From a local music/entertainment scene writer:
I'm alright Jack. Keep your hands off my stack...
With Jack FM gone, I remembered that I did a post or two on the subject a year ago for the now defunct 'Grossly Underpaid' blog. It turns out that Jack and I have a little in common. We both lost our names and got reformatted.
What strikes me in looking back at this old post is how much restraint I showed. Glad I don't do that here.
Anyway, Jack... I never liked you, though I listened in every now and again. Mostly, I kicked you while you were up. I thought you were pretty hollow, even if you did play Starfish and The Ramones (Memo to the locals: increase your fucking play lists ). Still, I'm even a bit proud that little Charleston, for all its failings, flipped you the bird.
Rest in Peace, asshole.
(The post)
Finding a radio station that you liked used to be a little like falling in love. Both you and the station were in the right place at the right time. You liked the music and the silly things they did. They liked that you dressed in their t-shirts and showed up like a stalker to their strange but meaningless spectacles and commercial events at used car lots. You liked that they told you they loved you. They liked that you did the same thing -- if you were caller number nine.
Of course, it never lasted. There could be be a million different reasons: they changed formats and went from Top 40 to the porn songs of the '70s. They brought in a canned morning show, some overpaid chuckleheads who can't get over just how funny they are. Or maybe you just grew a little. Maybe you noticed that the same couple of local burnouts you'd been listening to weren't that funny any more. Maybe you started to think that they should have taken that job at Sears long, long ago. Maybe you just decided that you'd had enough of Kenny Chesney and Tim McGraw for a while and want some music that doesn't reek of old socks. Whether it was you or them, it was over.
You both decided to see other people.
These days, after all the ugly things that have happened to radio, it's hard enough just finding a radio station you can stand to listen to even some of the time. Enter 107.3 Jack FM. This is radio at it's best -- and worst. Unlike other radio stations, it comes with a seemingly bottomless play list and a song rotation that moves very slowly, like the planets rounding the sun. What you hear one day, you might not hear the next. (Pop princes and princesses beware. You ain't all that.)
The downside is that there is nothing local about it. It's piped in from parts unknown, programmed by garden gnomes for all you know. There's no DJ, no announcer except for the boob recorded to do the mindless sweeps. There's nobody to tell you about the weather, the traffic or surprise you with some insight or a joke (granted in these parts, those moments are as likely to happen as the governor inviting me over to his place for a beer). You still get the crass (and poorly done) radio commercials, but Jack FM is as locally involved as a Long John Silvers, probably less.
Jack FM is the big box store interpretation of a girlfriend. Like a girlfriend that you pay, she can do lots of neat tricks. She can do things the other radio stations can't or won't do, like play three songs in a row that don't sound exactly like the three they just played. Still, no matter how many tricks she does, no matter how much fun she is, something about it seems a bit phony.
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