CHIRP: Chicago Independent Radio Project

Posted by Carolina W. on September 2, 2008 around 11am

Dear Radio,

You’ve changed. You’ve left me wondering why I need to hear ‘I’m Bringing Sexy Back’ 20 times a day. Perhaps Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’, Rhianna needs her ‘Umbrella’ and it is ‘Too Late to Apologize’ but my ears bleed from your bland, repetitive and mindless melodies.

Do you remember what you were born to do? Do you remember when you weren’t watered down? Think about the Fireside chat or Ike’s farewell speech. Remember? How can we be better? Can you express your uncensored views, your dissent, or maybe just the local news? Sure I listen to your Public Radio, it is my muse, luring me into traffic and weather.

Could we have that again? Can we start over? It was so thoughtful when you split from AM and she let me have you completely. I could find you everywhere, all over the dial, happily singing with melodies so soothing, with words so righteous. AM was generous, she saved you from Rush Limbaugh, Imus and Jerry Farwell. FM, I know this brings back some fond memories. Are you there, can you hear me? Please reflect on what we had; consider coming back to a free, expressive state.

Have you been sleeping with someone else?

You said you were done with Payola, you promised! I didn’t think you’d turn into a ‘Gold Digger’. Why would you favor singing stars that look good but need to be over-produced to sound decent? Who is controlling you? Did video really kill the radio star?

Let’s find some college frequency and get freaky. There are some cool free form Indie stations coming out of colleges. Perhaps they are dangerous to the FCC, but only threatening in their dissemination of original programming. Catch the frequency with a little station hopping; they usually come in low levels of transmission power. Don’t worry; we’ll get a little wasted before we do it. We can make sure we find one that knows what it’s doing. Please, I’m willing to try anything to save you from yourself, let’s spice it up.

Sometimes I troll the dial, taking in the white noise waiting for a spirits to contact me. I’m hear, where are you?

I miss you.

Wait, before you crush this letter in frustration please, hear me out. Do you realize the only people that you can actually get to listen to you daily are either destined to drive a 91 Escort with a cassette radio combo and need to listen to your mindless programming to zone out reality? Folks have moved on, you’re loosing your ground, your air. Cars come with cds, mini-plugs for those mp3 players, satellite radio, and then some. I can listen to the internet with out FCC guidelines, commercials and Public Service Announcements. Understand, you’re fading into obscurity.

I’m telling you, just amp us some wattage and talk back, say: “Listen Mr. promotions guru, try putting a receiver in a PS2, there is your ‘market’; or try getting your oh-so-big spenders (with huge college debt) to pay attention to the big guys ADDHD inducing, information infiltration fighter pilot ad style. You big boys better start eating turkey for the wishbone ‘cause you need to wish for those 18-35 year old males to consume (poppin’ crystal), visualize it (short shorts), and hear it (cha-ching). Or they’ll shell out for satellite radio.”

Go ahead and taunt me with hip beer commercials hidden in the beats of an over produced 30 second spot. I see through your tactics. If you are trying to attract the womanly likes of Fergelicious, or the intellectually stunted testosterone slingers, you might as well hit the strip club. Go get a lap dance by a girl named Amber who smells of vanilla. She’ll talk to you about her grandma and you will listen like you are interested like I used to visualizing a release when the monologue winds down.

I have been endlessly loyal, carelessly devoted and hopelessly wishful. Alas, you are no longer there for me. You’ve regressed, not matured over the years and I’m afraid our relationship is destructive. I would like to say I still have my hope for you, dear, but now, after communicating these thoughts to you, I just don’t. Save yourself. I’m serious. I’m going Sirius. Terrestrial radio has no idea how to touch me anymore. I feel like your hands are always cold, your voice has static and your emotions are remotely operated by a pre-recorded response.

I cannot receive you any more. You cannot enter my auditory orifices, unless you progress or unless you change back: Back to the grounded frequency of opportunity for the little man musician, back to having your own opinion, back to focusing on the community and not the interests of sprawling hegemony. If I wanted everything in repeat I would drive out to the suburbs and count the Panera Bread establishments.

Please stay strong. Please stand your air. I would like to instigate an intervention, so do not be alarmed when your big daddy is swallowed by the local news. CHIRP is coming, and she will titillate me on the internet until her sassy transmissions smooth over my skin. Please support her Local Community Radio Act, our way out of such a destructive past relationship. I will openly accept this therapy towards Independent, Low Power FM. For you, my dear radio, when you are strong in the air, you are my power.

Fondly,

Lina Mas Fina