"....Well, Don't Leave Us Hangin'....Did She Wear Her Hair Swept Up Or Did It Fall Loosely Around Her Shoulders...?"

Here's a thing.



Lisa Kudrow's income from the megahit comedy Friends was discussed in detail Thursday when the actress took the stand in her long-running legal battle against her former manager.

The Friends star has been fighting in court with Scott Howard, who first entered into an oral agreement to represent Kudrow in 1991 and claims he is owed 5 percent of her earnings after he parted ways with the actress in 2007. Howard sued in 2008 and the case has been winding through various courts.

Dressed in a black trouser suit, Kudrow took the stand for about two hours in Los Angeles Superior Court in Santa Monica.



Nothing particularly tabloid-y going on here.

Reads like a garden variety, everyday adventure in that labyrinth of legal la la oxymoronically referred to as our judicial system.

There is, though, flickering in the light amongst the he says and she says, just the slightest glimmer of something very profound.

And once you recognize it, the glimmer becomes pretty glaring.

Re-read the first six words of the third paragraph.

In a society that has seen women evolve from third class citizen to second class citizen to, ostensibly, equal in, at least, the eyes of the law, a society that denied them the right to vote until well after the electric light and telephone were invented, a society where women, although, as yet, have still not yet acquired the keys to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, but have achieved seats in state houses and Congress and Presidential cabinets and the Supreme Court...in a society where women are powerful CEO's of  multi billion dollar corporations.....

It's still instinctive second nature to report on the fashion choices a woman makes when she appears in court.

Pretend, for a moment, that, rather than Lisa Kudrow, the defendant in this case was, say, Matthew Perry.

Can you imagine any circumstance (with the exception of Perez Hilton) in which the last graph would have read....

" Nattily attired in a fetching Dockers/sport coat ensemble, Perry took the stand for about two hours....."

Old Virginia Slims cigarette advertising slogan....

"you've come a long, long way, baby...."

Suggested updated addendum....

"....and you've got a long, long way to go...."

The obvious point of all this is that, for all of the progress that women have made in society, old habits die very, very hard.

The proof being that it seems to matter what Lisa Kudrow wore to court.

When it actually shouldn't.

Because it doesn't.

"...These Days, More Like An "F-Cherry Bomb"......

The bird, bird, bird, the bird's the word.

Actually, not so much.

The notorious "F bomb" is back on the "A" list of stories on "TV".

A fairly proficient articulator of all things profane, my own self, I have a certain intellectual, if not particularly intelligent, potty mouth perspective.

I can understand, and respect, what I believe to be both sides of any discussion regarding the prolific pronouncement of profanity in our current, everyday lives:

   a) The increasingly common use of this kind of language is simple, irrefutable, empirical evidence that the empire is crumbling, the very foundation of our moral and spiritual well being cracking, splintering and opening gaps in the earth that will soon swallow us up like screaming, babbling slaves in those Tarzan movie earthquake scenes.

  b) It's just words and words, themselves, have no power over us that we don't allow to have power over us.
      This argument known, more commonly, among the younger demographics, as "ain't no thing".
      And among the even more young demo as "lighten the f*** up, dude".


Understanding, respecting and having spent a fair amount of time participating in both sides of that discussion notwithstanding, a more simplistic analysis has become part of my P.O.V. in recent years.

I'm not convinced that there's any real danger that calling someone a "red neck dumb ass mother***er" is going to cause any more cracks in the Republic pavement that calling them a "red neck dumb ass".

And, yes, although, at the very bottom line, words have only the power with which we, well, empower them.

But, we crazy Earthlings have a way of not seeing the distinction in those heated moments when seeing the distinction really counts.

Here's a simpler thought.

And a philosophy I am working, in baby steps, on adopting.

If you take all of the passion, exaggeration, politics, in sum, every simple human emotion out of the equation, what remains are two simple truths.

There is, in fact, no really good, undeniable reason not to use these words freely.

There is, at the same time, in fact, no really good, undeniable reason to use them, either.

So, why not opt, just this once, to take the high road?

Plenty of popular attractions still to be visited traveling the low.

A veritable f***in' plethora.

"...Yes, They Gave Them Quite A Party, Party...."

Fifty years of Beatles.

90 minutes of tribute to fifty years of Beatles.

Random impressions.....

....a lot of love and respect from a lot of very talented people...

...sincerely poignant seeing/hearing Dhani Harrison playing/singing on "Something".....

...yes, in answer to my sister's rhetorical question, I think Yoko was, in fact, the inspiration for Elaine Benes' style of dance....

...what fun so much of the music was, and is, as opposed to the "why so serious"ness of contemporary pop music...

...couldn't help but be tickled by Eric Idle's narration of the bio segments....with that voice, I kept expecting each bio to turn into a Monty Python gag at any/every moment....

..Paul gets a lot of credit for being a "showman", but Ringo ain't no slouch when it comes to playing the songs and the part...

...speaking of Ringo, from the more things change folder, props for his good natured willingness to be Paul's opening act.....

...there's no question that the anniversary was worthy of notice and some kind of celebration, but I honestly can't see John, or George, for that matter, sitting there with the gang, singing and clapping along to the greatest hits....

and, speaking of clapping......

...I found it stunning, and not just a little amusing, that so many of today's, and yesterday's, musical icons can't clap their hands in time to the music to save their lives......


given the source material, a splendid time was guaranteed for all....

nice work, lads......

yesterday and today.....

"...As The Twig Is Bent....So Grows The Phenomenon...."

It was fifty years ago today.

Not exactly a paragon of originality, that statement, ay what?

Predictable and then some.

Okay, here's something a little less.

Predictable.

Today (the day of this writing) is the exact, on the calendar, day tripper, good day sunshine date marking the 50th anniversary of the appearance of The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show.

February 9, 1964.

And if, as a lot of writers of these kinds of things will attest to, that earlier February day in 1959 that brought news of the airplane crash deaths of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and The Big Bopper was, in any other sense but literary, the "day the music died", then February 9, five years later, was the day it came back to life.

The Beatles played. The girls screamed like it was their last chance in this life to scream. Beatle mania swept across the country and the world like a virus you didn't mind catching.

The face of popular music changed forever.

Yada, yada.

Unless you've been out of the galaxy, or are a politician with your head up your a** (yeah, that is redundant, isn't it), you've already been inundated, if not saturated, with reminiscences, memories, interviews, documentaries, audios, videos coming at you from here, there and everywhere about that period in music, and cultural, history.

And while CBS will run their big, bad Beatles television tribute tonight, there's a chance, just between us kids (or from me to you, as the case may be) that you've already reached some level of overload.

Defcon Fab Four, as it were.

We just kinda went through something like that three months ago with the observance of the 50th anniversary of the gunfire in Dealey Plaza.

Sentiment, nostalgia, even a little residual heartache experienced by baby boomers aside, it's fair to say we all reached the enough is enough point with the airing of "A Very Special Episode of Duck Dynasty--The Robertson Family Reexamines The Evidence".

Still, we do love our anniversaries.

And our birthdays, too, yeah.

And, lest I be branded a naysayer or Liverpool party pooper, let's be clear here.

Although fifty years of memories might obviously be a very, very large folder of data, I am fully prepared to carry that weight.

A long time.

And, when it comes to reveling in the magical mystery tour that is a fond, even delighted, look back at that which occurred that February day, let it be known that I don't want to spoil the party.

So, roll up.

But don't expect one more reminiscence, memory, interview, documentary, audio or video coming at you from here, there and everywhere about that period in music, and cultural, history.

Rather, something that occurred to me this morning as I was reading yet another article from yet another "expert" about yet another facet of that period in musical, and cultural, history when girls screamed, mania swept and the face changed.

Yada yada.

And, interestingly enough (or so I thought, anyway), the kind of thought that could only occur on this side of the timeline.

And a perspective on the whole Beatle experience I think hasn't, up until now, been shared.

Not about the obvious and much admired, even revered, talents of The Beatles as a group.

Or their accomplishments as a group and as individual musicians and/or songwriters.

No, I realized this morning there's one part of their history that doesn't get even a mention.

What remarkable people those responsible for the upbringing of the young John, Paul, George and Ringo must have been.

What goes on?...you're wondering.

Just wait.

And if you're inclined to be dismissive, honey, don't.

50, count em', 50 years.

Fame and celebrity on an unprecedented scale.

And not a seriously reasonable tabloid story, tragic tale of talent gone wrong in the form of drunken arrest, roaring through the residential neighborhood in the Ferrari, or horrific death resulting from self indulgence of any kind to be found, including, but not limited to, self inflicted gunfire, drug overdose complete with still attached syringe or wrapping said Ferrari around a tree on a bright California day.

Yes, two of the four mop tops have met their maker.

But John was shot to death by a wack job.

And George died of natural causes.

Meanwhile, Ringo and Paul continue to live their lives, love their families, make their music and smile and respond graciously as they are inundated with questions relating to that period in musical, and cultural, history when girls screamed, mania swept and the face changed.

At the ages of 73 and 71, respectively.

And while all of these lads had, and exhibited, their fair share of human failings through the years, from drug use to marital failure, alcohol abuse to multiple "birds" flying, landing and lying down in the luxury suites of their various and sundry touring days, they managed, with the exception of a wack job target and a cancer victim, to arrive at old age with their sense of dignity and style intact.

Lives well lived, lads.

And credit where due.

To the parents/grandparents/aunts/uncles and other authority figures that molded and matured the young mop tops born John Winston Lennon, James Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Richard Starkey.

Clearly, long before anyone ever heard a single note of your musical, and cultural, history changing music...

They loved you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Today will be the climax of weeks worth of observing something historic that happened fifty years ago.

And when the day is over, we will go back to our respective, usual routines.

With no more reminiscences, memories, interviews, documentaries, audios or videos coming at us from here, there and everywhere about that period in music, and cultural, history.

Then again, one can never be sure.

After all, it was Aunt Mimi's nephew, the young, rebellious Liverpool kid who formed a band and grew up to make a little musical, and cultural, history with it who sang coming up on fifty years ago...

...tomorrow never knows.

"...Heeeeeeeeeeeeere's......A Few Words On The Guy Making Way For The Next Guy Who Will, In Twenty Years Or So, Make Way For The Next Guy....Or, Dare We Imagine...Gal?...."

First off, there will be no rule breaking here.

Meanwhile, Leno did his most recent final show last night.








Given the popularity that he has achieved and, according to all the indicators available, maintains, there's nothing I can offer here in any kind of "critiquing" way that won't come off as cynical and/or rude.

And, as far as offering "critiques" is concerned, that ain't for me to be offering.

That would break my rule.

And like I said earlier....

All of that said, and freely admitted, this piece is no more, or less, than a quick, in as few words as possible (shu-yeah, right), about why I, personally, didn't care all that much for The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.

So feel free to read on.

Or move on, if you prefer.

If the latter, thanks for stopping by.

If the former.....

Up front, in fairness, I, literally, grew up with "The Tonight Show" and "Johnny Carson" being synonymous.

So, anybody who came along trying to fill the shoes residing on the floor underneath that desk was going to start out in the red in so far as the bank account of my viewer loyalty was concerned.

At the time, the brouhaha of baton passing was all about the "battle" between Leno and Letterman as to who would take, or be given, the throne.

Sparing you the long, blah blah, just find yourself a copy of the made for HBO flick "The Late Shift" starring, among many talented others, Kathy Bates and you'll be entertained and brought up to speed with how all that went down and how Leno and Letterman both ended up....well...where they ended up.

So...

in nineteen hundred / and ninety two
Tonight put on Jay / for us all to view

And I pretty much moved along with Letterman.

To Letterman.

For awhile, anyway.

First, because, in simple terms, Jay simply wasn't my cup of tea.

Having done some broadcasting, I understand, from an intellectual level, the basis for Jay's appeal to a lot of folks.

If nothing else, he's harmless.

And warm. And friendly.

Everything you might want in, say, a next door neighbor.

Or pediatrician.

Or grocery store manager.

But, and remember it's all a matter of personal taste and/or opinion, I simply like a little more sass with my stand up.

Not that mean spirited, even vitriolic crap that a lot of today's "humorists" are f-wording us to death with, but, rather, a certain look in the comic's eyes that tells me that that twinkle has all the potential to turn into something twisted in the, well, wink of an eye.

Carson had it. Letterman has it.

Even Ellen has it. If you watch very carefully.

Not that any, or all, of those folks ever did turn on us, but the potential for it happening was, and is, a large part of the subliminal attraction that those of us who are attracted to them feel.

Leno didn't have it.

He's warm.

And friendly.

And harmless.

Other than that, my lack of enthusiasm for Jay was rooted in some of those little things that just annoy people about other people.

Much like, I'm sure, some of the things about me that annoy some of the people I annoy.

Jay's style of monologue delivery was, to my sensibilities, of the "you know....you know" category.

Those folks who have to insert "you know" in their sentences, often to the point that you find yourself not paying any attention to what they're saying because you're distracted, waiting for the next "you know" to show up.

You know?

In Jay's case, for me, it was what I came to call his "Frankie Two Times" thing.

Named for that character in "Goodfellas" who ends his sentences with the same phrase twice told.

"Hey, I'm goin ta get da papers.....get da papers."

Jay delivered a lot of his jokes with the punch line twice told.

"Hey! Did you hear that Khloe Kardashian has left Lamar? Wow...I understand in getting to the divorce attorney's office, she is now the first human being to ever break the speed of sound on dry land.....(AUDIENCE LAUGHS).....speed of sound on dry land!..."

Admittedly, a little, maybe even petty, thing.

But I found myself distracted from the joke(s) because I was zoned in on waiting for the next double punch line.

You know?

By the way, not for nothing, but his habit of saying "hey" going into a joke was, as my radio friends, family and peers will attest, one of those "cardinal rules of on mic patter" that you don't break.

You don't say "hey".

It's almost, but not quite, as annoying to listeners as "you know" (READER NODS HEAD)...to listeners as "you know".

If all of this sounds like I'm picking on Jay, I'm really not.

Well, okay, I am a little.

After all, he was the guy that NBC brought in when they felt like their current Tonight Show host had gotten too old for the gig and they needed to get somebody in there who could appeal to a younger and more growing audience, even though that current host was still number one in the ratings and there was no really good, or even logical, reason to boot the current host except for NBC's fear that the guy had gotten too old for the gig and they needed to get somebody younger in there.

Oh...wait.

Was that a little confusing?

Sorry.

Did you think I was talking about Jay?

Well, yeah, I was.

But, it turns out, I could have just as easily been talking about Fallon.

Something that seems to have gotten forgotten in wave of nostalgia and best wishes going Jay's way.

Not to mention Jay's brief moments of maudlin.

Because it's been twenty two years, but I honestly don't remember, and can't find any video to document, that Johnny, in his final on camera goodbye, said anything that even resembled "..I don't like goodbyes...but NBC does..."

I promised, in the first sentence, that this piece would break no rules.

Especially one of my most important rules.

As a radio vet, I've said, and written, many times that the listener is, sincerely, entitled to their opinion as to their like, or dislike, of what we do on the air.

And, this being America, the listener is, sincerely, entitled to listen, or not listen, to what we do on the air based on that like or dislike.

But when it comes to the listener telling us what we should or shouldn't do on the air?

Well, that falls into a category I like to call "who the hell asked you?"

So, as Jay moves on to the next whatever it is he will move on to, I think I've lived up to my promise to obey that rule.

Nothing said here has implied or suggested what Jay should do or should have done through the years.

It was simply a sharing of how I liked, or disliked it.

And rule number two, by the way, says that I have no business telling you what you should or should not like.

I totally get why you liked him.

If you liked him.

For me, it was just a little too, for lack of a better word, vanilla.

At the same time....

In a world with, literally, thousands of them, guess what is still, hands down, the most popular flavor of ice cream.

Right.

That's pretty cool...pretty cool.

You know?

"....Like A Rolling Stone....Or A Four Door Luxury Sedan....."

 

You don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows.

 

All you have to do is log on and the prevailings will be in your face in no time.

 

 

 

 

(Sean Wilentz, author and historian, teaches American history at Princeton University. He writes extensively on music, particularly on folk traditions and rock 'n' roll, and especially on the work of Bob Dylan. He is the author of "Bob Dylan in America." )

 

(CNN) -- On Sunday evening, as I was diligently not watching the Super Bowl, the e-mails started arriving: Had I seen that Chrysler commercial of Bob Dylan's? Wasn't it ridiculous, Dylan selling out to an Italian-owned car company in the most expensive television ad buy of the year?

Because I've written about Dylan as well as for his official website, friends and occasional strangers contact me from time to time furious about his latest corrupt outrage, proclaiming he has finally destroyed whatever shred of integrity he had left.

 

I heard it in 2011, when Dylan supposedly sold out by performing a concert in repressive China. I had heard it four years earlier, when he appeared in his first car ad for Cadillac, which just happened to be sponsoring a satellite radio show he was hosting at the time. I heard it three years before when he turned up in his cowboy troubadour duds wandering around a beautiful scantily clad model in a Victoria's Secret ad.

 

To borrow one of the late Pete Seeger's lyrics: When will they ever learn?

 

Dylan has been accused of selling out for 50 years, beginning in 1962 when he signed a recording contract with a big-time label, Columbia Records. Two years later, the left-wing commissars of the folk revival denounced him for writing inward-looking emotional songs instead of "protest" anthems. Soon thereafter came the rage at his writing for and playing with electric blues and rock musicians, a supposed betrayal of folk purity.

 

The sanctimonious detractors cling to a bygone Dylan: a skinny, tousled-haired genius in a work shirt singing "Blowin' in the Wind."
 

And so it has continued, from the sellouts of his going country on "Nashville Skyline" and later, writing gospel music, to today's shilling for soft-core porn lingerie and poisonous gas guzzlers.

 

Always, the sanctimonious detractors cling to a bygone Dylan: a skinny, tousled-haired genius in a work shirt singing "Blowin' in the Wind" and "The Times They Are a-Changin." This, supposedly, is the true Dylan that the actual man has desecrated. In fact, the profane actual Dylan is worse than corrupt: He is the vile betrayer of a revolution in consciousness of which he had once been the avatar.

 

But Dylan renounced that role 50 years ago. Choosing art over politics, he broke free of the moral absolutism of "protest" music that he mocked in "My Back Pages" in 1964: "Ah, but I was so much older then/I'm younger than that now." He rejected the idea of his being the avatar of anything, let alone of a revolution in consciousness. "It's never been my duty to remake the world at large," he sang in "Wedding Song," from 1973, "nor is it my intention to sound a battle charge."

 

And so I started to write back to my complaining friends to say that they had totally missed what Dylan has been about for decades -- not a moral or spiritual guide, let alone an exemplar, or a prophet, or a savior, but a working songwriter and musician, doing his job as best he can -- which, astonishingly often, turns out to be sublime -- and making the money he deserves.

 

Then I watched the commercial on YouTube and saw that my riposte was inadequate.

 

For Dylan, breaking free of the folkie left and choosing art over politics never meant renouncing political concerns or themes, any more than turning to rock meant repudiating folk music. Any conception of art as broad as Dylan's necessarily includes politics, as politics is part of the human endeavor. And the Chrysler ad, while captivating us with Dylan's very presence, contains a political subtext.

 

Although the ad is dopey as all ads are, and even though it is plainly hawking Chrysler, Dylan never once hypes the virtues of Chrysler's product over that of any other automobile maker. This may be a cunningly subtle pitch to Dylan's baby boomer fan base, but it's also an abnormal nonspecific celebrity endorsement.

 

Instead, Dylan celebrates America as a car-loving country. The ad begins with a clunky, even insipid piece of ad copy -- "There's nothing more American than America" -- only barely redeemed by being spoken by Dylan's singular voice. But then comes a jumble of images out of Dylan's familiar Americana landscape -- old-fashioned diners, Route 66 in Missouri, bronco busters, carnivals, Marilyn Monroe -- evoking a particular nostalgic national mystique, rooted in the 1940s and 1950s and redolent of Jack Kerouac.

 

Footage of old Detroit follows -- "Yeah...," Dylan says, "Detroit made cars, and cars made America" -- and then a paean, in prose almost certainly written by Dylan himself, to "the American road and the creatures who live on it" and to how we Americans "believe in the zoom and the roar and the thrust."

 

The ad is saying that America is what its people make and make of it, cars above all, which makes sense -- and which also makes it a workingman's film: The ad doesn't single out Chrysler and its cars but the Americans who build those cars, and their conviction and pride -- "the heart and soul of every man and woman working on the line," Dylan intones. "So let Germany brew your beer, let Switzerland make your watch, let Asia assemble your phone. We ... will build ... your car" -- the last sentence delivered in Dylan's cool halting cadence.

 

It's all, of course, a cleverly deceptive way to elide the fact that supposedly all-American Chrysler is now owned by Fiat. But the cars are still American-made -- and for Dylan, that's important.

 

In one of his early protest songs, "North Country Blues," Dylan sang of the mines of his native Minnesota Iron Range being shut down and people left in despair, because for the greedy owners it was "much cheaper down/ in South American towns/where the miners work almost for nothing."

 

Twenty years later, in "Union Sundown," he bitterly lamented what had now become known as outsourcing, including American cars being assembled in Argentina "by a guy making 30 cents a day." "Workingman's Blues #2," from 2006, complained of how "they say low wages are a reality/if we want to compete abroad."

 

Pro-labor protectionism does not spring to mind as one of the great causes of the 1960s. But for Bob Dylan, a product of the 1940s and 1950s, one article of simple justice has always been that American working people, so vital to his vanishing American landscape, ought not to be victimized by bosses who will happily exploit the pauper labor of the rest of the world.

 

Apparently, Dylan is sold on the idea that, in Detroit anyway, that injustice has been halted and even reversed. And that, he wants us to know, is a good reason, and maybe the best, to buy one of Chrysler's cars.

 

 

Sean lays out a pretty nice perspective here.

 

For my disposable income earmarked money.

 

Before I read this article, but shortly after the Dylan ad played and the rushing river of keen insight and cool eyed appraisal known as social media started screaming "sell out" and worse, I, myself (and, not to wander too far off the page, but why do we say things like "I, myself"? if it's I {as in me), then who else would it be but myself?) tossed the following two cents into the rapidly piling up pile of point of view pennies.

 

 

.....discovered Bob about the time John Lennon did, was proud to be part of the times that were-a changin'....and have no problem at all with him doing this spot....the whole panty twist about his "selling out" implies that he has somehow diminished his relevance....to paraphrase Lennon, "here's another clue for you all": Bob hasn't been culturally relevant since Nixon and his musical relevance had peaked by the time Reagan showed up.....still a shaker, but hardly a mover.....and, thirty years later?....aw, let the guy sell a car or two if he wants....it's not like he's pimping for Oxy Clean.......

 

 

Add,  to that sentiment, Sean Wilentz's opine that Dylan has always been part prophet, part promoter and you have a pretty good case for just telling the naysayers to stop with the naysaying already.

 

Somewhere in the discussion, I recall adding another thought that I thought was worth thinking about.

 

That scene in "Forrest Gump" where Forrest, having run back and forth across this great country of ours for more than a bit, suddenly stopped, in the middle of what looks a little like Arizona, turns to face the hoard of worshipping fanatics who have been running behind him for probably more than a bit, now pin drop silent and anxiously awaiting the secret of life that they have known, down deep in their souls, that Forrest was put on the planet to provide, ready for, literally, divine proclamation as Forrest opens his mouth and speaks the words awaited by the masses since the first day the name Gump became household...

 

 

"...I'm tired. Think I'll go home now."

 

The looks on the faces of the faithful were mirror images, I imagine, of some of those who watched Mr. Zimmerman Super Bowl Sunday night.

 

Those who, like the Gumpies, never really grasped the concept that neither Forrest, nor Bob, ever set out to be the voice of anything, let alone a generation.

 

It's one thing to be misled, and feel betrayed, by those who present themselves to us as idols.

 

Or leaders.

 

Or voices of anything including, but not necessarily limited to, generations.

 

But it's quite another to feel betrayed by those who just decided to go for a run one day.

 

Or just make a living writing and singing songs.

 

As opposed to, say, selling cars.

 

Like I said, leave the guy alone.

 

Could have been a lot worse.

 

He could have had the guys in the background singing "America The Beautiful"...

 

...in a variety of foreign languages.

 

 

 

 

 

"...Yo, Local TV News Anchors....You're Next...."

Today's solid goldie oldie comes from that sweet 60's chanteuse, the incomparable Petula Clark.

And her big bang, super swingin hit....

"Sign of the Times"




(by David Hinckley / NY Daily News)

In a move that’s modest but still frustrating, SiriusXM satellite radio has taken the disc jockeys off two more music channels, 50s on 5 and 90s on 9.

As it happens, this erases several jocks that New York listeners know, including WAXQ (104.3 FM) morning man Jim Kerr, Pat St. John and Norm N. Nite, all of whom hosted shows on the ’50s channel.

SiriusXM saves a few bucks in salaries here. The main goal, presumably, is making those channels music-intensive — a trend that has permeated all of music radio over the last 10 years.
The thinking is that listeners want music, not voices.

Me, I like both. I like the idea, even when it’s an illusion, that a person rather than a machine is sharing this musc with me.

To relics like me, a good jock is as much a part of radio as the music itself, and I suspect someone at SiriusXM knows it. From Outlaw Country to the Elvis and Springsteen channels, hosts still talk, and I assume that’s because listeners want them. They’re part of the package, part of the deal we’ve always had with the radio.

That’s why stations like Z100 and Hot 97 keep jocks in the mix even when they want the more-music brand.

The disappearance of more jocks at SiriusXM also feels disheartening because it takes satellite radio another small step away from what make it so distinctive in the beginning.

XM, in particular, positioned itself as an alternative to terrestrial radio. It played a wide range of music you’d never hear on commercial stations, and it hired jocks like Matt the Cat, a young guy with an old-time personality.

When XM and Sirius merged, a lot of that got squeezed out. Playlists tightened, hosts vanished, older and less well-known music was replaced by newer and more popular. It felt as if someone had hired a top-40 consultant and was holding focus groups.

Since satellite radio used to lose money and now makes money, you could argue these have just been smart business decisions.

It also must be noted that satellite remains a good alternative to commercial radio. It still has music and hosts and programs you won’t hear elsewhere.

It just has fewer of those things — and every time it whacks jocks, especially on the channels whose audience grew up on jocks, it loses a little more of its "radio" feel.




If you're a radio professional, at least a radio professional whose radio professing takes place on the outgoing side of the microphone, then this issue is way past being the day before yesterday's news.

The continued thinning of the on air personality herd in favor of the "more music, the most music, the more than just the most music" mentality morphing into methodology.

If your radio occupation is more about occupying that desk upon which the bottom line frequently crosses, then, chances are, you couldn't care less, one way or the other, about the continued thinning of the on air personality herd in favor of the....and so on.

It's not your responsibility to make the station(s) sound good.

Good, of course, being that mischievous matter of one's own spin.

It's your responsibility to make the stations make money.

Nothing's really changed on that front since Marconi first called out to Watson to "come in, here."

Or Alexander Graham Bell.

Whatever.

Radio, no matter how technologically it has evolved, is still no more, or less, than it ever was from the first time that it ever was.

A for-profit business.

In the form of a service providing information and entertainment.

A product.

Beef-a-roni for the ears, to stretch the point.

And what's happening in the radio industry today is no more, or less, than simply those who manufacture the product tweaking and/or twerking the product in hopes of keeping it relevant, attractive, even desirable to the consumer of said product.

New and improved Beef-a-roni, to pull the point even a little farther out.

All of that said, here's a thing.

While sentimentalists, purists and/or out of work on air personalities will likely remain on the front lines of fighting for a return to those thrilling days of yesteryear, the simple, irrefutable fact stands rock solid that the times they have a-changed.

And a lot of options for that information and entertainment are now available that weren't available until they were recently made available.

Surprisingly, too, at least to sentimentalists, purists and/or out of work on air personalities fighting for a return to those thrilling days of yesteryear, there's a pretty good number of votes being cast, easily found if you do a little research, that indicates that the loss of "live voices" on SiriusXM isn't something the subscribers are seriously stressed about.

Something along the lines of "I pay for the privilege of not having to listen to blah, blah blather but, rather to all music, all the time."

Fair enough.

And nothing underhanded, or unreasonable, about a company like SiriusXM giving their paying customers what they want.

Beef-a-roni without droning dinner chat, to continue yanking on the point.

But, here's a thing, within the thing, that I've been harping about for a bit of a while now along with, or beside, sentimentalists, purists and/or out of work on air personalities fighting for a return to those thrilling days of yesteryear

When it comes to conventional, terrestrial, in other words, free radio this whole issue is a white noise of a different color.

The key word there being "free".

Because, in fact, conventional, terrestrial radio has never been, and will never be, free.

No, you don't have to pony up a monthly subscription fee, you don't have to put coins, or bills, into a meter to keep the signal signaling, you don't have to do anything but turn on the ol' AM/FM and tune in to your auditory nerve's content.

But you do have to pay a price.

And the price is the constant interruption of the playing of your favorite tunes with "and now, a word from" words.

On average, these days, in my experience,  up to fifteen minutes out of every hour.

But, hey, no fair complainin', okay?

Somebody has to cough up the currency so the hits can keep on-a comin'.

And so that you don't have to pony up a monthly subscription fee or put coins, or bills, into a meter to keep the signal signaling.

And those somebodies are the sponsors who offer up "a word from" themselves.

On average, up to fifteen minutes out of every hour.

But, then, right back to the music.

Ah, but here's a thing, inside of the thing that's inside the thing.

There is now a plethora, undoubtedly veritable, of places where you can now score that music without having to either pony up a monthly subscription fee, put coins or bills in a meter or wait patiently for that fifteen minutes out of every hour to shut the hell up so you can get back to more music, the most music, more of the most music.

"When you're tuned in / and the ads make you crazy / you can always go / online"

Speaking of Petula.

And now, coming to a new model car near you, online radio in the form of podcasts.

And, literally, thousands of types of programming, music, information and entertainments.

Commercial free.

And free free.

At least until the FCC figures out how to attach a meter to the whole operation.

Which will bring us back to do-re-mi, so far, conventional, terrestrial radio is missing a ginormous opportunity.

Offering the listening public something that they, with increasing frequency (pun unintended, but, somehow, inevitable), cannot, and will not probably from here on out, be able to find anywhere but on conventional, terrestrial radio.

On air personalities.

To entertain and inform and localize and be there to actually answer the phones, to take requests and play back funny callers and be a fun "host" of a show that will entertain and inform and localize.

Even if the music format remains "heavy rotation".

Which, to you folks who aren't jiggy wit' the jargon, translates out to "the same ten or twelve songs played over and over and over and over".

Because, at least with a live, breathing, witty, experienced talent on that microphone, there will likely be something live, breathing and witty both going into and coming out of those same ten or twelve songs.

All there and available to you with the ease of turning a switch on that receiver there on your desk or kitchen counter or your dashboard.

No, I haven't forgotten that there's a price to pay for that talent.

But even the commercial breaks seem more entertaining when intro'd and outro'd by a talented, live warm body.

Not to mention the commercials themselves.

When written and produced by those talented, live warm bodies.

It really does seem like such a simple concept, doesn't it?

The one thing that conventional, terrestrial radio can offer listeners that those listeners can't get anywhere else, for free and with minimum muss and/or fuss, is the presence of a live, talented host of an entertaining and informative show.

Yet, all indications are that the owners of conventional, terrestrial radio just don't see it.

Or hear it.

It falls on deaf ears.

Ain't that ironic?