I miss John Peel more than ever

The lady who sits next to me at work is truly a kind person. When I went away to Spain last year she tutored me in Spanish during the lunch hour to get my high school level of communication up to a standard where I could speak with the people of Barcelona on my and my girlfriend’s behalf. She is sweet and professional, friendly, and is a member of the “fun club” that tries to keep us all mollified with ice cream socials and tea parties with wacky hats.

Sweet lady to be sure, however, if I had the ability to kill using only my mind she would be nothing but a bittersweet memory and it’s all because of our local Lite FM station. I know that every city in the western world has one of these stations. The kind that plays music that was once described by someone wittier than me as being “for people who hate music but love to shop”. She plays this station at a discreet volume that guarantees that you can’t ask her to turn the radio down any further, because that will mean just turning it off altogether, but still means I can make out every single word and discern every limp, accessible melody.

This music is making my life a misery and yet if I smash her radio into little tiny pieces I would be seen as the bad guy. The songs drill into my brain, the inane banter of the DJ’s kills your soul faster than watching any sex scene described by Takeshi Miike as “tender” and the radio call sign (which sounds like it was sung by a choir driven to unemployment when Laurence Welk died) haunts my dreams. I’ve never regretted being cubicle veal more in my entire life.

It’s not just that the songs are awful, trite and yet memorable at the same time. It’s that they play the same songs over and over again, day after day. Every day without fail I will hear a cavalcade of songs that I hoped to never hear again after the first time they pissed on my eardrums.

Despite my plentiful suffering it’s really the DJ’s that I feel sorry for. At one time I’m sure they listened to mainstream radio and dreamed of charging out of DJ College to join in the wacky hi-jinks of the Morning Zoo’s in their town.  They wanted to pummel listeners with that classic “old car horn” sound effect, make limp innuendos and interview Gene Simmons or the drummer from Limp Bizkit. Instead they get to speak in measured tones so as not to upset anyone on their morning or evening commute who’s awaiting another replay of ‘Mambo #5’ with bated anticipation. They have to pretend to be excited at the prospect of playing the Pina Coladas song or anything by Shakira.

It's not like they can quit. All they have to fall back on is playing the chicken dance for drunk assholes at weddings. The DJ suicide rate must be higher than dentists, either that or they have on site psychiatric staff that talks them in off the ledge every day before the commercial break ends.

Here is a small sample of the artists or songs that haunt me, every day. This is the magic that happens when white meets bread:

Matchbox 20
Goo Goo Dolls
Maroon 5
Whitney Huston
Billy Joel’s “River of Dreams”
Corey Hart “Sunglasses at Night”
Bryan Adams
Yet another cover of “Son of a Preacher Man” that’s so bland and obscure I have no idea who’s responsible for it. Have mercy, I think it’s Bonnie Raitt.
A-Ha
Have You Ever Seen the Rain – the stunning new cover version by Rod Stewart
Everlasting Love
Believe – Cher
My Heart Will Go On
Your Song – Elton John
More Shania Twain than any one person should have to endure
Sometimes When We Touch
Break my Stride
Drift Away
Africa by Toto
I also think I heard Jamiroquai once but I fled the room screaming