Radiohead

Technology is, on the whole, wonderful.  Take alarm clocks.  Once, an alarm clock was a clockwork thing with a couple of chimes and a hammer that, once a day, went off like a Haribo binging ADHD kid.

Then, advances in technology led to the alarm clock that buzzed, then beeped.

Then there was the apex of alarm clock technology, the Teasmaid.  The Teasmaid not only woke you up with a gentle buzz, but commenced boiling a little kettle at the same time, the idea being that you could have that all-important first cup of tea of the day without all the palaver of having to get out of bed.  This was liberation.  For those who sadly lacked butlers, it was a taste of what having staff was like, and for most, that tasted like PG Tips.

The next great leap sideways was the clock radio.  Instead of a bringggg, a buzz, a beep or a scalding jet of steam, you could be woken by a breakfast radio DJ, now probably safely locked up thanks to Yewtree, prattling nonsense in your ear.

Now, you can buy alarm clocks wake you by slowly increasing the level of light in the room whilst playing soothing sounds like the sea, or birdsong.  This is supposed to ease you into your day rather than provoke the natural reaction, which is to sit bolt upright screaming ‘what the fuck am I doing outdoors?’.

My alarm clock is set to Radio 4, because I like to go from peaceful sleep to enraged and in desperate need of tea as quickly as possible.

It is a habit that I am going to have to break, before I break the radio.  Radio 4 at breakfast time means the ‘Today’ programme and, frankly, I’ve reached the end of my tether with that particular show.  The presenters are so adversarial that my mental image of the studio is not some bland studio at Broadcasting House but a gladiatorial arena carpeted with blood soaked sand.

They really do seem to delight in getting their guests on, asking them a question, interrupting them, belittling them and then, just when the guest has managed to get into a full spluttering rage that promises entertainment, end the interview.  All of this before I’ve managed to wrestle myself out from under the duvet.

No more.  The internet has shown that there is a world wide web of listening choices out there.  Because that most modern of communication technologies, the internet, is revealing the true wonder and extent of that most traditional of communication technologies, radio.

Years ago, if you wanted to listen to radio from other countries, there were two ways of doing so.  You could set up a ham radio station in your shed and spend your spare time going up and down the dial, hoping that atmospheric conditions were such that a radio station in Minsk’s signal would bounce in your direction, or you could travel.

Not now.  I have an app that lets me listen to radio over the internet.  So far, so iPlayer.  But this app lets you browse by location.

Foreign radio is fucking brilliant!

By far my favourite is a Parisian station called Allouette.  Even the adverts are cool.  And DJs are so, so much more tolerable when you don’t understand a bloody word they’re saying.

But why stop there.  African radio is a hoot, as is South American.

And bloody hell, do the Americans love a bit of Christian radio.  In a way, it’s a no-brainer that Christians would have radio stations, it’s like being able to do missionary work without ever having to leave the trailer park.

And there’s so much of it.  I’ve decided.  My days of listening to grumpy old men interrupting one another are over.  No wonder the Today programme presenters are all so grumpy, they have to get up at four in the morning.  I’m going to start listening to radio from different time zones, so that when I’m getting up, I can listen to the mellow sounds of the ‘relax hour’ somewhere where it’s getting dark.  Alternatively, just listen to Radio 3, the most relaxed radio station on the planet at any hour.

The obvious joys of Radio 5

The controller of Radio 5 was grilled recently on Radio 5 and defended his station against accusations that it was ‘Radio bloke’ by pointing out that it has a lot of female presenters.  It certainly does, and very pretty they sound too.  The genius of Radio 5 is threefold.  Firstly, where a Radio 4 interview with a politician may last two minutes, on radio 5 they have nothing but time, and so interviews turn into conversations.  It’s fantastic to hear people whose media training means they have developed the skills to put their point in ninety seconds have to discuss matters in depth and, in truth, one gets the sense they actually enjoy it.  Secondly, as mentioned in a previous blog, it keeps middle-aged men off the streets, in this case the sheepskin-swaddled commentators that sit in media boxes at football grounds around the country, reporting into the mother ship back at Broadcasting House.  And of course, thirdly, still with middle aged me, gives purpose to those that call in to share their thoughts with their presenters and, quite incidentally, with the nation.  One thing I have noticed is that Radio 5 sports presenters treat their listeners with respect, and if you mention that you’re a season ticket holder, you can espouse whatever view you want, no matter how unconventional, no matter what subject.
What radio 5 has done is build a community.  If Radio 5 were a village, it would probably be the sort you only stop in long enough to realise you should be getting along, but for the people that live there, they wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
And it’s worth mentioning that Radio 5 Extra is, of course, the home of Test Match Special.  Not for nothing was the original inscription above the door of Broadcasting House intended to be ‘Nation shall speak cricket commentary and remark about cake unto nation’ before somebody realised that wouldn’t fit and that cricket commentary and cake can be summarised simply as ‘peace’.
I am increasingly drawn to Radio 5.  I even occasionally listen to shows about soccer, a sport I know nothing, and care even less, about.  But it’s lovely to hear the presenters and the fans get excited about it, and heartwarming when some poor sod whose team has just had a six nothing thrashing starts by congratulating the opposing team before going on to describe how his team’s manager really does need to be beheaded, ‘Game of Thrones’ stylee, on the centre spot at the start of the next home game.

The mysterious joy of Radio 3

Digital radios are fantastic.  I remember when I first got one and span up and down the dial (I have yet to adapt to digital terminology) amazed at the sheer number of stations there were out there that programmed soft rock and adverts for air-sprung mattresses. 
Of course, back in the day, one of the most popular stations was ‘test signal’ featuring birdsong, a single track endlessly repeated, which is obviously where ‘Magic FM’ got their programming philosophy from and where Radio 4’s immensely successful ‘tweet of the day’ can trace its genetic heritage to.
The internet, of course, really has opened up the world of radio, allowing one to listen to stations from many nations.  I like to listen to French radio because it makes me feel like I’m on holiday, because hearing Madonna’s hits introduced in French never gets old (unlike Madonna), and because it’s like Eurovision every day.
Given the number of channel choices, presetting presents some difficult decisions.  I like to keep it classic.
1 – Radio 1.  Listening to Radio 1 is a little like visiting a pub that you used to drink at all the time and used to be really great, but has been taken over by a chain, is utterly crap and yet is full of young people drinking stuff you don’t recognise.  You drop by now and again, but leave quickly realising it’s no longer for you, but not before you have picked up enough contemporary cultural references to be able to drop them into conversation with young people to demonstrate that you are still down with the kids.  This is how I learned that ‘Selfie’ was not a new girl band.
2 – Radio 2.  This is where you live now.  Radio 2 used to be as solid and respectable as a granite headstone, but essentially it has gone to hell since Jimmy Young and Wogan left.  Only Ken Bruce remains, like a Tower raven.  Radio 2 is now a life raft for former Radio 1 jocks.
3 – Radio 3. I’ll come back to this.
4 – Radio 4.  Jesus fucking Christ.  Why I even bother I have no idea.  I also have no idea what they put in the tea at Radio 4 but I’m guessing that it is some sort of spin-off of a failed pharmaceutical trial for a confidence-enhancing pill that actually takes the user past ‘cocky’ and buries the needle of the arrogant-o-metre.  A typical ‘Today’ programme interview doesn’t even start with a cordial ‘good morning’ now.  As for ‘Woman’s Hour’ – they’re always talking about their feelings, FFS.  Of course Radio 4 used to be famous for its comedy, but now the rule appears to be ‘who cares if it’s funny as long as it’s clever’.  Once they broadcast the last ever ‘Cabin Pressure’, I’m off.
5 – Radio 5.  Worth the license fee alone.  Without Radio 5 befuddled middle-aged men everywhere would be wandering the streets.  That applies to listeners and presenters both.
6 – Wildcard.  Used to be Radio 4 Extra, before they turned their output to all Hancock, all the time.  Obviously not Radio 6 or 6 Extra, both of which are the radio station equivalent of that kid at school who used to be into music that nobody had ever heard of, because it’s shit.  I suspect that when the BBC eventually set up a national Folk station, that 6 preset will see a little more action.
So, why do I present Radio 3?  No idea, as I like my classical music to have been used in a poignant scene from a movie, or an advert, and interspersed with adverts fro Volvo dealerships in the local area.  In short, broadcast on Classic FM.
The appeal to Radio 3 is obvious to anyone who has listened to it – they broadcast based on the assumption that nobody is listening.  Indeed, sometimes they broadcast stuff that actively makes it hard to listen.  Did you know that a lot of classical music is quite quiet?  The other day I actually thought the radio was off and nearly choked on my mid-morning sherry when I heard the presenter boom ‘and that was Prada’s ‘ode to a nice night in’.’  The music they play is varied to say the least, from jazz to choral to chamber to ‘early’.  (‘Early’ music is not, as I had always presumed, stuff played on the breakfast show, but rather tunes from early on in the development of music, essentially anything after two rocks being banged together up to the formation of the Beatles in, judging from the way Paul MacCartney looks these days, 1762).
But that’s just the stuff I’ve (largely accidentally) heard.  Christ alone knows what else they broadcast.  For all I know Radio 3 is the nation’s premier ambient trip-hop broadcaster and the only radio station where presenters are allowed to n-bomb.
One strongly suspects that the vision statement for radio 3 is ‘niche’.  With such a varied programme it may well be the only station where people tune in for certain programmes, rather than just leave it on all day.  One can imagine that radio 3 listeners listen to their favourite programmes in their shed, that shed being lined with acoustic dampeners and liberally stocked with the better kind of stereo, sherry and beard grooming paraphernalia.
I have Radio 3 on my pre-set for two reasons.  Firstly, because I am massively OCD and numbered presents on radios are an obvious invitation to assign those buttons to the correspondingly named stations (a stroke of marketing genius by the BBC who all those years ago might have been criticised for lack of imagination in naming their first national radio station ‘1’).  Secondly, because I like to think I am the sort of person who has radio 3 on their preset because I live in hope of one day catching an unsuspecting presenter unawares and discovering that ‘The Bach Hour’ is actually used to broadcast the theme tunes of classic children’s telly serials.
‘Oh white horses’ or ‘You’ve got to fight for what you want…’, either way, that’s quality public broadcasting.

Best. Broadcast. Evah!

Live broadcasting. All the enjoyment of normal broadcasting but with the extra element of danger that one might hear the word ‘cunt’ on the television (thank you ‘I’m a celebrity’) or on the radio (thank you ’Today’ programme). You are of course, free to use the word yourself around the house (it’s best to do so in private, as public usage, say in a boozer, could land you in a spot of bother) as often as you like, repeating and repeating like somebody trying to learn Tourette’s using one of those language tape things.

Live broadcasting lets us look behind the curtain at the performance of presenters who, in pre-recorded programmes look shiny, slick and flawlessly professional. The only time one saw fallibility was on the occasional clip shows made up of out-takes, where one witnessed an increasingly distressed presenter trying to record a segment containing the word ‘topple’ without getting a fit of the giggles, or being attacked by an enraged gibbon. Hil-hairy-arse.

On live broadcasts, anything can happen and it’s a wonder that it doesn’t more often. The most common threat is somebody larking about behind the presenter as they report from the sort of place where the public have not had media training, such as a council estate. And how much fun would it be to see MPs or Peers misbehaving behind Nick Robinson as he reports from Parliament? If I was an MP I would at no time be without a cardboard sign that could quickly be unfolded and read ‘hello Mum!’.

Normally, live broadcasts are reserved for occasions where larking would be unsuitable, featuring a regional BBC reporter in a North Face anorak (please address your letters of complaint about product placement to ‘your composter, the end of your garden, Little England’) looking sombre in front of a flooded high street or an otherwise unremarkable stretch of street made tragic by the abundance of petrol station bouquets or, god forbid, soft toys that line the perimeter of the police cordon.

Sports reporting is the exception. Sport tends to be covered live and a particular breed of presenter has emerged – somebody that can talk with passion about twenty two overpaid nancy boys sex pests kicking around a ball for ninety minutes, or two blokes clacking balls around a green baize table for, well, forever in my experience or, my very favourite, commenting on a Grand Prix, where it’s acknowledged that the most exciting bit is the start, requiring the commentator to begin the commentary at a pitch of excitement that horse-racing commentators normally conclude with, then maintain it for the next two hours. The god-like presenters of ‘Test Match Special’ cope with a five day schedule by only occasionally remarking on the play, the rest of the time discussing the local wildlife, what they got up to last night, last week or last decade, cakes and so on.

Football commentary, on the radio, is perhaps the apex of live commentary. There’s a quote reported by the late, great, Alistair Cooke that radio was preferred to television because ‘the pictures were better’. Fair enough but that quote is from the late 1940’s and whoever said it plainly hadn’t seen a fifty inch plasma job. So football commentators on the radio know they have to work extra hard to compete with somebody who can watch the match. On the telly. In a pub.

This possibly explains the approach that BBC Scotland took yesterday in its ‘Sportsound’ programme, where, around five o’clock in the afternoon, when all the Scottish Cup football matches were ending more or less at the same time (injury and stoppage time staggering the final whistles over a few minutes), they kept an open microphone to all the commentators at all the grounds.

No matter how close a commentator at a football match presses their special one way microphone to their lips, you can still hear the roar of the crowd, including the occasional fruity wanker fuck and cunt. It’s like somebody organised a flashswear. In the last minutes of the Scottish Cup, where the fans were urging their sides to either score to go through to the next round or to equalise and get that lucrative replay, the sound of the crowd was such that having the radio on was like standing under a waterfall.

That was as nothing though compared to the excitement of the commentators, one of which, reporting from Firhill (home of the greatest football team on the planet – Partick Thistle), managed a textbook ‘curse of the commentator’ with the fabulous ‘the score here nil nil and likely to stay that way and Queen-Of-the-South have just scored!’. There was lots of this sort of thing and, frankly, it was probably the best ten minutes of live broadcasting I’ve ever heard. The anchor/presenter/ringmaster/conductor orchestrating the whole thing did a fabulous job and, I don’t know about him, but I was wrung out by the time it had finished and needed a sit down and a fag.

Review - Ed Reardon: A writer's burden

A half hour radio show stretched out into an hour-long play. Twice the fun or the same among of fun stretched out over twice the time?

Probably somewhere in between, forty five minutes of fun stretched out over an hour.

It was excellent to see Ed in the flesh. More thrilling somehow to see a radio character doing a live show than seeing a television character appearing on the stage. The reality did not disappoint, Ed was everything one imagined, although the shorts were possibly a surprise.

The audience filled about a third of the large theatre, and was very radio four, lots of beards and sensible anoraks. It might have been better to go for a more intimate venue, as the show usually plays either in a room with a radio in it or a head with headphones in it. The show also suffered a little from recycling material from last year's fringe one-off, the success of which led to a longer run this time round.

But it was, ultimately, very satisfying, like a live action version of a spin off book from a radio or telly series that reveals hitherto unknown aspects of the character. There was also a truly outstanding line about Berkhamstead's transport links with London.

I have a great fondness for Ed Reardon on the radio, and like any fan get a little prickly when anyone takes liberties with the character, even if that character is the character himself. The show served up more of the same Ed and, if it felt a bit over-long that's probably because I expect the show to be half an hour followed by the news and then Front Row.