Radio Daze

Turn on. Tune in. My favorite way to listen to the music.

I succinctly remember my first transistor radio. I was nine years old, it was 1961, and I was in the throes of obsessive-compulsive behaviors common to a child that age. The radio was small—maybe a bit larger than an index card—and was housed in a tan, leather case with holes to accommodate the speaker. I’m trying to recall if it had an antenna. There also was an attached carrying strap and a small pouch that held a single earphone for discreet listening.

The radio lived on my right nightstand. When I tucked myself into bed at night, the radio had to be angled just so, my Cinderella Timex watch laid carefully along side. I checked all positioning several times until sleep overcame me. When I awakened, the time and the top tunes of the week were at the ready.

My transistor provided me the music of the late fifties and early sixties. As did the radio in our 1960 Chevy Impala. Unless my mom was driving on the newly completed Schuylkill Expressway—she turned off the radio on major highways. The songs played on a single band of AM stations became the soundtrack of my life.

As a pre- and full-fledged Philadelphia teen, I listened to WIBG (Wibbage) 99, WFIL (Famous 56), and WIP 610 that featured DJs like Hy (Hysky O’Rooney McVoutie O’Zoot) Litt and Joe (the Rockin’ Bird) Niagra, the Boss Jocks (Dr.) Don Rose and (King) George Michael, and (Wee) Willie Webber, respectively. Each entertained between playing records with their own unique shtick.

The stations encouraged you to call in and request songs in real time. It was a thrill to hear yourself on the air! And they ran contests. WFIL’s was Name It and Claim It, where the DJ played the first few notes or bars of a record and you had to be the first or the seventh or the fifty-sixth to call in with the correct title to win that 45 rpm single. The effort was made more challenging by the fact that most of us were using rotary phones. Dialing a phone number took an extra second, which was of no matter unless you were trying to be the first caller. Contestants (including me) developed a strategy: when the DJ announced the upcoming contest, you dialed the first six numbers for the radio station (pre-area code) and waited for the first few identifying notes of the record. Then, knowing the title, you dialed the last number to complete the call. The plan failed more often than it succeeded, especially when you didn’t have to be the first caller. My one victory was the 45 of Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild.

Trips to the Jersey shore played out to the music of the New York stations like WABC, whose broadcast capabilities reached south. It seemed all the transistor radios on the beach were tuned alike, the songs of the sixties drifting with the breeze over our baby-oiled bodies. Who needed the cacophony of dueling boom boxes when you could hear the same old Four Tops song on beach towels stretching from Steel Pier in Atlantic City to the Ventnor Fishing Pier and beyond.

Despite the fact FM radio didn’t gain a secure foothold (or earhold) until the 1970s, I never felt limited in my listening. I had maybe three or four AM stations I dial-tuned on my transistor. You could preset up to six on the car radio. If you drove beyond a station’s reach and the music dissolved into static, you fiddled with the tuner to locate an audible alternative. The closest we currently come to that situation is when we drive to our beach house and we are following the Phils game. We start to lose the sports/talk channels (94 FM or 1210 AM) at the 5-mile marker on the Atlantic City Expressway and have to deal with the static for the last 10 minutes of the ride. [Sidebar: Thankfully, even though we were headed for the shore, we got to hear Halladay pitch his no-hitter in October 2010.]

It wasn’t until I was married that I regularly listened to the FM stations on our new combination record player/tuner in our living room. I didn’t mind that my trusty 1971 Chevy Nova came only with an AM radio—in the car was where I enjoyed most of my music, just as I do now. I hear songs in my SUV and am instantly transported back in time. Theme from Shaft? I’m on Roosevelt Boulevard on my way home from Temple. Sweet City Woman? My summer job at the Naval Depot. TSOP? I’m on my way to teach fifth grade at Patterson Elementary School.

When Bruce and I were newlyweds, the clock radio alarm woke us to talk radio station WWDB FM. We set the channel because on the weekend we awakened to Sid Mark hosting Sundays with Sinatra, a 3-hour program exclusively featuring the music of Ol’ Blue Eyes. WWDB personalities like Wynn Moore and Dominic Quinn invaded my weekday early morning REM sleep with their commentary and oft-times rude responses to callers comments. I indulged my desire to get in on the conversation only once or twice when the topic was particularly relevant and/or the remarks got under my skin.

During Bruce’s Bridal Suite years, he advertised on WWDB. Susan Bray, one of our favorite hosts, touted the store. Those also were the years he commuted on Mondays from his Levittown store to our home in Delco. During his 10 p.m. drive after the store closed, he listened to WCAU mystery radio broadcasts—they kept him company on the almost deserted stretch of I-95. Unfortunately, he once became so engrossed in the story he lost track of his speed. A kindly officer had to remind him to slow down. But he very much enjoyed the benefits of the late-night availability of the Clear Channels that brought distant stations to your radio dial.

When WWDB ceased to exist, which sometimes happens to radio formats, we switched to KYW 1060 AM for our morning fare. As its jingle notes, “Give us 22 minutes and we’ll give you the world” (I later parodied the statement to, “Give us 22 minutes and we’ll have sex.” But that’s another matter). The KYW format has barely changed over its (and my) 60-year history with the station. Headlines on the quarter hour. Traffic and transit (now traffic and weather) “on the twos” (i.e., two, twelve, twenty-two, thirty-two, forty-two, and fifty-two after the hour). Sports news in the teens. Business news at twenty-five and fifty-five after the hour. Commercials for two to three minutes before the traffic info. A “rewind” segment that used to cover several events that occurred on that date—now just one event is mentioned. I can determine the time in my head without looking at the clock just by listening to where KYW is in the program. When I hear the call letters announced, it’s time to get out of bed.

Not along ago, KYW began broadcasting on 103.9 FM—their jingle changed accordingly. However, no matter how many times I hear the new call numbers, I still think 1060. I now have the luxury of listening to KYW anywhere I go via the Audacy app on my phone, my nod to both old and new ways.

All of our kids are radio aficionados—Ali is our most noteworthy radio listener. Her radio obsession began, like mine, early on, when she and Missy would call in requests and dedications on Saturday nights when they babysat Robert. On more than one date night, Bruce and I would hear our daughters over the restaurant sound system that was tuned to the radio. Around that time, Ali became addicted to 102.9 FM and its light rock playlist. When the station went off the air, she wrote a parody to Black is Black (“I want my radio station back!”) and got to sing it when she called in. In her high school and college days, Ali worked for several local radio stations, helping staff publicity events for Q102 FM and performing administrative duties for KYW. Enamored with the media industry, Ali started out college as a communications major with an interest in radio. Through her coursework, she grew to love television production. But she still loves radio, even down to seeking the local stations she finds on excursions with Leo.

Through the years, radio technology in our cars evolved—from AM to FM to multiple bands of each, allowing us to preset and quickly tune to an ever-increasing number of local stations. For a while, it seemed there were fewer commercials on AM than FM—that was a short-lived pleasure (but I guess ya gotta pay the bills). And the radio personalities on FM seemed less flamboyant. But through years of car purchases and leases, setting up the radio in a new car is a priority second only to finding the switches for the lights and wipers. My go-to’s were the oldies, pop, and easy listening stations where I enjoyed Motown, Manilow, and mellow rock. And sports on occasion.

Not much about my music platforms has changed with the inception of satellite radio—in our case, Sirius XM—except for the expansion of “themed” stations. I have to admit, I like having my music catalogued by decade (yay sixties and seventies!) and genre (hard rock, country). Satellite radio has expanded the possibilities within each. And across artists (Elvis. Sinatra. Would love a Barry Manilow option). And it’s added new genres like On Broadway. Sometimes I tune to the sports and comedy stations. Bruce follows the news. But it’s mostly music, music, MUSIC!

As I’ve aged, I increasingly appreciate fewer DJ interruptions to my listening pleasure. With so many listening options, I grow impatient with their chatter. Although I do like Seth Rudetsky’s Broadway insights and Dave Hoeffel’s Philly references and sometimes Phlash Phelp’s travel stories.

But my all-time favorite feature of Sirius XM radio is the ability to preset favorite songs and artists and be notified of the station on which they are playing. There is nothing more fun than seeing Holiday Road or Convoy pop up on the dashboard screen and tuning in for a good singalong, alone or with whomever is riding shotgun.

All of our kids and grandkids love listening to music (and the Phillies and Eagles in season) in the car. Like me, it’s how they stay abreast of current hits as well as stay in touch with their parents’ and grandparents’ musical history. They have eclectic tastes and will channel surf as the mood strikes. Leo is partial to the seventies. Zack and Cam used to sit in the back seat, and I would run through the stations until their option to “Skip!” became “That’s good!” They’ve all reached the age where they can sit in the front seat and do their own channel changing.

Classic transistor radios powered by 9-volt batteries have gone the way of the old square 45-playing record players. But we still have one old transistor for use during power outages. We also have a few boom box style radio-cassette-compact disc combos we used when the grands were little for music to fall asleep to. No surprise I am reluctant to part with these old friends.

The most notable proof of our family’s car radio infatuation came about 2 years ago. Bruce, having yielded to what he calls his “senior life crisis,” purchased a long-desired and admired 1962 Thunderbird. The car was in great condition, but we quickly discovered the radio reception and sound were faulty. And although sometimes it’s nice to drive sans music and put down the windows and pretend we are cruising as we did sixty years ago, the silence can be offputting and deafening. So we had a new radio installed. The dashboard dial looks retro, but the unit has Bluetooth capabilities—a nod both to our love of vintage music and our willingness (tongue-in-cheek) to embrace technology. Any station we can reach via our phones we can enjoy as we drive. The only condition, Bruce’s insists per the age of the car, is that we just listen to the oldies.

Bruce says if you listen to the radio in an old car, you should listen only to old music.