(The Story of a Wednesday Night in Los Angeles, Told in Two Parts.)

At the urging of my former roommate, Reagan, I tuned into Jack FM, the new 93.1 F.M. in Los Angeles, for the first time a few weeks ago. I am a radio junkie in constant search for a new fix because, outside of KXLU (full disclosure: I was a DJ there from 1995-1999 and Program Director from 1998-1999), Los Angeles radio is sad. It may be the largest radio market in the country, but, with eight Clear Channel stations, seven Infinity stations and six Entravision stations, there just isn't much in the way of variety. Jack, like KROQ, is part of the Infinity family, which makes it corporate. As a former college radio geek and current journalism grad student, I should hate the station solely for being part of the hegemonic power structure that allows music of the most banal variety to permeate into our collective consciousness. However, I don't hate Jack. In fact, I like it. I listen to it knowing full well that I will never hear something that is new or obscure, knowing that I will be able to sing along to every song played (regardless of whether or not I like it). I do appreciate, however, that Jack mixes together electronic music with heavy metal, hip-hop with punk, et cetera. The fact is, when I listen to Jack, I may know everything I hear, but I never know what will be played next (unlike KROQ, where I can tell you exactly when Sublime will be played).
Last night, I drove down Sepulveda to Kid C.'s place because it beats sitting in rush hour traffic at LAX and bobbed my head to David Bowie's "Fame." As I sat waiting to make my left turn at Rosecrans, I heard the familiar James Brown-meets-Malcolm McLaren collage.
"What d'ya expect? The guy's a gigolo, man."
Now, some may say that if the station was really cool, the DJs would bust out "You're My Kind of Climate" from Neneh Cherry's post-Slits, pre-solo band, Rip, Rig and Panic. Let's get serious, folks. You aren't going to hear Rip, Rig and Panic anywhere. Not even on college radio. I'm fully aware of the fact that I will only hear "You're My Kind of Climate" if I swipe Kid C.'s copy. It's okay. And, on an even more serious note, when was the last time you heard "Buffalo Stance" anywhere outside of your friends' house parties with the Dance Party USA theme? Not recently, I would assume is the answer. Sometimes, when I DJ, I will play "Buffalo Stance" and the record works as a gauge for the crowd. If the dancefloor is filled with those born after 1980, it will tank. If it's one of those rare occasions when the late-1970s kids who still club are out and about, it ends up being the highlight of the night, the song that makes everybody scream. "Buffalo Stance," like "Monie in the Middle," is one of those late-80s/early-90s jams that got lost in the shuffle of gangsta rap and grunge rock that dominated the charts post-1992 (notice, also, that both songs were performed by women, but that's the subject of another post or, more appropriately, a book).
As you can tell, I have the 12" of "Buffalo Stance." I'm pretty sure that there's a copy of Raw Like Sushi floating around in cassette form in my bedroom as well. I can listen to "Buffalo Stance" whenever the hell I want, so why should I even care that it's on the radio? When I choose to listen to the song in my room, I pull it from the sleeve, like figuratively pulling on a pair of bike shorts in anticipation for the beat to follow. In the car, though, I'm caught off guard. I scream, "Hell, yeah!" and pump up the volume. I do this knowing full well that I will piss off the South Bay Soccer Moms who object to the word "gigolo" in a song, who feel that this song interferes with their brats' viewing of The Lion King in the backseat of an SUV. They need to know, just as I need to reaffirm, that Neneh is fucking awesome.
"Y'know what I mean?"