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My Love Affair With AM Radio My Love Affair With AM Radio
(about 1 hour later)
LOS ANGELES — Like many people who grew up in the 1970s, I came of age with AM radio. Everybody I knew — the black kids on my block, the white and Asian kids at my junior high school — followed the Top 40 and discussed the merits of the newest releases by Elton John and Eddie Kendricks. It was not a perfectly integrated picture, Elton John and Eddie Kendricks notwithstanding. Soul radio — XPRS, KDAY — was the black counterpoint to the more mainstream Top 40 stations that were racially restratifying after the great pop music commingling of the ’60s. Still, AM remained a common geography, its stations places we all visited. It was the campfire we sat around. LOS ANGELES — Like many people who grew up in the 1970s, I came of age with AM radio. Everybody I knew — the black kids on my block, the white and Asian kids at my junior high school — followed the Top 40 and discussed the merits of the newest releases by Elton John and Eddie Kendricks.
It was not a perfectly integrated picture, Elton John and Eddie Kendricks notwithstanding. Soul radio — XPRS, KDAY — was the black counterpoint to the more mainstream Top 40 stations that were racially restratifying after the great pop music commingling of the ’60s. Still, AM remained a common geography, its stations places we all visited. It was the campfire we sat around.
At home, the kitchen-counter radio was always tuned to KABC. It aired restaurant shows, call-in psychologist shows, news shows, all featuring sophisticated discussions of things I had only vague ideas about. My mother listened while she ironed or cooked or sat at the table paying bills. The radio was her company, and because I admired her (but didn’t quite know how to talk to her), it became mine, too.At home, the kitchen-counter radio was always tuned to KABC. It aired restaurant shows, call-in psychologist shows, news shows, all featuring sophisticated discussions of things I had only vague ideas about. My mother listened while she ironed or cooked or sat at the table paying bills. The radio was her company, and because I admired her (but didn’t quite know how to talk to her), it became mine, too.
To my ears the hosts — people like Michael Jackson, Dr. Toni Grant, Geoff Witcher — sounded like my mother: impassioned but thoughtful, often witty, opinionated but not obnoxiously so. They were mostly white, I knew, but they still seemed knowable; if not exactly friends, then certainly kindred spirits. Since this was radio, color didn’t intrude or intimidate the way it usually did. I could forge relationships with unlikely people in the same way Top 40 allowed me to forge relationships with unlikely music. Talk radio was a campfire, too, a community built on a shared understanding of the world shaped by regular listening.To my ears the hosts — people like Michael Jackson, Dr. Toni Grant, Geoff Witcher — sounded like my mother: impassioned but thoughtful, often witty, opinionated but not obnoxiously so. They were mostly white, I knew, but they still seemed knowable; if not exactly friends, then certainly kindred spirits. Since this was radio, color didn’t intrude or intimidate the way it usually did. I could forge relationships with unlikely people in the same way Top 40 allowed me to forge relationships with unlikely music. Talk radio was a campfire, too, a community built on a shared understanding of the world shaped by regular listening.
I listened to everything — even Ray Briem, whose late-night show prefigured conservative talk radio and whom I barely comprehended — and I expected to be heard in return, even if I didn’t agree with every point made and even though I never actually called in. There was always a back and forth, a sense that hosts and listeners were on the same plane. That was the pact I had with AM.I listened to everything — even Ray Briem, whose late-night show prefigured conservative talk radio and whom I barely comprehended — and I expected to be heard in return, even if I didn’t agree with every point made and even though I never actually called in. There was always a back and forth, a sense that hosts and listeners were on the same plane. That was the pact I had with AM.
More than 40 years later I am still trying to hold AM to that pact. It’s a fool’s errand. The encompassing AM radio of my youth is long gone, sacrificed to the media infrastructure the hard right starting building in earnest in the 1980s. Its talk shows have become synonymous with unrepentant conservatism and uncivil conversation mediated mostly by loud white guys, and no one is invited in who doesn’t already subscribe. Even the music played on AM — from country to perfectly good jazz — feels tainted by association.More than 40 years later I am still trying to hold AM to that pact. It’s a fool’s errand. The encompassing AM radio of my youth is long gone, sacrificed to the media infrastructure the hard right starting building in earnest in the 1980s. Its talk shows have become synonymous with unrepentant conservatism and uncivil conversation mediated mostly by loud white guys, and no one is invited in who doesn’t already subscribe. Even the music played on AM — from country to perfectly good jazz — feels tainted by association.
I am not in denial about AM; I’ve criticized its propagandizing, abetting of racism and outright lies plenty of times. The offenses of Rush Limbaugh and his ilk are as personal as they are political. How, or more important, why did a landscape that was once accessible to all become so toxically white?I am not in denial about AM; I’ve criticized its propagandizing, abetting of racism and outright lies plenty of times. The offenses of Rush Limbaugh and his ilk are as personal as they are political. How, or more important, why did a landscape that was once accessible to all become so toxically white?
The de-evolution of radio is of course the de-evolution of America, as the atmosphere has shifted from potentially inclusive to proudly noninclusive. The shift — or rather, the reassertion of racial isolation that has always been with us — has been angering, sometimes bewildering. I feel like someone cut me off from my own past without my permission.The de-evolution of radio is of course the de-evolution of America, as the atmosphere has shifted from potentially inclusive to proudly noninclusive. The shift — or rather, the reassertion of racial isolation that has always been with us — has been angering, sometimes bewildering. I feel like someone cut me off from my own past without my permission.
Still, I listen.Still, I listen.
I never stopped listening, because I refuse to give up my stake in a world that formed me. I hate how the relationship has deteriorated through the years, but I won’t agree to the divorce. Not yet.I never stopped listening, because I refuse to give up my stake in a world that formed me. I hate how the relationship has deteriorated through the years, but I won’t agree to the divorce. Not yet.
It has been years since I’ve been able to listen to the daytime loudmouths — they offend my sense of nostalgia too much. But I find a thread of hope at night, in the old Ray Brien time slot. Late night, with its expanding quiet, feels inscribed with possibility, maybe even a bit of magic. And so I turn on my old bedside clock radio and settle in for “Coast to Coast AM.” It has been years since I’ve been able to listen to the daytime loudmouths — they offend my sense of nostalgia too much. But I find a thread of hope at night, in the old Ray Briem time slot. Late night, with its expanding quiet, feels inscribed with possibility, maybe even a bit of magic. And so I turn on my old bedside clock radio and settle in for “Coast to Coast AM.”
It is the last show of the day, and is four hours long — more chances for magic to happen. But not right away. The show’s opening segments tend to be condemnations of climate-change science or warnings about the deep state, and they make me wince. But then come discussions of topics that fascinate and entertain me — ancient aliens, remote viewing, ghosts, monsters, life after death, shadow people, assassination conspiracies, the lost island of Atlantis.It is the last show of the day, and is four hours long — more chances for magic to happen. But not right away. The show’s opening segments tend to be condemnations of climate-change science or warnings about the deep state, and they make me wince. But then come discussions of topics that fascinate and entertain me — ancient aliens, remote viewing, ghosts, monsters, life after death, shadow people, assassination conspiracies, the lost island of Atlantis.
Crazy, sure, but it’s an imaginative crazy that I much prefer to the current political craziness that is bitter and mean and can imagine nothing outside of itself.Crazy, sure, but it’s an imaginative crazy that I much prefer to the current political craziness that is bitter and mean and can imagine nothing outside of itself.
“Coast to Coast” first caught my ear in the ’90s when its original host, Art Bell, was broadcasting out of a remote Nevada town called Pahrump that he liked to call the Kingdom of Nye. The epicness appealed to me, and though Mr. Bell certainly leaned conservative, he was mainly interested in big stories and mysteries that could keep you up all night listening. One of his obsessions was the harrowing effect of global warming, something that eventually got scrubbed from “Coast to Coast” as the show became more nakedly partisan. But the spirit of inquiry survives, enough for me to keep tuning in.“Coast to Coast” first caught my ear in the ’90s when its original host, Art Bell, was broadcasting out of a remote Nevada town called Pahrump that he liked to call the Kingdom of Nye. The epicness appealed to me, and though Mr. Bell certainly leaned conservative, he was mainly interested in big stories and mysteries that could keep you up all night listening. One of his obsessions was the harrowing effect of global warming, something that eventually got scrubbed from “Coast to Coast” as the show became more nakedly partisan. But the spirit of inquiry survives, enough for me to keep tuning in.
I always half expect that one night Trumpism will join the lineup of strange, negative-energy phenomena, to be debated right alongside curses and devil worship. On the other hand, any discussion of Trump would break the magic. By the middle of the night the earthbound politics have fallen away. By 2 a.m., if I’m still awake, it feels like George Noory, the main host of “Coast to Coast,” and I are two circumspect but rapt listeners who are willing to consider each philosophy or theory being offered up every hour, even those that contradict each other, like Christianity and witchcraft. And I am buoyed to feel once again part of a community that, instead of proscribing a certain version of the world, is trying to figure out the world together. I always half expect that one night Trumpism will join the lineup of strange, negative-energy phenomena, to be debated right alongside curses and devil worship. On the other hand, any discussion of Donald Trump would break the magic. By the middle of the night the earthbound politics have fallen away. By 2 a.m., if I’m still awake, it feels as if George Noory, the main host of “Coast to Coast,” and I are two circumspect but rapt listeners who are willing to consider each philosophy or theory being offered up every hour, even those that contradict each other, like Christianity and witchcraft. And I am buoyed to feel once again part of a community that, instead of prescribing a certain version of the world, is trying to figure out the world together.
Of course morning comes, drive time starts and divisions loudly reassert themselves. But I’m already looking — and listening — beyond the noise to the night and to the possibilities that loom, again.Of course morning comes, drive time starts and divisions loudly reassert themselves. But I’m already looking — and listening — beyond the noise to the night and to the possibilities that loom, again.
Erin Aubry Kaplan, a contributing opinion writer, teaches writing at Antioch University, Los Angeles, and is the author of “Black Talk, Blue Thoughts and Walking the Color Line” and “I Heart Obama.”Erin Aubry Kaplan, a contributing opinion writer, teaches writing at Antioch University, Los Angeles, and is the author of “Black Talk, Blue Thoughts and Walking the Color Line” and “I Heart Obama.”
Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook, Twitter (@NYTopinion) and Instagram.Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook, Twitter (@NYTopinion) and Instagram.