WGBH, Boston's storied public radio station, long-time home to folk, blues, and classical programming unrivaled anywhere on the radio dial, will go all-talk on December 1st.  Music programming will be moved to WCRB, further up the dial, which GBH bought for $14 million back in September.

I know a lot of people are upset about this state of affairs, but to tell you the truth, I went cold on public radio a long time ago.  For the past several years it seems like every time I turn on the radio, I'm held hostage by preachy public radio fundraisers demanding ransom if I ever want to hear my music alive again.  As for talk, what content there is between pleas for funds has just become way too precious for my taste. 



I remember distinctly the moment, listening to Prairie Home Companion in the mess of the old bunkhouse at Moosehill Orchards in Londonderry, New Hampshire, where I spent a few harvests in my traveling days after college, when all the sudden I realized I didn't really like Garrison Keillor's faux old-time radio variety show after all.  That, in fact, I had not liked it for many years.  That actually, when I thought about it, I had never really liked it (and if you want to know why, just watch the movie).

As soon as that domino fell, the others went, one-two-three: The nasally Morning Edition crew, Terry Gross with her giggly air-headed questions on Fresh Air, the precious self-consciously quirky Ira Glass of This American Life.  None of these were voices I recognized from real life (which were closer to Click and Clack, truth told), but suddenly they seemed incurious, strangely self-satisfied, even smug.  Maybe it all just got too Prozacky for me.

I can't blame NPR if I prefer my news a little more hard-boiled, and like my story-time a little less preciously postmodern.  There are plenty of people who obviously feel very much otherwise.  And to be a hundred percent honest, my Prairie Home Companion moment may not have been as much about Keillor and Co. as it was an awakening aversion on my part to radio chatter in general. 

It wasn't always this way.  As a kid I was a public radio junkie in a house where the TV was always on.  I used to barricade myself in my room, stay up late and listen to my local public radio station's exceptionally rich music and drama programming — from adaptations of Tolkien, and originals from the BBC like The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy to the home-grown Jack Flanders series from ZBS,  Ken Nordine's trippy Word Jazz and Joe Frank's surreal tales for NPR Playhouse.  All of which were pure magic.

The first time I heard Tom Waits — Nighthawks at the Diner —  was on public radio.  It's where I first heard the blues — with pure wonderments from greats like Louis Jordan, singing his "Three-Handed Woman" ("right-handed, left-handed, and underhanded, too").

These were voices I didn't recognize from real life, either, but they seemed bigger than life, not smaller.  Some were cracked and craggy, and sounded boozy and broke.  But the words!  No one I knew used words like I heard every night, with the lights off up in my room.  With mere words, public radio opened up worlds to me. 

I know people listen for the classical music you can't get anywhere else on the dial these days, but for me it was blues, jazz, experimental, and drama.  This kind of programming is almost nonexistent on American radio today, but honestly I'm not sure I'd care if there were more of it out there.  I just don't listen to radio like I used to — I mean, the way I listen has evolved along with new media.  I don't watch TV like I used to.  I don't have to.  The internet has changed all that.

I'm not saying there's not something to be said for just switching the thing on and getting what you get.  But when what you get is, increasingly, constant solicitation in the form of a tongue-lashing, WTF?  I can listen to whatever I want online, without the attitude. 

Yeah, I know, it's public radio. Good liberals give.  But when your local affiliate spends millions on a malfunctioning three-story jumbo-tron overhanging the turnpike — don't come crying poor mouth to me five times a day at your lack of funds for programming.  And the fact is, it doesn't matter how much I give, I still have to hear the hard-sell.  And — I know I'm being selfish and short-sighted here — but with twostations on the dial now instead of one, you and I both know we'll have twice the guilt-tripping. No thanks.

It's like you're paying their meal at a chichi restaurant, and they expect you to thank them for eating it.  Seriously, GBH: WTF?