Back in the early nineties, before the internet had sunk its claws into every corner of our lives, there existed a magical window of time when the radio was more than just a box that played music. It was our lifeline. Our confessional. Our social network.
Now, I wasn’t always a fan of what was “in.” My musical roots were tangled up in outlaw country and classic rock, thanks to long rides in the truck with my dad and his stubborn allegiance to Waylon and Skynyrd. That stuff seeped into my bones like motor oil into a garage floor. But by the time I hit middle school, that kind of taste didn’t exactly win you any popularity contests. So I did what any self-respecting pre-teen would do…I adapted.
Around 1992 or so, I discovered a local radio station out of the next town over. During the day, I wouldn’t have been caught dead listening to it. But come summer evenings, when the sun dipped low and the cicadas started their nightly sermon, I’d retreat to my room, radio dialed in, phone in hand, heart pounding like a snare drum.
From 8 to 11 every night, they ran a call-in request show. But this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill “play my favorite song” kind of thing. No sir. This was a full-blown teenage soap opera, broadcast live over the airwaves. You could call in with a song request, sure, but the real gold was in the dedications and messages. That’s where the drama lived.
You’d hear stuff like, “From Mick to Eric…don’t forget the reds tomorrow. We’ll meet behind the gym at lunch.” Reds, of course, being code for contraband. Cigarettes. And if you were worried about getting caught, you’d just use initials. M to E. Cryptic enough to keep the teachers guessing, but clear as day to those of us in the know.
Then there were the spicy ones. “From Lace to Leather…Mom’s working tonight. Come over.” We all wanted names like that. Leather. Lace. They sounded like characters from a pulp novel or a late-night cable movie. And the dedications? Oh, they could get downright scandalous. “This one goes out to Amanda from Brian…here’s AC/DC’s ‘You Shook Me All Night Long.’” I remember that one vividly because Amanda was my cousin. Thirteen years old and grounded for a month after that little stunt.
The same songs played night after night. “November Rain.” “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” “I’d Do Anything for Love.” But the music was just the glue. The real action was in the chatter between tracks. That’s when the DJ would read the messages, and that’s when we’d all start dialing each other up. “Did you hear what Mick said to Eric?” “What do you think Brian and Amanda did last night?” We’d dissect every syllable like it was the Zapruder film.
Sometimes we’d gather in groups, huddled around a radio like it was a campfire, passing the phone around, whispering and giggling. And it wasn’t just our school. Kids from five other high schools were in on it too. It was a whole network of hormone-fueled adolescents, connected by static and teenage angst.
Before we had wheels, before we could cruise the strip or sneak into R-rated movies, this was how we stayed connected. It was our version of Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat all rolled into one, only it smelled like Aqua Net and sounded like Meat Loaf.
Eventually, the station changed formats. Talk radio took over. Syndicated voices droning on about politics and the economy. But for one hour each evening, they still had a local show that took calls about local politics and national news. And every now and then, I’d call in. Just for old time’s sake.
“Thanks for calling, you’re on the air. What’s on your mind?”
“I’d like to request ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ and dedicate it from Mick to Jeanni.”
Click.
They’d hang up on me every time. But I didn’t mind. Somewhere out there, I knew someone else heard it. Someone who remembered. Someone who smiled.
Nostalgia’s a funny thing. It sneaks up on you. And when it does, it brings with it the scent of summer nights, the hum of a radio, and the thrill of hearing your message read out loud to the world.
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