The night I killed the radio station...
The following tale of woe takes place in a humble community radio station in Melbourne, Australia, many years ago. It's taken this long for the main participant to live down the shame...
Our story takes place on a wet, windy, stormy Melbourne night. Blowing an absolute gale. Yet, inside the radio station, and on radios all throughout the region, people are hopping and bopping to the sweet sounds of country music, being dispensed with glee, knowledge, and power by one George Peden.
Not the "yee-hah", shit-kicker, "Oh Lord, my dawg jes' died" sorta country - this is the Real Deal. The throbbing, pulsating, vibrant creature that is Today's Country. Brookes & Dunn. Royal Wade Kimes. Kenny Chesney. 45 South. Jo Dee Messina (look 'em up!).
The joint is jumpin', as per usual between 8 and midnight on a Saturday. And while the Big Man sets toes a-tappin' and hearts aglow, far and wide, Dr. Keats (an honorary doctorate bestowed by George) toils away in the Green Room, fielding copious 'phone calls, whilst scoffing even more copious mugs of tea...
So, the power goes off at about ten minutes past ten. All is in darkness, but for the glow of the three studio computers, which are still working.
The radio station's not. Well, kinda...
See, there's a contingency plan in place: if the station's transmitter site loses the signal from the station, a satellite broadcast kicks in from the transmitter itself. Thus, in place of the warm, down-home bonhomie of the nicer George W (Peden, rather than Shrub), we instead have the gentle wafting sounds of Deutch Weller radio, broadcasting live and direct from Berlin.
The listeners are still being served, albeit with bratwurst, rather than beans 'n' fries. Knees are still being slapped, the difference being that the knees are protruding from leather shorts, rather than hidden within faded blue jeans....
Meanwhile, Dr. K and George Peden are in the dark, in all senses of the word - with the exception of the 'phone system, which is now going into melt-down from incoming calls from kind listeners wishing to inform us that we're off-air.
As it happens, we know that already...
Yet, we can re-power it. We have the technology. In the form of a back-up generator upon which neither presenter not trusty side-kick have ever laid eyes, let alone hands...
The Emergency Torch is known not to work, so a mobile 'phone steps into the breach, lighting the way to the Switchboard for the generator start-up instructions. Five minutes and two pitch-black-bumping-into-things skinned knees later, the generator cover is located and lifted. Eureka - a working torch awaits within! A very bright torch.
A now slightly flash-blinded Dr. Keats duly follows the start-up procedure, neglecting to notice that some swine of a designer has located the exhaust right where a person needs to be to work the choke and petrol knobs. The carburettor is primed, ignition switch turned on, and zip cord pulled with might. The engine starts magnificently, belching a cloud of black soot directly onto Dr. Keats' white polo shirt, and down his throat, he being a mouth-breather and all...
However, it works - the station is back on-air, "The Bunkhouse" is resumed, George is satisfied, as are the many callers, and all's right with the world; even if the generator isn't pumping out enough watts to enable the studio computers to come out of "stand-by" mode.
It's taken all of five minutes to get everything re-happening.
At which point another stalwart station presenter, Dorian, arrives just in time to be of no help at all, although his presence is welcomed as Dr. K appears to be experiencing the onset of a heart attack through a combination of impacted stress and inhaled soot. Having notified a suspiciously sleepy-sounding Duty Manager, Dr.K then elects to inform the masses (i.e: the station's Committee Of Management), via e-mail.
Bugger, no Internet! Shit.
Aha, the little lights on the server aren't on, it obviously needs to be reset. So, Dr.K goes around the back, and gently moves the server's power switch to "off", then back to "on".
Which trips the fusebox's main safety switch, taking the station off-air again.
The brutally and prematurely-silenced host exits the once-again lifeless studio with a reproachful look of innocence betrayed, shaking his head at the vagaries of fate, while Dr.K head-butts the walls....
Our story takes place on a wet, windy, stormy Melbourne night. Blowing an absolute gale. Yet, inside the radio station, and on radios all throughout the region, people are hopping and bopping to the sweet sounds of country music, being dispensed with glee, knowledge, and power by one George Peden.
Not the "yee-hah", shit-kicker, "Oh Lord, my dawg jes' died" sorta country - this is the Real Deal. The throbbing, pulsating, vibrant creature that is Today's Country. Brookes & Dunn. Royal Wade Kimes. Kenny Chesney. 45 South. Jo Dee Messina (look 'em up!).
The joint is jumpin', as per usual between 8 and midnight on a Saturday. And while the Big Man sets toes a-tappin' and hearts aglow, far and wide, Dr. Keats (an honorary doctorate bestowed by George) toils away in the Green Room, fielding copious 'phone calls, whilst scoffing even more copious mugs of tea...
So, the power goes off at about ten minutes past ten. All is in darkness, but for the glow of the three studio computers, which are still working.
The radio station's not. Well, kinda...
See, there's a contingency plan in place: if the station's transmitter site loses the signal from the station, a satellite broadcast kicks in from the transmitter itself. Thus, in place of the warm, down-home bonhomie of the nicer George W (Peden, rather than Shrub), we instead have the gentle wafting sounds of Deutch Weller radio, broadcasting live and direct from Berlin.
The listeners are still being served, albeit with bratwurst, rather than beans 'n' fries. Knees are still being slapped, the difference being that the knees are protruding from leather shorts, rather than hidden within faded blue jeans....
Meanwhile, Dr. K and George Peden are in the dark, in all senses of the word - with the exception of the 'phone system, which is now going into melt-down from incoming calls from kind listeners wishing to inform us that we're off-air.
As it happens, we know that already...
Yet, we can re-power it. We have the technology. In the form of a back-up generator upon which neither presenter not trusty side-kick have ever laid eyes, let alone hands...
The Emergency Torch is known not to work, so a mobile 'phone steps into the breach, lighting the way to the Switchboard for the generator start-up instructions. Five minutes and two pitch-black-bumping-into-things skinned knees later, the generator cover is located and lifted. Eureka - a working torch awaits within! A very bright torch.
A now slightly flash-blinded Dr. Keats duly follows the start-up procedure, neglecting to notice that some swine of a designer has located the exhaust right where a person needs to be to work the choke and petrol knobs. The carburettor is primed, ignition switch turned on, and zip cord pulled with might. The engine starts magnificently, belching a cloud of black soot directly onto Dr. Keats' white polo shirt, and down his throat, he being a mouth-breather and all...
However, it works - the station is back on-air, "The Bunkhouse" is resumed, George is satisfied, as are the many callers, and all's right with the world; even if the generator isn't pumping out enough watts to enable the studio computers to come out of "stand-by" mode.
It's taken all of five minutes to get everything re-happening.
At which point another stalwart station presenter, Dorian, arrives just in time to be of no help at all, although his presence is welcomed as Dr. K appears to be experiencing the onset of a heart attack through a combination of impacted stress and inhaled soot. Having notified a suspiciously sleepy-sounding Duty Manager, Dr.K then elects to inform the masses (i.e: the station's Committee Of Management), via e-mail.
Bugger, no Internet! Shit.
Aha, the little lights on the server aren't on, it obviously needs to be reset. So, Dr.K goes around the back, and gently moves the server's power switch to "off", then back to "on".
Which trips the fusebox's main safety switch, taking the station off-air again.
The brutally and prematurely-silenced host exits the once-again lifeless studio with a reproachful look of innocence betrayed, shaking his head at the vagaries of fate, while Dr.K head-butts the walls....
Labels: "Plenty Valley FM", Australia, community, Melbourne, radio
posted by Dr. Keats at 11:12 pm
1 Comments:
Tremendous Chris.... a very VERY funny story. The way you told it was very entertaining. There have been only two times in my whole PVFM working life that I have had to start the generator, fortunately they were both during the day.
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