An attempt at blatant self-promotion…
doomed to fail, because I suck at such things.
This is what I’m supposed to do.
I’m supposed to tell y’all that my radio debut happens on WMKY this weekend, 8 pm Saturday and Sunday nights (all times are EST, for those of you who somehow don’t know exactly where I live and in what time zone it happens to fall…). Up against the Super Bowl. Timing, they say, is everything. (Though, in fairness, the guy who scheduled this didn’t know there was a football game. Or says he didn’t.)
This is as close as I can come to a link. Which appears even to work. Wonders never cease. Old dogs and new tricks and all that.
The show is called “Grant Alden’s Field Notes” because my wife insists that I should brand myself, and I am such an optimist that I believe she didn’t mean that thing they do to cows and fratboys that involves steel and flame and great shooting pains in the flesh. And because I couldn’t think of anything more clever to call it.
The first one is my summation of the best songs I heard in the last decade. Most of which, in somewhat different form, I blogged about here. It runs two hours. I still haven’t heard the promo I cut whilst driving around town, but plenty of other people have, and they stop me to ask what time it’s on. I’m tempted to give them bad information since I haven’t heard it and probably won’t. (Because I’ll be watching the Super Bowl. One of the hidden benefits of not publishing a magazine anymore, I finally don’t have to make deadline that weekend.) But, anyway, if you drop in to the streaming audio you can hear what I sound like. And then you can do something else with the bulk of your evening. I recommend strong coffee, peaty Scotch, or a bubbling glass of Hennepin because it’s almost as good as Duvel and more affordably priced.
Subsequent shows, which I’ve already cut and therefore I believe actually exist, include an hour-long summation of African-American country music, for which I wished I was still in regular correspondence with Rick Cornell, because I think his was probably better than mine will be. And then a couple one-hour histories of alt.country that y’all probably already know. That one airs Friday, February 19, at 7 pm.
The one I’m cutting tomorrow, in theory, is an hour of cowpunk. My excuse to play the Jitters on the radio in Appalachia. A joke nobody will get, neither here nor there.
And then the alt.country gospel album I always meant to produce, that Bill Friskics-Warren, Hayseed, and I were trying to foist off on Bloodshot. Which they might’ve taken, had we done anything about it. (Actually, I don’t remember what happened to that one.) That’ll be a show, now.
Anyway, I got two turntables and a microphone. One turntable, actually.
Working without a net. Probably without much of an audience, too, which is probably a good thing until I figure all this foolishness out.
No podcasts, by the way. There are, apparently, rules and regulations and fees which preclude such foolishness. Not that I’ve ever downloaded one.
My iPod just went from Rank & File to Soundgarden. To the Derailers. They probably shouldn’t let me out this much.