Phantom Radio
By Chicago O’hare
Carbondale
The opening hook of “Maggot Brain” dragged me from my slumber and I cursed the clock.
Joe’s show usually got me in the zone for my own late-night pilgrimage to the KDNK studio. Though still technically a volunteer like myself, he’d been slinging records longer than any of the paid staff, and his weekly set was all but required listening for new recruits. It was an intimidating act to follow, even knowing almost everybody tuned out when he signed off at 11. He’d been nothing but supportive, and always seemed to find a closing tune that transitioned perfectly to my hipper, rougher show. I’d usually be in the studio with him by then, ready for a little friendly banter during the transition.
But his unusually melancholy set had lulled me to sleep sometime after the last trick-or-treaters had knocked on my door. It had started out dark and defiant, expertly blending five decades of rock to make it seem that Blue Oyster Cult, Prince and Pink Floyd had always played alongside Radiohead, Soundgarden and Smashing Pumpkins. Somewhere at the start of the second hour, though, he’d shifted down into low with “Last Chance Texaco,” “Look on Down from the Bridge” and “Not Dark Yet.”
Now it seemed I had the ten minutes it took Eddie Hazel to pour his soul into a guitar solo before I was supposed to be on the air. I sped down the backstreets of Carbondale, wary of costumed kids and drunks, and threw my bike down in front of the station just as Joe was signing off. You could tell he wasn’t wearing his dentures, and I could almost feel his breath in my earbuds as he leaned his once-robust frame up to the microphone.
“You’ve been listening to ‘Hank to Hendrix’ on Carbondale Community Access Radio. I’m Joe, and it’s been a real pleasure spending this time with you. Happy Halloween.”
I burst into the building, raced down the hall and came to a sudden stop. The door was open and the studio was dark. No Joe. Not even the on-air light of a pre-recorded show. Just a note from the 5 o-clock DJ.
“Hey, man, no sign of Joe, automation’s busted and I have a party to get to. Sorry.”
I went to the board and pulled up the fader. “This is the end, beautiful friend,” Jim Morrison droned out of the speaker.
They pulled Joe’s truck from the sinkhole at the base of his driveway around midnight. The cab was full of mud. It seemed he’d taken the hill too fast in his hurry to get to the station. My own show had been a blur, and it wasn’t until the next morning I thought to check the recording. From the 7 o’clock sign-off to my shaky intro at 9, nothing.
Just dead air.