People might stop stealing music from the internet if there was something decent to listen to on the radio. I don’t know about your neighborhood, but it’s a desert here in Los Angeles. Yes, there is the occasional oasis -- Reverend Dan’s Music for Nimrods, on KXLU, Gary Kalomar’s The Open Road, Ann Litt’s, Weekend Becomes Eclectic, Tom Schnabel’s Café L.A. (all on KCRW), and L.A.’s ranking jazz D.J., Helen Borgers, on KKJZ. But beyond that, the pickings are slim. L.A.’s tasteful NPR station, which grows increasingly dull, is under the stewardship of a music director with a penchant for bland pop bands and limp, fourth generation knock-offs of Nick Drake. This is music that gives sensitivity a bad name -- mewling, treacly stuff that makes you want to smack the musician for making the record and smack the D.J. harder for playing it. And, it’s as if there’s an unwritten law that any track played can be no more than six months old. On the rare occasion that I hear two songs in a row by someone like Dylan, Leonard Cohen or David Bowie, I worry because I think the artist must’ve died. Musicians of their ilk have been banished to the purgatory of genius, which means they’re frequently name-checked in coverage of up-and-coming acts, but their music is never heard. The only redeeming aspect of Ray Charles’ recent death was that we finally got to hear some of his music on the radio again. And all it took was a few bars of (Night Time is) The Right Time to know that most of what we hear on the radio now is desperately second-rate.
The arid landscape of radio is partially attributable top the fact that this has become an era of specialization. There are shows -- entire stations, in fact -- devoted to reggae, jazz, electronica, classic rock, punk, etc, but listening to any of them is like sitting down to a meal comprised entirely of green beans or chocolate cake. Sure, a little is great, but what’s the next flavor? Most people I know like all kinds of music and don’t really want to take up permanent residence in any one style ghetto.
I was in junior high when the great days of FM radio were winding down, and I have vivid memories of how thrilling it was listen to the radio then. The segues were revelatory and there were ideas, humor and social commentary embedded in the flow of tunes -- it was as if a very witty, brilliant person was teaching you something through his musical selections. The ability to program music that way, with a knowledge of history and appreciation of all styles, seems to be a thing of the past.
I say all this as a preface to heralding the arrival of the first fantastic L.A. radio show in ages -- Steve Jones’ Jonesy’s Juke Box, which airs Monday through Friday from, noon to 2:00, on FM 103.1. Jones was the guitarist for the Sex Pistols, and though I always appreciated how crucial his playing was to the Pistols’ ferocious sound, I never really liked the guy. He seemed like a thug, someone who was always nicking equipment from other bands, and shagging as many birds as possible -- and back in the day, I think that’s exactly who he was. After the Pistols broke up Jones went through some pretty low lows thanks to his heroin habit, but he got sober many years ago and along the way he seems to have acquired a good deal of character. The music Jones plays on his show is fantastic -- I’ll get to that in a minute -- but it’s the between song chat that really makes the show. Jones is bracingly candid about his own shortcomings and failures, and he speaks with a humility that makes him impossible to dislike. He has a nutty sense of humor and a lovably mischievous giggle, and he seems incapable of editing himself. He says whatever crosses mind.
And he’s a wildly enthusiastic fan. Jones’ early life seems to be marked out for him by the bands he saw and where he saw them, and he shares incredibly detailed, frequently hilarious memories of gigs he attended in crummy London clubs of bands like the Faces, the Clash, and Roxy Music before they were anointed with success. For several weeks he structured the show by playing three songs in a row from a long and varied list of artists he admires, and it was unbelievable some of the things he played. The day he tipped his hat to the grievously underrated British outfit Magazine, he played an obscure cut called "The Light Pours Out of Me," and I got so excited I almost had to pull my car over. This is a song I never thought I’d hear on the radio! Hearing it really improved my day, too.
Why can’t radio always be this way? Will Van Morrison’s T.B. Sheets ever ring out across the land again? Now that Jones is at the controls, there’s a slim chance that it might.
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