FM

As a youngster, I used to clutch a miniature transistor radio as I nodded off for the night. I loved that thing. In my Spiderman bedsheet cave I would press the speaker to my ear, enjoying all the 1970s cheese. Cheesy music (and Muzak), over-the-top disc jockeys often breathlessly announcing what we had just heard, commercials for nightclubs I was far too young to set foot in. Ever heard the song "9-Volt Heart" by The Iguanas? That tells a similiar story.

Maybe you're too young to remember, for example, when disc jockeys would play entire album sides on FM radio. Maybe you're too young to even be familiar with the term "disc jockey." But there was a time, decades ago, when freewheeling guys and gals would not only spin the hits, but also all those other album tracks that would never be issued as singles, never be Top 40 hits. These people were called "personalities", and they certainly exploited their personas. Not the annoying voices you seem to hear of late, but truly talented types who were actually knowledgeable about the music they played, and more than happy to pepper their airtime with entertaining anecdotes. Some did indeed have that laughable "radio voice", but the best ones sounded conversational, like regular folks. This sort of laid-back free spirit is celebrated in 1978's all-but-forgotten film, FM.

The life of a DJ can be quite appealling: front row seats at concerts, the casual dress, the easy access to, er, "recreational" supplements. These cats were/are not always your typical 9-5ers. The downsides? When the ratings book publishes, your numbers are good or you're headed further up or down the dial, in or out of town. Today, rock 'n roll, next week, maybe country and western, buddy. Maybe you'll even be reduced to calling a sock hop. "Don't buy a house," a wise DJ once said.

These particular things haven't changed since the 70s, I'm told. Several years ago I toyed with the idea of going into radio, even securing a scholarship with the Connecticut School of Broadcasting. Besides wanting to be a novelist, film director, and film critic, I had this desire to be a DJ. I had always dreamt of programming sets of music, my voice floating over-the-air to my audience. I loved the idea of this disparate community of strangers out there, across the state perhaps, appreciating (hopefully) the program. I'd savor late nights at the station, perhaps free to play 1/2 hour long live Hot Tuna cuts. I had very romantic visions, probably misguided. But I stopped short of this dream career, convinced even in my most aimless of days that such a life was far too rootless for me. For characters like Mother (Eileen Brennan), the house matriarch-type and Prince (Cleavon Little), the smooth soul brother, there is no alternative. Let's not neglect Eric Swan (Martin Mull, in a wonderful performance), the station lothario who hides from his army of female fans, then complains if no one notices him in public.

Even though behemoths like Clear Channel have bought up and homogenized the radio business, rendering the type of station we see in FM obsolete, those laissez faire souls who now click a mouse instead of dropping a stylus to deliver the tunes still live in an odd limbo of a life. For that reason, this film still has some relevance. Even moreso, the fact that outfits like Clear Channel have bought up and quite adversely segmented the market proves this film quite prescient.

The plot: Q-SKY, a maverick Los Angeles rock station managed by guru/cool head Jeff Dugan (Michael Brandon), has its idyllic existence theatened when the parent company decides that for all of the station's success and listener loyalty, not enough moolah is siphoning through. The solution? More ads, naturally! The big bad corporation even sends a rep from no less than the United States Army to pitch an irresistable idea: why not have a commercial every 15 minutes plugging Uncle Sam's plea to all those eligible young men in the station's core demographic? Then, perhaps, a whole block of commercials would follow in its wake! Less music, but who cares? Well, the DJs certainly do, and balk at the proposed business model. If the characters in this movie did indeed survive the excesses of the Me Decade, living to see the 80s and beyond, their worst fears would've been confirmed. How potentially interesting it would be to see a remake of this film, which, back in '78 was billed as a "now story with now music!".

But in this fictional late 70s L.A., the mutiny begins to form. Corporate decides to relieve Dugan of his leadership. He just wants to play music. "I'll give you a station, not a bank" he offers. Yes, I used the word "fictional." Now, I'm sure there are folks like Dugan and crew who got into radio for the love of the music (check out radioparadise.com for proof). But, those ad spots, annoying as they are, do pay the bills. I clench my fists as I say this, but it's true. The only "pure" local radio hails from the college campuses and the non-profits, those not dependent on advertising revenue. The trade-off is that you have to tolerate amateurish announcers and insufferable pledge drives. Can there be an agreeable compromise between profit and art?

After Dugan's exit, the motley assemblege of Q-SKY staff barricades themselves in the station while their listeners gather outside (on a very artifical looking set, meant to be an L.A. street) and push over police vans. Full scale riot. This is the sort of consolidation you want when facing an enemy. Perhaps many of these Angelenos wouldn't normally take 3 steps to voice their concerns over, say, the SALT treaty or apartheid, but damned if you threaten to take their music away....Would you want an angry mob of Parrotheads on your hands?

That last bit also alludes to some of the criticisms leveled at FM. The music Q-SKY plays is anything but rebellious. Billy Joel. Boston. Steve Miller Band. The Doobie Brothers. These are all major label acts who presumably travel first class, perhaps even likely to enjoy the perks afforded by Beefeater and Virgin Atlantic and such. I can sympathize with the gripes of critics. The movie might've been more effective if Q-SKY were a fledgling outfit that played the Dead Kennedys and Crack the Sky. But then the whole plotline would've made no sense. There are lots of music fans out there, ready to spend wads of cash, and most of them enjoy comparatively safe tuneage. And what's wrong with a little REO Speedwagon and Linda Ronstadt, eh? Would the proprieters of your favorite Mexican joint want to advertise on a punk rock station? Better yet, would the Jag dealership want to? If you're employed at a radio station with a sales department, there will be compromise; its very survival depends upon it. You see where I'm going, for better or worse.

FM was directed by famed cinematographer John A. Alonzo (CHINATOWN is among his wildly diverse credits). This would be his only venture into theatrical films as director. Easy to see why. His direction is competent but uninspired. Nothing at all cinematic here. The concert sequences (Jimmy Buffet, Ronstadt) are good but clumsily edited and sequenced within the story. The script is about sitcom level, maybe a notch or 2 above. The characters are not especially well drawn, but the actors (especially Mull) flesh them out fairly well. The timing of FM's release was also unfortunate, as it competed with ANIMAL HOUSE and GREASE. It came and went quickly. Around the same time, a TV show called WKRP in Cincinnati, quite similiar to this film, became a hit. It was more insightful about the biz, IMO.

The soundtrack to FM, you might guess, has endured far longer. This collection has all the Album Oriented Rock (AOR) radio staples, from "More Than a Feeling" to "Lido Shuffle" to "Just the Way You Are." It's all well selected, cozy. Steely Dan contributed the excellent title track, one of my favorites by them. Their "Do it Again" is also featured.

Carefully considered, maybe FM is hypocritical. It wants to be a statement against the Establishment while still embracing it (if inadvertently). I guess you can enjoy your corporate sponsored bands without hearing the corporate commercials? Dream on, dude. If you ever purchased records, reel to reels, 8-tracks, cassettes, or CDs, most of the money went to the Man. Not sure about the reimbursement breakdown on digital downloads. In this very different age, where local radio and record stores seem quaint, perhaps that remake I conjectured (with its wildly unbelievable happy wrap-up)would be ill-advised and completely irrelevant. Maybe the entire premise would need to be rethought.