Inside traxx: Diary of DJ Sisyphus

Scratch 22

What's up, I'm DJ Sisyphus, and this is your chance to hear me chillin'. Cuz chillin'is about all I'm doing these days. But hopefully that's all about to change.

Let me start by saying that, from my point of view, I'm everything a radio disc jockey should be. I'm young, hungry, and hip. I wear cool clothes and go to every local show, looking for hot new bands to rock the music scene in my small town. I keep up on current events and am a huge sports buff. But apparently to the radio bigwigs, buff isn't enough.

See, all my life, all I've ever wanted to do was have my own radio show: a little piece of the airwaves endowed with my own quirky humor, sizzling political insights, vast sports knowledge, and impeccable library of under appreciated indie music. I wanted all this along with a corresponding Howard Stern sized-listenership, which I would manage to achieve without ever degrading women or offending the FCC, while still achieving impeccable ratings on Arbitron. Is that so much to ask? Apparently it is.

I've tried cold calling and even showing up at radio stations like a little lost puppy looking for a place to mix beats, but they say with no experience I can't get in the door. After chasing my childhood dream of becoming a DJ for several months now, I finally landed my first interview today. It was at KMPU, a small station only six blocks from my house. I had been out pursuing big name radio stations with no response, so now I had finally lowered my standards enough to grace the lowly local station with my resume. At last, my persistence was rewarded with a call to come and meet the station manager, Jerry Simmons, for an interview on Wednesday at 9 a.m.

I went in relaxed, cool, style personified in my worn in Pumas and thatched baseball cap, only to be obliterated by everything I thought I knew. The interview went like this:

"So, do you have any professional experience working for a radio station?"

"Well, no-"

"Have you ever done an internship at a radio station?"

"Uh, no."

"Do you have any broadcasting training, or have you gone to a broadcasting school?"

"Umm...no."

I tried in vain to parlay my measly communications major at CCU, which had seemed so valiant shining in its blue diploma case, and my one- month stint on the campus radio, into a career at this company that I had considered so beneath me, but it was in vain. What can I say? I graduated from college this past June, majored in Com with a broadcasting emphasis, and even had my own little campus radio show "Sissy's Beats." My tracks were tight, my commentary insightful. I worked hard and was popular with the underground music collegiate types. I had my niche. I got good grades in public speaking and other broadcasting-related topics. In a nutshell, I thought I was set.

But I quickly found out that none of this was good enough. Without any professional experience, there was no way even KMPU Country would hire me.

Damn. But how the heck was I supposed to get professional experience, if no one would hire me without experience? These are the kind of catch 22's, or should I say scratch 22's, best understood by the mythological muse behind my musical blues, Sisyphus. For all you non-mythological types, Sisyphus was the one who was sentenced to push a great rock up a mountain for all eternity, only to have it tumble back down once it got to the top of the mountain. I chose the name because of my real name, Simon Frass, but now I'm beginning to feel I've cursed myself. What's the point of putting in all the legwork if its not going to get you anywhere?

There is one ray of hope though: One of the receptionists at the radio station down the street took pity on me after my tenth call. She told me about this broadcasting school, a customized training program that helps you get your foot in the door at a local station. I guess they teach you all the hands-on stuff you need to know to become a pro. I'm thinking of calling them. I'm beginning to think it's the only way my ragged Pumas will ever see the inside of a DJ booth again.

Peace,
DJ Sisyphus