When the giant Indie 103.1 fell, public radio station KCRW was all over it. Taking out a full page ad in the LA WEEKLY, they announced their rivals' collapse, and were careful not to outwardly celebrate the anticipated surge in their listenership. Instead, they reinforced this promotional message: We all have a right to independent music. But KCRW isn’t the only station to adopt the influx of confused, Indie kids without a radio wave to ride home. Out of a little building on the Loyola Marymount campus blasts a radio signal for KXLU.
Years ago, I would listen to teens in still-developing voices take shifts between classes, popping in records from Rilo Kiley and The Magnetic Fields. One grad student with a booming baritone was so passionate about 40’s jazz guitarist Charlie Christian, that we all fell in love with him. They would always play my song requests for those harrowing morning commutes. When I needed to avoid looping news on NPR or shameless jock rock on KROQ, I’d flip my dial to the artful, homespun station.
Years ago, I would listen to teens in still-developing voices take shifts between classes, popping in records from Rilo Kiley and The Magnetic Fields. One grad student with a booming baritone was so passionate about 40’s jazz guitarist Charlie Christian, that we all fell in love with him. They would always play my song requests for those harrowing morning commutes. When I needed to avoid looping news on NPR or shameless jock rock on KROQ, I’d flip my dial to the artful, homespun station.
Then something changed. There seemed to be a silent contest between the students to see who could find the most obscure, avant garde band. It was the ever-so-familiar “Who’s More Punk?” contest that moved from an isolated social sphere to a public arena. And the music went downhill from there. Elliot Smith and Fugazi were replaced by bands with names like, Giraffe Chainsaw Melody and Winged Pistol School Bus. Poor listeners sat on congested freeways listening to spoons scraping guitar strings and crashing dishes in the background. The student DJs sat pleased with themselves, thinking, “Ha. Top that one.” Of course the DJ on the next shift would play a ballad featuring a screeching cat, a banjo and an alphabetical reading of Vietnamese last names. Worse, the sincere enthusiasm was replaced by apathetic droning. Girls in pixie voices mumble, "Sooo, like, um..." and mussed hair depressives who believe dead air is okay make make awkward sounds every one in a while.
KXLU, we get it. You’re different. You're light years ahead of the rest of this big, dumb population. Now can you please go back to playing real music?
Thank you.
