I remember…

You know, sometimes I feel nostalgic about the old days. You know what I mean; A little house with a porch. An old man with a long beard sitting in a rocking chair. There’s a glass of lemonade on a small unsteady table nearby. An ancient hound-dog lays at his feet, looking like it hasn’t moved in six weeks. The man speaks in a wispy tone, reminiscing about a time long gone. A simpler time when the radio actually had DJ’s playing music, instead of some stupid computer picking the tunes.

Of course, this house is just one of thirty, which all look alike, on a dead-end suburban street. Plus, the old guy is probably screaming, “Get my lawn!” whenever any of the numerous children come by. I’m sorry, did you think this scene was out of 1940’s rural America? Hey, I’m not that old. I grew up in a neighborhood. With sidewalks, electricity, indoor plumbing, and everything.

Not to forget

I may not be that old, but I do miss what radio used to be. You might remember this; The same twenty or so songs played over and over for eighteen hours a day. Then from midnight to six, the overnight person played music no one has ever heard before, and no one ever wants to hear again. Of course, there were the entertaining idiots, calling in to tell the world about the latest UFO sighting, government conspiracy, or damage done by the pirates sailing on the small fishing lake behind their house.

You know fifteen men on a dead man’s wallet. Shiver me toothpicks. Neighbors Ho! It’s Moby Richard, the great white guppy. And the ever-popular sea shanty, “Yo Ho, Yo Ho, the pirates… Hang on a second while we turn the boat around.” Yea, we all couldn’t wait to hear that one. could we?

You think I’m kidding? Look, I grew up in radio. I had that shift for a bit over a year. I kid you not. One night about two-thirty, I got a call telling me that, while I wouldn’t understand this, he had to inform everyone listening that the Ones they’d been waiting for, had come ashore. Everyone was to be on guard and should charge their laser weapons, in preparation for an attack. Yes, I put his call over the air. I mean if some mysterious folks have laser weapons, I want them informed.

Ohh forget it

Actually, after thinking about it for a bit, maybe I don’t miss the radio of my youth, all that much. It was pretty silly. Then again, today’s radio is a lot worse. Nowadays, the personalities have no personality. Everyone must be vanilla, because that’s what the market research firm says the people want. Hey, I’m a people. I hate the fact that the humor is canned and we’re not allowed to know anything unless the sales staff can find a sponsor for it.

Most stations don’t even hire a staff anymore. They just play some generic station, from who knows where, over a satellite feed. Frankly, I don’t care if Franz’s Used Alpaca stand, in Geneva, Switzerland, is having a sale. I want to know if my daughter’s school is closed for snow. Then again. If her school’s open, I might need an alpaca to get her there. And, hey a sale’s a sale.

It’s not worth remembering

Another, thing I detest is the fact every station has the same playlist. It doesn’t matter if the station is country, pop, oldies, eighties, or elevator music. They all play the same mix of tunes. You may ask how does this happen? I’ll tell you. Marketing geeks have focus groups. I’ve been to these and they’re a terrible waste of time.

They put a bunch of people in a room, who supposedly represent a diverse cross-section, of society. Yea, right! We’re supposed to pick our favorite songs. Sadly, we only have three seconds to decide. Then three seconds of something else comes on. If you get behind, you end up selecting Death-Metal tunes for the Country-and-Western station. Talk about pressure

Speaking of pressure, there’s no bathroom breaks. You have to sit for two-hours, trying to pick songs, while trying, and almost succeeding in, holding back Niagara Falls. For this, they pay you fifty-bucks. Not such a great deal, when you realize you just ruined your best pair of pants.

The science of memory

This is how science picks music, and it’s a farce. Science can’t pick music. Music is an art form, based on emotions. Music is a symbiotic combination of, a person’s background, their personal taste, the stuff your parents told you would rot your brain, and what was playing when Susan Wicznowski kissed you in the back seat of your dad’s car. I guess you women won’t have the same emotion over Susan’s kiss as the men. But that’s going to reflect in musical tastes. Isn’t it?

Then AI became part of the scene. That can never be good. Music streaming services, think they can predict my tastes. Nope again!! My cat is a better predicter of what I like than AI is, and she doesn’t care about me at all. Let me tell you something; David Seville and The Chipmunks, put out a holiday song, called Christmas Don’t Be Late. It’s kind of fun, so I put it into my holiday playlist, along with Mariah Carey, Andy Williams, The Morman Tabernacle Choir, and RUN DMC. Don’t judge, I have varied holiday tastes.

Anyway, when the holidays ended. With all those artists to choose from, the service decided I love chipmunk music. All of a sudden, I’m hearing The Witchdoctor, every twenty minutes. The pain in my brain has me screaming “OO-EE-OO-AH-AH!”

Reppitition

Worse yet, did you know The Chipmunks released a country album, called Urban Chipmunk? Don’t look it up. It’s awful. If I hear Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Chipmunks one more time, I’m going to lose my lunch!

Personally, I think they do this on purpose, so I sign up for their premium service. If I pay a monthly fee, I can pick what songs I want to listen to. Also, there are no commercials. Talk about stacking problems on top of problems. If I put my fifty favorite songs on a playlist. Essentially, I paying for the privilege of being musically bored to death. Radio stations did that for free.

Look there are a hundred-million songs out there, with more being recorded every day. I may like some of the new stuff. Sadly, I’ll never find out, because the streaming service wants me to be in a rut of my own creation. If I don’t pay, I’ll hear some of the new songs the AI thinks I’ll like, with a generous smattering of chipmunks. Frankly, I don’t like either scenario.

Also, If I pay, I won’t hear any ads. Bad Plan! I need ads. Chances are very good that I forgot something. Commercials, are a constant reminder of the stuff I forgot. It’s like having your own little conscience, playing over the speakers in your car. My wife thinks I’m a great husband who remembers everything every time. I’m not! I just a loser, with radio station reminders.

 It all works out!

And Now A Word From Our Sponser