In 1972, when we just had an AM radio in the car (and my mother was in charge of the dial), I heard every single hour of the day, every single time it rained. It didn’t matter what station you were listening to, every DJ in the LA Basin had the same Pavlovian stimulus response to precipitation; it was inescapable. And they were still doing it ten years later when I left California for New York.
The point is, it’s pouring like Hell today, if Hell was a place known primarily for its high yearly rainfall, and I’m blithely listening to my iPod. Take that, Charlie Tuna, and The Real Don Steele!
My only hope is that at all those defunct AM music stations, the studios now occupied by blustering talk radio wingnuts continue to be haunted by the unexorcisable, ghostly echoes of Albert Hammond.
Well, it coulda been worse, I suppose; it coulda been a
I can sympathize. For at least twenty years after Roger Miller’s “Little Green Apples” charted we didn’t exactly hear the thing played, but we heard the tricky negative conditional of the thing–”If that’s not lovin’ you.. then it don’t rain in Indianapolis in the summertime”–misused every goddam time we experienced seasonally-appropriate precipitation approaching the measurable (“Boy, I guess that proves it does rain in Indianapolis in the summertime, huh?”). Lasted until about ’88 or so, when a Classics professor from Butler who’d recently been denied tenure shot up a radio station and was acquitted on grounds of justifiable homicide.
Left by Doghouse Riley on February 16th, 2009