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Behind the studio It's so terribly easy to peer out through your own little peephole to the world... see nothing momentously changed, save for the return of color and sunshine... feel a warm breath of air, instead of piercing chill... hear the rustlings of living things, rather than wind-scattered bones of the expired... and think that everything's oh so idyllic. Well it seems, when the thermometer pegs seventy. Students in shorts and sandals. No disruptions or gunfire. Or gas masks. Yeah, we're lucky fuckers. So much so, it felt only natural to dig up a rusty-dusty from the library, and spin the Specials' "Enjoy Yourself (it's later than you think)" as the first selection today. Good point. I don't think there's anything in King James that says this scenario is guaranteed. Take. Nothing. For. Granted. It isn't. It's a gift. It can be taken back. Upheaval and opression suits reggae so well... now, more than ever. Songs about revolution and heavy-handed politics don't carry the same weight when bad things happen somewhere else... unless you're exceedingly open-minded or a career depressive. Sure twangs the spine, today. Prompting excellent call-ins, sensible segues, and an energy beyond the unheard buzz of electronics. Quite a turnabout from those first sweaty, dead-air panic attacks, years ago. Top-down day, paid for with months of skittering around on icy pavement. Sticker design in the bag, after Slug the Station Manager sits on it for two years. Some raw fish in the plastic bags, after a work week of ramen. Today, it's all really good. Here, that is.
Then, you go home and the evening fare is Prime Time Ballistics. The sponsors have got to be loving this. A captive audience that needs to go on with their lives... and BUY something! |
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