Good Times, Great Oldies 97.1 KISN

When I was not much older than my own oldest child, getting ready for school inevitably involved eating my breakfast cereal at our kitchen table. Across the dining room, into the kitchen and sitting on the counter top just next to the sliding glass door looking into our backyard was an old black and white portable AM/FM stereo plugged into the wall outlet. Every morning that thing was one. Every morning it was set to Portland's good-time, great-oldies station 97.1 KISN. Every morning I was treated to the Beatles, Chuck Berry, the Ronnettes, Richie Valens, Elvis and any other hero of the 50's and 60's. I loved those mornings. I loved that music.

As kids do, I got older. The house changed. So did the stereo.

By middle school I was living in a two story house with an enormous daylight basement. Since my room was the only bedroom downstairs, the basement was practically mine. It was the perfect hideaway for an awkward adolescent. Rivers Cuomo had his garage. I had my finished basement. There, we kept my Dad's old record player/tape deck/stereo. He'd recently made the switch to CD's and most of our family listening was upstairs on the new stereo. Thus, the old record player was moved downstairs where it was essentially mine. While I'd use it from time to time to listen to tapes or records, I mostly kept listening to those oldies. By that time I was having friends over to spend the night. I'm not sure what most middle school boys did in the middle of the night, but I know what we did. We listened to the radio and called in requests all night long. On a good night, the DJ would play our songs. On a great night, they'd record us and use our voices to plug the radio station.

"Who plays all your oldies favorites?" the DJ would ask.

"97.1 K-I-S-N," we reply on cue. It was a great night.

I really like the time we're living in. I like having at my finger tips practically every single piece of music recorded. I want to be able to listen to an old Skip James album whenever I want. I don't know anyone who listens to Jenny Scheinman's restless violin innovations but I'd sure like to hear it. So thank you internet. For the music lover, it's a great time to be living.

But I'm also missing something. Part of what makes music great is its fleshiness. It brings people together. Those mornings at the kitchen table would have lost something if my Mom and my Dad and my sisters weren't there listening to the same songs thousands of other people were also hearing. It was populist. It brought people together. Sure, we have Apple commercials but it ain't no "Hound Dog" over a bowl of Cheerios. By middle school I was still listening to that radio station almost every night as I went to sleep. But the best nights were those nights listening with friends. There was no algorithm curating songs for us. There was a real live DJ informing us, educating us, teaching us what we needed to hear. And if we were lucky, he might just play the song we wanted to hear. When I wanted to hear "Maybellene" this morning, all I had to do was flex my index finger a couple of times. I got what I wanted. But then half the fun was waiting and hoping to hear it. And in the meantime I got to hear a half dozen other gems--gems I'd miss this day.

The question is then, would I go back? No, probably not. But I'm glad I have those times.