There are songs played on AM radio that I would never put on at home, or want to hear in a bar or on an iPod; they only seem to sound good on a tinny AM receiver, especially the one in my car.
A Sound Argument
The 11th of March 2010. Texan band Neon Indian is in town as part of Canadian Music Week. For months, the band's stellar LP, Psychic Chasms, has been blogged about as if they are this year's version of the Vivian Girls. And it turns out for good reason. The album manages to sound both well-worn and new at the same time. Immediately memorable, songs such as "Deadbeat Summer" and "Terminally Chill" contain the same sort of hooks and catchiness inherent to pop hits, but the sonics here are somewhat deformed, at times sounding like you're listening to the record on a slightly warped cassette player. Like other lost-in-time artists such as Ariel Pink, Best Coast, and Toro Y Moi, Neon Indian's sound is a washed-out, "chill-wave" (or "glo-fi") rendering of oldies radio, the sort of sound that reminds you of something, but is inherently different. In other words, while it conjures the past, it's only retro in its top-coat sheen and could never be mistaken for a song from another era, nor charged with being mere nostalgia art.
"The lo-fi sound is not a novelty", said Best Coast bassist Bobb Bruno in an interview with Eye Weekly magazine. Serving also as a producer on albums by artists Pocahaunted and Magic Lantern, Bruno explains, "When you look back on history, every period has a certain sound that defines the era — '90s indie-rock was super-clean, with very few effects on anything; later in the 2000s, there were a ton of synths. I think this cycle in music just happens to be a thing that people like to hear."
Fans of this music, however, tend to take the top-coat analogy a bit too literal. Walking into the Neon Indian show was like stepping into a time warp that takes you back to 1982. The crowd — the majority born in the early '80s — don American Apparel costumes complete with Oates-worthy moustaches. On stage, Neon Indian's Alan Palomo is rocking out to "Terminally Chill, fourth song from Psychic Chasms, an album that begins with a short intro called "AM". Everybody's digging it, even the ironic sweater-and-stash crowd not typically prone to dancing.
As I listen, I can't help imagining how great this would sound in the car, on the radio. It's the same feeling I had months earlier when King Khan and BBQ Show played a show that any fan of oldies radio would have loved. There's just something to this sound that unites otherwise disparate listeners; even the most ardent fans of contemporary underground music, whether it's the cinematic sounds of Jóhann Jóhannsson or the otherworldly soundscapes of James Farraro, crave the oldies once in a while. You may claim to only enjoy Sunn O))) but down a few brews and you really want some CCR.
Not that all oldies sound good in public settings. A week before the Neon Indian show, a much larger crowd sits inside the Air Canada Centre to watch the Toronto Raptors take on the New York Knicks. In homage to the Basketball Association of America, the Raptors are wearing replica Toronto Huskies jerseys from the 1947 team. Keeping with the retro vibe, the halftime show features the Raptor girls, normally fetching in short dresses and spandex, wearing poodle skirts and sweaters straight off a Mad Men casting shoot.
My wife whispers into my ear that she "feels sorry for them" as the girls trot to "Rock Around the Clock" by Bill Haley and the Comets, the type of "rock and roll music" touted by high-school music teachers trying to liven up the school's jazz band. Like the marijuana "cigarettes" you were warned about in health class, it's hopelessly lame and nobody seems to care about the Raptor girls or the song itself, with a group of fans in front of us referring to it -- as if 'gay' is a bad thing -- as "some gay song".
The incident at the Raptors game illustrates that whether you play Bill Haley on a massive arena PA or the Everly Brothers in full-stereo surround sound on a crisp set of speakers, it doesn't ring as true as "Wake Up Little Suzie" does powered through an AM radio. Oldies, or oldies-tinged, music resonates best when it simulates the AM sound, because that's how we first heard these songs, and so that's how we relate to it best.
Many artists within the lo-fi scene embrace this particular sound as an aesthetic quality. Muffled mono is not only desirable, but actually simulated through lo-fi recording techniques. These records sound roughly hewn because that's what the artist intended it to sound like. Play the new Rangers album, Suburban Tours, and while it might sound like a poor recording to a casual listener, the sound is rather intentional. In fact, not only is it not "poor", but the simulated sonic inefficiencies are what make it good.
Of course, arguing that the sonic qualities of AM radio sounds better than FM can be like taking a strong position on the merits of arena football. But whether or not you buy the AM-sounds-better argument, there's no denying that, as an aesthetic device, it's popular.
It would be interesting to actually hear some of this music that simulates the AM listening experience through lo-fi recording techniques on AM. Take for instance, Kurt Vile's 2008 album Constant Hitmaker, which sounds at times like it's drifting in and out of focus; guitar parts fade in and out and the production itself is muddy.That's what makes it work so well. The breezy pop hooks of lead song, "Freeway" would be forgettable, boring at best, if not for the lo-fi quality. Similarly, bands such as Ducktails and Rangers both use the lo-fi aesthetic to muddy up what would otherwise be straightforward pop music. It all sounds distant yet familiar, present yet fuzzy.
At this point, it's hard to imagine new music on AM. Yet now that satellite and Internet radio are kings and FM has gradually become a wasteland of oft-trotted Tom Pettyism, music may once again save the dial. AM has developed into a niche marketplace, not unlike community television from the early-'80s, with broadcasters renting out time slots for fractured audiences (religious, ethnic, federal workers, etc.). So it's at least possible that an enterprising DJ with an ear tuned to the fringe pop of a Neon Indian or Kurt Vile or Ducktails might start using AM again as a sound source, renting space, as it were, on a station and playing this music.
Why wouldn't this music wind up on AM? Or is AM radio truly a long-gone source for music, forever frozen in the 1965-1982 period, still showing up at local hockey arenas and Boat/Home/Cottage shows in the "oldies cruiser", still employing the long-antiquated DJs playing songs that are now pushing 50 years old? Unfortunately for AM, as good as the oldies are, eventually even the best songs will sound as dated as Bill Haley at the Raptors game. Likewise, the talk-radio format is also ailing on AM, as even WABC (now owned by Disney, by the way) can't quite generate enough revenue or younger listeners to keep going as is. Would people start tuning back into AM to hear specialized and contemporary AM programming that highlighted music like chill wave? It's a possibility because, after all, the music may have died in 1982, but the sound lives on.
Jay Somerset is a writer and editor in Toronto. His writings on music and fringe culture have appeared in Signal To Noise, Arthur, Musicworks and Spacing magazines. He is currently at work on a feature on the new New Age music for Musicworks and is enjoying his role as Sacrificial Lamb Supervisor for New Jersey radio station WFMU. When not writing or browsing the web, Jay enjoys jogging, German cinema and fine wine. You can reach him at [email protected]