check? No. . . really? Not even a little one?

I know this sounds as if the car radio in the Saturn has finally gone to the luxury sedan in the sky, but it has not. Maybe my Sunday afternoon would have been better if it had just died, and eliminated all hope that good radio was just a turn of the dial away. I did happen to catch A Prairie Home Companion, right as Keillor reminded me that "all the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and the children are above average" in the town of Lake Wobegon. Then the show was over. Gah.

Top 40's stations? Okay, you're my musical guilty pleasure. Clearly you were created for 13 year old girls who do not understand how ridiculously inappropriate most of your lyrics are, but you provide a catchy beat and I embarrassingly know all the words. But here's a thought: since you are a "Top 40" station, it would be nice if you played something other than the same 8 songs on a never ending bubble-gum loop. Modern country stations, you are not immune to the limited playlist plague either. Dig deep, guys. Artists put out albums with 10-15 songs on them. Pick another. Any other.

It has also come to my attention that Oldies stations dedicate their Sunday afternoons to sports broadcasting. Well, go ahead, have your cake and eat it too, but I would like to point out some advertising fallacies. If your station slogan promises the best from the 60s, 70s, and 80s, I expect your sports broadcasts to be of those decades-- and commentated by Aretha Franklin and Frankie Valli.

Ahh, the old fall-back: talk radio. And between cities you can sometimes dial in three or four quality talk radio programs. I knew it was going to be good: a nugget of current events, maybe a classy human interest story, calling my name reminding me that the absence of music could be filled by something of substance.

Yes, some substance nuggets had to be on the way. . . like two stations dedicated to the screaming fire and brimstone preacher of my nightmares, reminding me that everything I think, say, do, pretend to do, pretend not to do, eat, and read is probably a sin. And I can't be saved by changing my behavior, but I can be saved by accepting Jesus, who didn't have radio. And if the only way we can be "saved" is by going to church, then get off the radio. But, I had no worries still, there had to be at least two more unexplored talk radio stations. And when I dialed all the way down to them, hanging out in the lower 90's of the FM dial, they were playing. . . MUSIC?! To be fair, it was classical music punctuated by scholarly discussions about what the cellist and flutist really meant while playing their duet. What they really meant? Maybe something like, "Thanks, Mom and Dad. When I asked for a guitar so I could learn to rock like Mick Jagger you signed me up for flute lessons instead. Remember the time in junior high when my braces got stuck in the mouthpiece? Priceless. You're the best!"

In all fairness, I am sure the classical musicians featured on Sunday's programming love what they do and they really were quite talented. To bad they were on a station dedicated to talking instead of music.

So, Radio, go ahead and complain that music technology, the Internet, and portable players are ruining your industry. Because I no longer think that cup of lies holds any water. Your Sunday broadcasting* has ruined your industry, and I promise that the next interstate road trip will definitely include a mega-mix CD (see you soon, Aretha!).

Sincerely,
Katie

*One hope for Sunday programming: Cities 97 hosts both Acoustic Sunrise and Acoustic Sunset on Sundays. Unfortunately, this can only be heard in the Twin Cities, my musical destination but not current location at the time this letter was idealized.