January 2, 2012
Introduction (LA Noir) I arrived in Los Angeles with an overcoat and a cold. The coat I could remove, but the cold would stick with me and to me like a wet blanket steaming under the scorching sun. And the sun, it was scorching. The 101 was a blistering inferno of wretched, sweaty humanity all threatening to spontaneously combust inside gridlocked hunks of twisted metal. Did I mention it was January?Auld lang motherfucking syne. The tail end of a Beastie Boys song played on the radio and faded into something that sounded like the Red Hot Chili Peppers filtered through a rusted hacksaw and brined in expired LSD. KROQ plays two-decade old songs, or facsimiles of two-decade old songs, that force you to visualize their drummers who are shirtless and mean with stupid facial hair and long gray shorts. KCRW plays casual electronic afterthoughts or songs by wispy ladies with acoustic guitars who started their careers at coffee shops but drink only oolong tea. K-Earth plays a Stevie Wonder song once every five minutes, which, don’t get me wrong, would be a fine thing to hear once every five months, but… All that plus the smooth jazz station, the corporate pop factories, and that classic rock grab bag Jack FM with bragging rights to the airwaves’ most obnoxious IDs and sweepers.The sun’s hot, the traffic’s harsh, and the radio is fucking terrible. But why? Why, goddammit, is radio in Los Angeles so fucking bad? My name is Liana Maeby, Private Eye, and that’s what I was hired to find out.

Introduction (LA Noir)

I arrived in Los Angeles with an overcoat and a cold. The coat I could remove, but the cold would stick with me and to me like a wet blanket steaming under the scorching sun. And the sun, it was scorching. The 101 was a blistering inferno of wretched, sweaty humanity all threatening to spontaneously combust inside gridlocked hunks of twisted metal. Did I mention it was January?

Auld lang motherfucking syne. The tail end of a Beastie Boys song played on the radio and faded into something that sounded like the Red Hot Chili Peppers filtered through a rusted hacksaw and brined in expired LSD. KROQ plays two-decade old songs, or facsimiles of two-decade old songs, that force you to visualize their drummers who are shirtless and mean with stupid facial hair and long gray shorts. KCRW plays casual electronic afterthoughts or songs by wispy ladies with acoustic guitars who started their careers at coffee shops but drink only oolong tea. K-Earth plays a Stevie Wonder song once every five minutes, which, don’t get me wrong, would be a fine thing to hear once every five months, but… All that plus the smooth jazz station, the corporate pop factories, and that classic rock grab bag Jack FM with bragging rights to the airwaves’ most obnoxious IDs and sweepers.

The sun’s hot, the traffic’s harsh, and the radio is fucking terrible. But why? Why, goddammit, is radio in Los Angeles so fucking bad? My name is Liana Maeby, Private Eye, and that’s what I was hired to find out.