Most of my dreams combine elements of truth with the random embellishments of a hyperactive subconscious. Last night’s was no exception.
Every year I donate to WMBR Radio during their annual fundraiser. I do so in part because I believe in the value of truly independent radio; but also because they offer a unique and exhilarating premium: for a certain sum you get to host an hour of radio on your favorite WMBR show. I’ve done it for several years now, and it’s always been great fun.
Enter my subconscious. This year I opted for an all-vinyl show, not realizing that the studio had only one turntable instead of the customary two. The host-turned-engineer said that this would be no problem, but the IT guy-turned-host discovered otherwise very quickly. Sloppy segues, cuing to the wrong track, cuing beyond the beginning of the song – they all happened in the first set, and it only got worse. It was a long, thoroughly exasperating hour. One of my more expensive acquisitions was left with a nasty scratch, and while the host was apologetic, she was far more upset with me for putting her through this travesty.
It wasn’t bad enough that I left the experienced with damaged records and a bruised ego. The host boarded the bus with me and proceeded to go on a tirade, castigating me for my musical choices. “You’re stuck in the nineties – Shoegaze is dead!” You don’t hear that every day.
To defend myself, I used my dream powers to alter the background. Instead of Mass Ave., the bus was driving underground, past abandoned T stops inhabited by ghosts. And instead of the squeal of rusty metal against tired tracks, there was brutally loud music. I tuned in, and tuned out.