8. EARLY-MORNING RADIO LOVE

Note: this is something I wrote in the spring of 1997 for the zine I was writing for then, the Canadian Penny. I finished it just after we put out #9 (the School Issue, a split with Agent Lame), and by the time #10 was half done, me and the CP had parted ways not-so-nicely and I kinda doubt that this made it in, though I don't know for sure. Here it is now, anyway.

I'M IN LOVE WITH THE RADIO STATION

I've been doing 3-6 AM radio shows this quarter, every now and then. It's the absolute basement slot, all the first-quarter DJs have to serve time there, because it's the only completely unreasonable 3-hour section of time in the day. It's reasonable to stay up until 3 AM, that's okay. It's reasonable to get up at 6, though I might think you're a little insane. But being awake between three and six, especially if you have to refile all your records and then walk home and you won't be able to go back to bed until 7 when the sun's already up, is highly unreasonable. That is what I do.

I try to go to bed around 10 on nights that I'm doing a show. What this usually means is getting to bed around 11, and then staring at the streaks of light coming in under the blinds and listening to the people talking in the parking lot. I've heard it takes longer to go to sleep if you're trying, so I try not to try. Maybe I fall asleep about midnight.

I usually wake up 4 or 5 times in the course of the two hours that I do get to sleep. I'm always dreadfully certain that my alarm has failed to go off and it's already past 3 and Chester Son-of-Dopestyle is still down there spinning hip-hop records and wondering where I am. I haven't been right about this yet, but I still can't make myself relax enough to really sleep.

When it finally really is 1:45, I bounce out of bed with great relief. I put my clothes back on, pour water over my head to make my hair sit down, grab a couple of C90s to tape my show on, and head out.

The walk down to the station is always silent and peaceful. I carry my keys stuck through my fingers in case I have to hit some wacko (though in the back of my mind I never truly believe there are any wackos out at 2 AM between my house and the station, excepting myself), and sometimes I smoke. It's not a very long walk. At the end of it I sit on the stairs by the front door and finish my cigarette and think more about what I want to play. By the time I go in, I'm completely calm and perfectly primed for the panic which always hits as soon as I step inside. The first show I did, my stomach felt so terrible I could hardly stand up.

This affliction has abated somewhat, and is mostly replaced by adrenaline now when I get into some kinda groove with the show. It's thrilling to know that there are a million potential listeners out there who will hear your voice and your music if they turn on your radio, and comforting to know that most of those people are asleep and they won't turn on the radio.

By the time I've been going for an hour or so, I've usually got some kinda good groove going. My piles of records and CDs are all arranged in the general order of when I want to play them, and I just hang around and spin the black circle with the Pop-Up Show posse, who usually stick around almost as long as I do. They all make hip-hop records, and they stand around and talk about where to find samples of certain sounds and of people saying certain things. I'm going to miss them like crazy when Chester goes off to the navy in a couple weeks and someone else gets the Pop-Up Show slot.

The Pop-Up Show boys usually leave by 5, which gives me almost an hour of solitary playing time until Romain shows up to do his classical show at 6. I like to think that by then, people might actually be listening, and it feels really good because by then I know what I'm doing, the music flows together and I don't sound like a goon during my mic breaks. I try not to admit my name on the air until I get to this point, just to try to fool people into thinking I'm suave. No evidence that it's worked so far, except for Romain telling me I sounded pro because I talk slowly. It don't come natural, believe me.

So when 6 AM rolls around, Romain eases the metaphorical reins out of my tightly clenched fists and takes control of the airwaves. I sadly sign out on the operating log and go put my records away. By the time I'm done, it's usually almost 7. The sun is coming up outside, even though the grass is still cool and dewy and there's a little fog in the streets. As the last person up from Sunday, I greet the first people up on Monday - the construction workers, the University van drivers, the army of gardeners unleashed on the campus every morning to subdue the vegetation for the day. The sky is pale and the air is fresh and clean when I finally crawl back into my bed. The hushy noise of my subsiding adrenaline level lulls me, and I sleep sweet and heavily until lunchtime. Thee end.