A bit of background information, first: as I’ve mentioned two or three times on other SDMB threads, I have a radio show on my hometown’s community radio station. We can play (and say) pretty much anything we want to, as long as we abide by certain guidelines - for example, no songs with vulgar language before a certain hour, no death metal when people have us on at work, general common sense rules. It’s early morning volunteer work, but I’ve expanded my musical horizons greatly over the past two years and I love doing it.
That being said, I hate taking requests. Never mind the guy who phones in at 9:15 every morning to hear the Alan Parsons Project, or the aging hippies who call in and ramble incessantly about paisley-colored Volkswagens and free love for fifteen minutes. These people, I can handle. (“I’m sorry, someone must have borrowed Eye in the Sky. It’s a landmark album in the indie scene, you know. Very popular.”)
And that’s the key: never actually engage the caller in a debate about why you can’t play the song. Just state why. Don’t have it. Won’t fit the format. I’m fucking chained to my chair and have rabid weasels chewing off my genitals. Say anything, but make clear there’s no room whatsoever for debate.
Last Wednesday, a friend of mine, who makes Gloria Steinem look like Peg Bundy, calls in to make a request. She says she would like to hear “The Haircut” by Australian folk-rock band The Waifs, which is, overall, a very moving acoustic-guitar laden song about the end of a relationship. I like the song. We have the CD. I’ve played the album before, so she knows we have it.
The problem? Well, the lyrics are quite, umm, unsubtle about the protagonist’s newfound independence. For example, when she sings I got my hands in my pants, down my Calvin Kleins I don’t need you any more baby, I can come any time, I somehow doubt she’s rummaging for loose change.
I tell my friend that I’d love to play it, but I just don’t believe it’s suitable for the radio at this particular hour. Heated interrogation session follows. Do I believe masturbation is unnatural? No, I don’t. Do I think that’s all the song is about? Obviously not. Are you personally offended by the thought of masturbation? No. In fact, I’d rather be doing that at this very moment than having this charming conversation about my personal on-air ethics. And then, this bombshell:
“You’re just afraid when a women expresses herself sexually.”
By God, that’s it! I’m a misogynistic, insecure, censorious bastard of a white male. I never knew. I tremble at the mighty v-gina. I run screaming from cl-torises. Here I thought it had to do with the fact that, oh, I don’t know, it’s EIGHT-THIRTY ON A FREAKING WEDNESDAY MORNING WHEN SOME FAMILIES MIGHT NOT WANT TO ENJOY THEIR CORN FLAKES AND O.J. WITH A SIDE ORDER OF MASTURBATING FOLK SINGER!
And it’s not like very morning I’ve been starting my show off Neil Young’s “Wankin’ the Sausage of Love” or “Strokin’ the Ol’ Corn Dog” by Johnny Cash (rest in peace). I’m equal opportunity when it comes to not playing songs about jerking off. Man, woman, three-toed-sloth, it doesn’t really matter to me.
I’m glad I fit so neatly into your simplistic feminist paradigms. Maybe you can pelt my Ford Explorer with free-range chicken eggs as I drive from church to my Promise Keepers’ meeting as well.