I live in Las Vegas. The reason I mention it is because even after 15 years here I still cross paths with seemingly intelligent humans who are astounded that ordinary people actually live here. That most of us are not zombies that work in casinos all day and then blow our hard earned duckets every night after work playing baccarat. That Las Vegas is a real enough city, with problems in league with any other former Mayberry that now staggers to support a population hovering around 2 million. Yeah, we’ve got gangs. And the homeless. And Republicans. But one of the biggest problems we face is this:
Las Vegas has an abundance of suck ass radio stations.
Having grown up in Chicago, I might just be a spoiled little bitch. It’s hard to match the brilliance of WXRT, though it’s no diamond in the rough. Dozens of college and even high school! radio stations jam the precious airwaves. Some may have only had a broadcast range of mere blocks, but as one fuzzed out another eclectic stew was bubbling up a few clicks to the left or right on the dial. (You have to visualize a younger version of yourself, eschewing public transportation and driving your mom’s ’85 Chevy Cavalier, from one end of the city to the other, radio blasting, searching for your next fix. On the radio dial, of course, Dan Quayle.)
A great radio station is like your friendly neighborhood drug dealer. Offering heroin-like highs that only last a few minutes at a time, but are never too far in-between to cause messy withdrawal symptoms.
In Las Vegas, we’ve got KVGS. What began as a moveable feast just a couple of years ago as “the new Area 108″, now, the current “107.9 the Alternative” has become as stale as all the other buffets in town. I can remember hearing some inspired sets. Cool new stuff like Modest Mouse and Death Cab For Cutie with classics from the Ramones, Clash and Sex Pistols. I nearly drove off into the sagebrush one day when I heard Fugazi roaring out of my car’s speakers. I realize, gentle reader, that these examples may seem pedestrian compared to the offerings in your fair city. Hell, the little podunk town in southern Illinois where I went to college had a campus station that was light years ahead of anything in the City of Neon Lights. But this is commercial radio. In 2009. In Las Vegas.
Well, not quite. As I said, the beginnings of this junkie love affair seemed promising. But here in 2009, I’m barely even getting a buzz anymore. The emphasis has gone from cool new stuff and the best of yesterday to a predictable morass of mediocrity. My ears have never burned from so much Red Hot Chili Peppers than at any given, random flip of the dial to this station. And it’s nothing incredible, like if they played something off of Freaky Styley or Uplift Mofo Party Plan but simply the lamest of the lame from the last 17 years or so. What would Hillel think of all this?
And when did Nickelback become “alternative”? In what galaxy did Nu Butt Rock near extinction only to be jettisoned to our planet and be hailed as the “alternative” to the Wingers and Bon Jovies that obviously spawned them in the first place?
Which brings me to the point of all of this. About a month or so ago I heard a song on, yes, the little station that could, that woke me from my induced torpor. And then I heard it again. And again. But not too much as to induce vomiting. Rather, like a good drug dealer, just enough to make you crave a little more.
The song is called “Panic Switch” by the Silversun Pickups. I was moved to actually drive somewhere and buy their new album, Swoon. I’m still chewing on it and want to let it digest a bit before I give it a proper review. But if you’re in the ADHD jetset and can’t wait, I recommend you go ahead and buy it before you lose your train of thought. Swirling guitars. Throbbing bass. Androgynous vocals. ThermoDynamic rhythms. Trust me, it’s the anti-Nickelback.
