Mic’d Up

Relative to the long string of dark nights, it seemed as if the sun had been up forever
today. Sunday is a slow roll by design. Coffee in bed. Cats tucked in tight. Edit the set
list from last night’s edition. It’s the geekiest I get about my show. An accurate set list
and a long, sunny day to navigate life are all that’s on the schedule.

Post-radio buzz reverberates for days after my alternate Saturday night air shift. My
Electric Angel persona ends by 9 p.m., but being plugged into the frequency modulated
magic carpet for three hours lingers like the long-ago kiss of a secret crush. In the two
weeks between shows I am sensitized to music. Whether it’s the television shows I
consume, the radio programs I follow, or the vinyl page on social media that serves as a
vast cyber community of like-minded heads, freaks and obsessives, my very being is a
dragnet for new ideas, moods and messages. I strive to keep my choices fresh and
interesting, all the while weaving an aural tapestry that insinuates into the listeners’ very
being.

I like to imagine what the listener is doing on Saturday night. Mixing drinks, making
dinner, sparking a bowl, getting dressed to go out, dancing on the deck, or zoned out on
the couch, a good pair of headphones cupping ears weary of the human voice. Music is
a conduit, a ticket to escape, a means of communication through the pulsing of the
blood in our veins. Music is memory and mood and – dare I say – magic. Delivering
those endless possibilities via a medium that is at once quaint and global, is a charge I
take very seriously.

The undertaking is not about me – though make no mistake, what I derive from
becoming the Electric Angel is impossible to quantify – but has everything to do with the
end user. Not every set list will hit the mark or move mountains, but at the very least it
should be delivered with confidence, forethought and creativity. I surmise that if I am
engaged with what I’m playing, the listener may well be, too.

The three-hour tour is the longest show on the KOTO airwaves. Only a few of us have
the honor. It’s a lot of music, but I have the luxury of being able to present long-form
selections. Those tunes might be among my favorites as musicians stretch out, fall deep
in the pocket and set course on an adventure within the overall journey of the air shift.
By the time I sign off, it’s as if I’ve emerged from time travel. I’m reluctant to return to
reality, whatever the hell that is.

But I do. Slow Sunday awaits. Once I’ve perfected the set list, it’s time to disturb the
cats, throw back the covers and put feet to ground. On this sunny Sunday, the Dearly
Beloved and I shook off the insanity of current events and basked in the unseasonal
temperatures, our faces turned like flowers to our life star. My contentment is profound
on Sundays after radio. I am, as Art Goodtimes once wrote after tuning in to the Electric
Angel, “blessed and buzzing.”