It must be a genetic something, going back eons, which provides people with such comfort, building nests. Over my three year tenure at KGGV from 2006-2010, I spent 3,000 hours in that fifty square foot enclosure. I swear that I can bring to mind every square inch of the place, much, as I imagine, as the recollections of long-term, isolation-cell prisoners. My imprint is on everything in the place, if not because I put it there, with a tale to tell, but also on those spots where something else now resides; for at one time or another, I touched each spot: the story may be in the replacement of a “Peter-ism” with something new and better.
Now, in exile, I still come in to the studio an hour each month, the first Sunday night at 8pm, to ramble with a friend on a long term passion: books, authors, and the library. The manipulation of the equipment comes back to me in a minute, like bicycle-riding. I always think it strange to see little notes on equipment operation, which I scotch-taped here and there, years ago.
Sitting at “the big board” is often equated with the deck of the Starship Enterprise; you could also use the metaphor of football quarterback. Right-side of the line are the devices: CD, tape, and other radio equipment; on the left are the guest mics, telephone, speakers, and the all-important red-light, on-air signal switch. Directly in front of the radio host is a 16-fader master panel, which allows control over all the afore-mentioned devices. It is a daunting array of potential audio sources. If we were to rate the adeptness of our KGGV DJs at this menagerie on a 1-5 scale, they’d mostly come out about 1 or 2, a not surprising amateur level, considering they are only in studio for an hour or two a week. Community radio is a volunteer sport. The larger radio stations divvy up the tasks of being on-air to at least four different people: producer, call handler, engineer, and host. If you listen to NPR at a show sign-off, you’ll hear over a dozen names, mostly interns, but also many specialty engineers. Our guys do it all, including dumping the wastebasket – jacks of all trades, masters of none.
Computers, computers – I check to the far left wall, where the streaming computers reside. Four computers in the room; fifty square feet – two for streaming, one for the music, an iTunes repository, and one for e-mail and other DJ shenanigans. The little Acer for email supports webcam streaming the studio while live and on-air, but no one does it. I check out the bookcase for signs of another reader – no change – a Don Sherwood biography, a History of Jazz, Vol. 1, 1928-48 – vol. 2 never written – is Jazz dead? Probably – still, that’s what I always listed us as – a jazz station.
The back wall is no longer covered in egg cartons to deaden the sound echoes; have echoes died away? The “folder” system of mail baskets for all the DJs has been re-oriented in one long line rather than a top-to-bottom arrangement. Up above on the wall is the “atomic” clock – another computer that checks in with a satellite every day to adjust the time. There’s also one facing outside to let the next show’s host know when they’ll be on; no green room for us, they have to wait out in the rain. We’re at 3 minutes to eight and Pat Nolan, my co-host, has coughed and is mumbling something. I don the headphones, go offline from the “Party-Shuffle-Mix”, and listen to myself and Pat Nolan in my headset, balancing the sound levels. From this point on, Pat and I talk to each other in “pseudo-on-air” mode. Getting an OK nod from my co-host Pat, I click into live mode and launch into a standard station, signal, and time check, introducing our show and our sponsor. I’m home – any questions have evaporated – I’ve switched into ramble mode, and for the next hour, Pat Nolan and I exchange thoughts on three books each. We never compare notes ahead of time, it’s live, real-time, ad-lib radio.
Now, in exile, I still come in to the studio an hour each month, the first Sunday night at 8pm, to ramble with a friend on a long term passion: books, authors, and the library. The manipulation of the equipment comes back to me in a minute, like bicycle-riding. I always think it strange to see little notes on equipment operation, which I scotch-taped here and there, years ago.
Sitting at “the big board” is often equated with the deck of the Starship Enterprise; you could also use the metaphor of football quarterback. Right-side of the line are the devices: CD, tape, and other radio equipment; on the left are the guest mics, telephone, speakers, and the all-important red-light, on-air signal switch. Directly in front of the radio host is a 16-fader master panel, which allows control over all the afore-mentioned devices. It is a daunting array of potential audio sources. If we were to rate the adeptness of our KGGV DJs at this menagerie on a 1-5 scale, they’d mostly come out about 1 or 2, a not surprising amateur level, considering they are only in studio for an hour or two a week. Community radio is a volunteer sport. The larger radio stations divvy up the tasks of being on-air to at least four different people: producer, call handler, engineer, and host. If you listen to NPR at a show sign-off, you’ll hear over a dozen names, mostly interns, but also many specialty engineers. Our guys do it all, including dumping the wastebasket – jacks of all trades, masters of none.
Computers, computers – I check to the far left wall, where the streaming computers reside. Four computers in the room; fifty square feet – two for streaming, one for the music, an iTunes repository, and one for e-mail and other DJ shenanigans. The little Acer for email supports webcam streaming the studio while live and on-air, but no one does it. I check out the bookcase for signs of another reader – no change – a Don Sherwood biography, a History of Jazz, Vol. 1, 1928-48 – vol. 2 never written – is Jazz dead? Probably – still, that’s what I always listed us as – a jazz station.
The back wall is no longer covered in egg cartons to deaden the sound echoes; have echoes died away? The “folder” system of mail baskets for all the DJs has been re-oriented in one long line rather than a top-to-bottom arrangement. Up above on the wall is the “atomic” clock – another computer that checks in with a satellite every day to adjust the time. There’s also one facing outside to let the next show’s host know when they’ll be on; no green room for us, they have to wait out in the rain. We’re at 3 minutes to eight and Pat Nolan, my co-host, has coughed and is mumbling something. I don the headphones, go offline from the “Party-Shuffle-Mix”, and listen to myself and Pat Nolan in my headset, balancing the sound levels. From this point on, Pat and I talk to each other in “pseudo-on-air” mode. Getting an OK nod from my co-host Pat, I click into live mode and launch into a standard station, signal, and time check, introducing our show and our sponsor. I’m home – any questions have evaporated – I’ve switched into ramble mode, and for the next hour, Pat Nolan and I exchange thoughts on three books each. We never compare notes ahead of time, it’s live, real-time, ad-lib radio.
No comments:
Post a Comment