Ahh, the sheer thrill of being on air.
A couple of weeks back, hubby and I pulled up outside our home, keeping the car lights out except the one that lit up the dial, turning down the radio knob, and willing the phone to ring.
It did, putting us live on a local radio station, where we matched our wits with the spunky Radio Jockey. After the thoroughly enjoyable 3-minute plus conversation, we were richer by a couple tickets to a special screening of a much-touted sci-fi action thriller, slated for an official release next week.
The incident brought back a spate of fond memories from the year 2007, when best pal accompanied me to the office of the radio station where I was to host a show. How I landed this honour requires a lengthy narration, probably best suited for another day...
And that’s how I was ushered to the sound-proof studio where the RJ sat – let’s call him P - a popular voice, sans face, who entertained thousands every evening. He effortlessly hosted an English show – a boon for avid music lovers who turned up the knob when they recognized the strains of their favourite English cult classic. There was of course no script, and he would pepper the show with his tongue-in-cheek humour, speaking with cheerful abandon with the many people who called in. He spoke with them all – the incessantly giggling sorts, the eternally gloomy, the crisp professional, the completely-in-awe of him chaps, the rude losers, and even those who’ve perhaps seen ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ more times than necessary…
I was to observe him for a few minutes, and once comfortable, take over from him – for the rest of the 45-50 minutes. As a bonus, I could play my favourite tracks, whether or not they were requested for by those who called-in.
It was my first time in a recording studio, and I was understandably curious, my eyes darting and taking in all of the room. A large console (board) bang in the middle of the room occupied most of the space. After cracking a joke for the listeners and cranking up the volume for a catchy ‘80s number, the RJ turned to me, and after a warm welcome, proceeded to give me a rapid intro to what was what…
The two screens on the console controlled the Radio station – this was the first bit of info that came my way. Second – the walls had special soundproofing. The digital system stored songs, promos and commercials on it. A couple of laptops were hidden from view by P’s large frame – they had various fancy-sounding software for editing phone calls, beeping any cussing sounds that may be used. What was probably most fascinating, besides the console where you could crank up the volume of a song, were the bright orange microphones with ‘wind-screens’ over them. Apparently even the sound of one’s breathing blowing into the microphone could make one sound as if trapped in the middle of a storm. There was also a handy list of several songs listings – including, much to my pleasure, many of my preferred tunes.
A variety of paraphernalia lay scattered in the brightly-lit room – the last slice of someone’s pepperoni pizza (P’s I guess), a guitar, cymbals, a tambourine, three mouth organs, and some other musical instruments I didn’t know the names of. Posters lined two of the walls. Several music CDs overflowed from a half-opened drawer.
The above was all within a span of 4-5 minutes, during which time, the air-conditioning had wiped out any traces of humidity from that Friday evening, and pretty soon, it was time for 3...2...1, and I was on my own. Well, almost...
Steering clear of the lame introduction that I had thought of in the previous five minutes, I plunged into the show. Light-hearted bantering between P and me on prime-time seemed to be going well, as I could gauge from my sternest critic – best buddy, who nodded his head after regular intervals. It was time for a song and I succeeded in bullying P to airing one of my favourite tunes – ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ All this while, my phone buzzed merrily with messages from friends who had been informed well in advance to block an hour of their time, and who were dutifully listening in.
I was more comfortable and ever – and volunteered to pick the next call, a feisty girl who wanted to chatter about all and sundry. Of course, she wanted to listen to that dying breed – boy bands. After her was a chap, a self-proclaimed culturally-rich sort, who was disdainful of today’s theatre performances. He had no music request, which meant I was free to play what I wanted, which in this case, meant Lynyrd Skynyrd. Hurray!
The next few minutes were interspersed by more bantering, some commercials, 3 (or was it 4) songs, and finally it was time to wrap-up, much to my gloom after my 45 minutes of fame. Apparently, as soon as the clock struck 10, it was time for the next programme, which would play back Bollywood numbers, and spilling time over from one programme to another was frowned upon.
But well, surprise surprise - I wasn’t complaining.
After all,
I’d spun some tunes,
Talked to complete strangers without hanging up,
Had a super chatter-away time,
Revelled in that heady rush of being live on air,
Now, how many people can claim that? At least the last one?*
*And there it is – my modesty - back in action in my swollen head...
Sometimes I wonder why I wasn’t spanked when I was a kid. Should have had. Would have done me some good...
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