I've got a DJ in my closet, a transmitter in my bedroom, an antenna on my roof, and I run the risk of being locked up just because... I HATE THE SPICE GIRLS by Patty Reuben -- for JANE, Sept/Oct 1997 I don't have a birth certificate, social-security number, driver's license, bank account or credit card. For that matter, I don't have an address. You won't find me in the phone book. I'll tell you right now: My name is not Patty Reuben. As far as the Federal Communications Commission is concerned, I don't exist. What I do have is a guy named Rocky Manson playing the Go-Go's in my closet. I've also got an illegal 40-watt transmitter in my bedroom and a 50 foot antenna on my roof -- equipment that has allowed me to broadcast music to the greater San Francisco area (lie) for just over two years now. Sure, it's a federal offense. In theory, I could be fined up to $100,000 by the FCC and serve up to 10 years in prison for my supposed misdeeds, but someone's got to do this, and it may as well be me. Face it. People with lots of cash and little if any taste are controlling America's airwaves, making traditional radio boring and repetitive. That's why I can sing songs in my sleep that I would normally never listen to. The pay-to-play scandals of the '80s (when radio programmers were bribed by independent promoters to add records to their playlists) have evolved into more subtle forms of pressure, but the effect is still the same: Talent doesn't always ensure multiplatinum success. Money does. This is not only sad but unfair when there are so many amazing but unknown artists in the world. One of the bigger tragedies of 1997, in my opinion, is the success of prefab pop stars the Spice Girls. Yeah, they're great to look at but so were New Kids on the Block and Bananarama. If I'm remembered for anything, I hope its for proving that radio doesn't have to be about sex, money or manipulation to succeed. It can be adventurous and experimental and about good music. Saturday, 11:07 p.m. Wendy -- along with a half-dozen of her friends -- is at the controls, playing soul oldies and chatting about her love life in sometimes graphic detail. When they discover they've left the microphone on, there is an audible gasp. To my neighbors, I must look like a call girl or a crack dealer. It just isn't normal to have visitors stopping by at precise two-hour intervals and to have music throbbing for 14 hours each day. My friends think I'm crazy for opening my house to a bunch of strangers and allowing them to play whatever records they want at a sometimes outrageous volume, especially when they bring in a few people and at least as many six-packs. I've loved music for the greater part of my life -- shoot me, but I love Van Halen -- and I had worked at a couple of stations after college before I decided I wanted one of my own. I was working as a legal secretary when I met with a radio/First Amendment attorney to inquire about purchasing an FM frequency. The lawyer leaned back in his leather chair and, peering at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses, asked about my finances. It didn't take him long to realize I had none. He then quietly informed me that stations in San Francisco cost approximately $20 million. I had heard that this attorney worked with microradio operators, defending their constitutional right to broadcast. So l asked him about a hippie anarchist named Stephen Dunifer. Dunifer is the only microradio operator I know of who actually wanted to get caught. Politically motivated, he has been challenging the FCC's regulatory authority in federal District Court for almost three years now -- and winning. I managed to contact him in Berkeley, Calif. He sold me a transmitter kit, and one of his assistants, Chris, helped me assemble it. All told, it would take Chris and me four months of soldering wires, sawing copper pipe and hauling coaxial cable to get the station together. I even ended up having to build an 11-legged table to put the equipment on. Don't laugh -- it's just about the only thing in the studio that hasn't broken in two-plus years. Finally, on a cool June night we flipped the switch. Chris pressed PLAY on one of the CD players, and out came Jon Spencer's fabulous and most groovy "Bell Bottoms." The station's been on the air ever since, with the exception of intermittent technical blackouts. Expanding from our initial skeleton schedule of 8 to 10 p.m., we are now broadcasting from noon to 2 am., seven days a week. Why we haven't been busted is anyone's guess. I like to think it's because the FCC has tuned in and enjoyed what it heard. Friday, 7:33 p.m. The three DJs known as Rumble in the Jungle are in my closet broadcasting "live from a hot-dog stand in Schaumburg, Ill." Really, they're spinning records in a closet copping imitation Midwestern accents and talking about beer, baseball and their mullet haircuts. Having no experience with illegal activities and, to a certain extent wanting to know if I could get away with it, I unofficially changed my name for the sake of operating the station. Stealing the name from a girl I knew in high school was easy. Actually becoming my alter ego was the tricky part. It was hard to persuade people to believe me when I didn't respond to the name, but I've gotten pretty convincing. I even made a fake ID to use for concert guest lists. The fake name is one of many precautions I've taken to reduce my risk of getting caught. Another is the voice-mail number the DJs announce over the air. I'm not about to set up a direct (and traceable) phone line into the studio -- I might as well call the FCC myself. I use a PO box instead of my home address for the same reason -- the station receives free CDs from both independent and major labels, even though we don't track listenership and can give them only limited feedback on what's getting airplay. In an industry where payola often dominates, it's nice to know there's at least a little goodwill. This goes for celebrities as well. John Squire of the Stone Roses, Ben Lee, John Doe of X, Donna Dresch of Team Dresch, the Dandy Warhols, U2 producer Howie B. and Railroad Jerk are just a few of the musicians who have stopped by for an interview or just to spin records, without knowing if anyone is tuning in. And a number of national bands played at my station's benefit concert. I suspect it's the mystery and independent spirit of pirate radio that attracts everyone. It was endearing to see ex-Minuteman Mike Watt's finger quiver as he set the needle down on his first record. Wednesday, 10:10 p.m. When I left the studio, Carl was having his first shot of absinthe. Two hours later he was so drunk that he didn't even hear the doorbell. The next DJ had to break in. Led Zeppelin was spinning on the turntable, and Carl was asleep in my bed. I've had some unwanted visitors too. Fellow radio enthusiasts have, much to my horror, triangulated the station's signal twice. Two wackos who claimed to be microradio operators also broadcasting on my frequency tracked me down one night. Then they phoned me from their car, which was parked across the street from my house, and waited for the on-air DJ to leave. Thinking it was me, they followed her down the street but didn't say or do anything to her. Whether their behavior was a threat or just a socially inept way of making friendly contact I don't know -- they didn't tell me when they left the voice-mail message boasting about what they'd done. The second incident involved a middle-aged man who actually walked up to the house and asked to be let in. Not knowing what an FCC agent looks like, it is never fun to open the door and be greeted by a smiling stranger who says, "I'm so happy I found you." Fortunately the DJ on duty at the time claimed he was only house-sitting. The guy didn't believe him, but at least he went away. All he said in parting was that he liked what we were doing and to "keep up the good work." Who knows? Still, windowless white FCC vans play a small but memorable role in my nightmares. I, of course, am the star of these recurring dreams -- the one who gets handcuffed, carted away and jailed indefinitely. The one who has to wear the orange jumpsuit. Fortunately, these worries have been unfounded. My biggest problems so far have been my neighbors (who complain about the noise), my cats (who periodically vomit on the record collection) and the DJs (who break my equipment). It used to be just me, but now more than 50 people trek through my house each week to sit in a closet and spin records over the airwaves. Because of the exclusivity I experienced when first getting involved with community radio, I've tried to maintain an open door DJ policy with my station. What started with a handful of friends now includes people whose only connection to the station is that they listen to it -- complete strangers who have called me up and asked to get involved. I realize there are inherent problems with inviting strangers over to my house and, as part of their DJ training, explaining how they can get in when I'm not around. I know I sound insane to have this much faith in humanity, but I have to believe that people who join the station won't screw it over, because that would hurt them, too. If anything, the station's DJs are overprotective of me, so much so that I sometimes feel like a Mafia don. Before bringing guests, most of them call for approval. Some blindfold their friends when bringing them by. It's a little overboard, but charming, and its especially impressive since most of them don't even know who I really am. The DJs know intimate details about my domestic life -- that my refrigerator holds nothing but condiments and homebrewed beer, and that I use Neutrogena Body Oil and generic toothpaste -- but few of them know my real name. Sunday, 8:15 p.m. Indie snob DJ Zamboni posted a notice in the studio asking that people stop playing the Beastie Boys, Beck, the Chemical Brothers and Jon Spencer. The note lasted precisely one week -- long enough for people to lob accusations of "dick-tator" and for one disgusted DJ to crumple it up and pin it to the wall. There are no commercials or rules at the station. It's completely free-form. Cursing, while not encouraged is allowed. DJs can play 2 Live Crew if they want or anything for that matter- from honky tonk to digital hardcore, punk to jazz, funk to trip-hop. Segues from show to show can be . . . well, nonexistent. When I'm away from the station, I try to listen in- just to make sure the DJs are there. To most people, "Sister Ray," the Velvet Underground's 17-minute classic dirge, is a song, but to me it's become an unofficial code -- one that says a DJ hasn't shown up for the shift -- and that prompts me to go home and fill in. Tuning in from a friend's house or car also tells me the quality of the station's signal, which varies with the weather and also with time as the equipment overheats and begins to buzz. I still don't know everything about how the equipment works, but I've learned a lot since first deciding to make a radio station from scratch -- when just the sight and smell of a soldering iron was enough to strike nervous fear in my heart. I also realize I'm working with equipment that has power greater than just what's needed to broadcast a Jon Spencer CD: My engineer recently told me that our original transmitter was now in the hands of rebel Zapatistas in Chiapas, Mexico. The Zapatistas asked if he could come down to supervise repairs. For listeners who have learned about us through a friend or tuned in by accident our station is another choice on the dial. For the DJs, it is simply a creative outlet. But for me, its become a huge sociological experiment in addition to being a means of musical expression. The line between private and public blurred long ago, when I discovered a big, green glob of gum in my carpet and a pipe screen on my kitchen floor. And when I found myself taking out the empties every morning and picking cigarette butts out of the couch I knew I wasn't just a pirate radio operator anymore -- I was a janitor, too. I sometimes fantasize about shutting down the station so l can have my house back, but I don't really think that's an option at this point. It's too much a part of my life. I think I'm in this till the men in blue windbreakers come to take me away.

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