Posts Tagged ‘radio’
“If you are not paying for it, you’re not the customer; you’re the product being sold.”*…
Julia Barton on a question that haunts us still…
After yet another day reading about audio industry layoffs and show cancellations, or listening to podcasts about layoffs and show cancellations, I sometimes wonder, “With all this great audio being given away for free, who did we think was supposed to pay for it all?”
I find some consolation in the fact that that question is more than a century old. In the spring of 1924, Radio Broadcast posed it in a contest called “Who is to Pay for Broadcasting and How?”The monthly trade magazine offered a prize of $500 (more than $9,000 in today’s dollars) for “a workable plan which shall take into account the problems in present radio broadcasting and propose a practical solution.”
The need for such a contest more than 100 years ago is revealing enough, but the reaction of the judges to the prize-winning plan turned out to be even more so — and it says a lot about why business models for audio production and broadcast remain a struggle.
Back in the mid-1920s, radio was just starting to catch on in America. For a couple of decades, the medium had been used mostly for logistics, to help ships communicate with each other and the shore. But after World War I, new technology allowed Americans to send and receive the sounds of music, lectures, and live events over “the ether.”
By all accounts, Americans — whiplashed by war, a flu pandemic, and massive social changes like Prohibition — went crazy to hear what the ether could deliver to the privacy of their homes. They started buying or building their own radio receivers at a pace that shocked observers. In his book This Fascinating Radio Business, Robert Landry recalls curious customers lining up behind velvet ropes to see and place orders for the latest receivers. “The size, cost, gloss and make of one’s radio was, with the family car and the family icebox, an index of social swank.”
Many stations at the time were run by department stores that wanted to demonstrate the miracle of the expensive radio sets they sold. One of the first broadcast radio stations in the country, WOR sat in the furniture department at Bamberger’s in Newark, and its first announcers were also the employees selling furniture. But as the consumer market started to be saturated, those early stations were either bleeding money or shutting down entirely. The equipment needed constant updating, the workers expected salaries, and the performers who’d once been persuaded to fill airtime “for exposure” now demanded payment.
To make things more complicated, the government required so-called “clear channel” stations (high-powered, with signals that reached far and wide) to be on the air live for 18 hours a day, forbidding the use of “mechanically reproduced” music (as in, phonograph records) to fill the time. All this made broadcasting a very expensive proposition by 1924.
I first read about the “Who Is To Pay” contest in the 1994 book Selling Radio by Susan Smulyan, who starts off noting that from the beginning, “no one knew how to make money from broadcasting.” What about advertising, the solution that seems most obvious in hindsight? The man in charge of regulating radio, then-Secretary of Commerce Herbert Hoover, hated the idea.
“I don’t think there is anything the people would take more offense at than the attempt to sell goods over radio advertising,” Hoover declared, as part of a full-page spread in The New York Times on May 18, 1924, the same month that Radio Broadcast first announced its contest.
The Secretary had been speaking out against advertising for a few years by this point. Indirect advertising (or sponsorship, as it would soon be called) was acceptable in his mind — and via some math that’s hard to figure out, he guessed sponsorship could support about 150 stations nationwide.
Consumers in the 1920s were used to paying for telephone calls and telegrams, and there were other experiments to get listeners to pay for radio. One, dubbed “wired wireless,” licensed special devices to subscribers on Staten Island, who then got programs delivered via their power lines — a proto-version of cable TV that didn’t last long…
… Radio Broadcast received close to a thousand entries to its contest. They proposed everything from a 30-day fundraising drive to the sale of copyrighted radio programming bulletins. The winner, announced in the March 1925 issue, proposed a $2 federal tax on vacuum tubes, at the time the cutting-edge technology for radio reception. The prizewinner, HD Kellogg Jr. of Haverford, Pennsylvania, reasoned that vacuum tubes were the best index of high-quality gear — the better the gear, the more radio a household could consume. Kellogg also argued that only the federal government, which already regulated radio, could collect and administer such a tax. His idea was basically a less regressive version of the licensing fee the British government already levied U.K. households to fund the BBC.
Though the contest’s judges awarded Kellogg’s proposal their prize, they were ambivalent about, if not downright hostile to, his plan. One can only imagine young Kellogg’s feelings as he read the many dismissals of his idea in later issues of Radio Broadcast. “A Government tax would be obnoxious,” wrote Paul Klugh, executive chairman of the National Association of Broadcasters. “I do not believe your prize-winning plan is feasible under conditions as they exist in this country,” wrote Secretary Hoover.
America’s radio brain trust would go on to denounce almost any federal funds for broadcasting, fearing such a model could lead to censorship. Some of that aversion makes historical sense, given that Americans could still vividly remember the ugly and heavy-handed wartime censorship of Wilson-era U.S. postmaster Albert Sidney Burleson. As Adam Hochshild writes in his chilling history American Midnight, Burleson — until he left Washington with his boss Woodrow Wilson in 1921 — used his office to seize socialist and foreign-language publications, and revoke the postal privilege of other publications that reported on the war. So when broadcasting advocates in the 1920s talked about government “censorship,” the term was not abstract — it was a recent fact.
But rather than try to figure out a smarter way to fund public-minded, high-quality broadcasting, the men behind the Radio Broadcast contest decided the real winner should be: Nothing. “For the present, I think it is better to let things ride along as they are,” wrote columnist Zeh Brouck in May 1925.
Things did ride along, straight to direct advertising. Within a few years, huge swathes of the airwaves were the province of Lucky Strikes and Jergen’s Lotion, racial minstrelsy and unbelievable quackery…
… For many happy decades of the 20th century, advertising did make commercial broadcasters a ton of money. But as historians from Robert McChesney to Susan Douglas to Michele Hilmes have pointed out, the “American system” is uniquely unstable, and it leaves public-interest programming — or, at times, any programming at all — hard to sustain.
While researching this piece, I learned I’m not the first writer to notice an anniversary of Radio Broadcast’s contest. Back in 1995, Todd Lappin explored it in Wired. He marveled at how much the nascent Web was following the same chaotic business arc of radio. But he held out hope that things might turn out better. “Perhaps radio wasn’t the right technology. But the Web and the Net may well be,” Lappin wrote. “Our job is to make sure that glorious potential doesn’t get stuffed into yet another tired, old media box.”
In retrospect, that’s a depressing read. But there is something irresistible about the original contest, and the era when all ideas were still up for debate. We’ve had a century of letting things “ride along.” It seems like a good time to open the contest again…
An all-too-timely read: “In 1924, a magazine ran a contest: “Who is to pay for broadcasting and how?” A century later, we’re still asking the same question,” from @bartona104 in @NiemanLab.
* Digg commenter blue_beetle (Anthony Lewis)– now a meme.
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As we contemplate culture, we might recall that it was on this date in 2007 that two local television helicopters covering a police chase in Phoenix, Arizona collided in air. Pilot Craig Smith and photographer Rick Krolak from KNXV-TV, and pilot Scott Bowerbank and photographer Jim Cox from KTVK were killed; there were no reported casualties on the ground.
“So much of performing is a mind game”*…
As John Seamon explains, in describing how they remember their lines, actors are telling us an important truth about memory…
… Actors face the demanding task of learning their lines with great precision, but they rarely do so by rote repetition. They did not, they said, sit down with a script and recite their lines until they knew them by heart. Repeating items over and over, called maintenance rehearsal, is not the most effective strategy for remembering. Instead, actors engage in elaborative rehearsal, focusing their attention on the meaning of the material and associating it with information they already know. Actors study the script, trying to understand their character and seeing how their lines relate to that character. In describing these elaborative processes, the actors assembled that evening offered sound advice for effective remembering.
Similarly, when psychologists Helga and Tony Noice surveyed actors on how they learn their lines, they found that actors search for meaning in the script, rather than memorizing lines. The actors imagine the character in each scene, adopt the character’s perspective, relate new material to the character’s background, and try to match the character’s mood. Script lines are carefully analyzed to understand the character’s motivation. This deep understanding of a script is achieved by actors asking goal-directed questions, such as “Am I angry with her when I say this?” Later, during a performance, this deep understanding provides the context for the lines to be recalled naturally, rather than recited from a memorized text. In his book “Acting in Film,” actor Michael Caine described this process well:
You must be able to stand there not thinking of that line. You take it off the other actor’s face. Otherwise, for your next line, you’re not listening and not free to respond naturally, to act spontaneously…
…
Deep understanding involves focusing your attention on the underlying meaning of an item or event, and each of us can use this strategy to enhance everyday retention. In picking up an apple at the grocers, for example, you can look at its color and size, you can say its name, and you can think of its nutritional value and use in a favorite recipe. Focusing on these visual, acoustic, and conceptual aspects of the apple correspond to shallow, moderate, and deep levels of processing, and the depth of processing that is devoted to an item or event affects its memorability. Memory is typically enhanced when we engage in deep processing that provides meaning for an item or event, rather than shallow processing. Given a list of common nouns to read, people recall more words on a surprise memory test if they previously attended to the meaning of each word than if they focused on each word’s font or sound.
Deep, elaborative processing enhances understanding by relating something you are trying to learn to things you already known. Retention is enhanced because elaboration produces more meaningful associations than does shallow processing — links that can serve as potential cues for later remembering. For example, your ease of recalling the name of a specific dwarf in Walt Disney’s animated film, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” depends on the cue and its associated meaning:
Try to recall the name of the dwarf that begins with the letter B.
People often have a hard time coming up with the correct name with this cue because many common names begin with the letter B and all of them are wrong. Try it again with a more meaningful cue:
Recall the name of the dwarf whose name is synonymous with shyness.
If you know the Disney film, this time the answer is easy. Meaningful associations help us remember, and elaborative processing produces more semantic associations than does shallow processing. This is why the meaningful cue produces the name Bashful…
On the art of recall: “How Actors Remember Their Lines,” an excerpt from Seamon’s book, Memory and Movies: What Films Can Teach Us About Memory, from @mitpress.
* Joshua Bell
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As we recollect, we might recall that it was on this date in 1952 that Guiding Light (AKA The Guiding Light) transferred from CBS Radio to CBS Television… and, as while radio actors could read from scripts, tv performers couldn’t, an enormous new occasion for the memorization of lines was created.
And indeed, there were lots and lots of lines to remember: with 72 years of radio and television runs (18,262 episodes), Guiding Light remains the longest-running soap opera, ahead of General Hospital, and is the fifth-longest-running program in all of global broadcast history.
“Curiosity has its own reason for existing”*…
Brian Klaas on how it is we know where we are– a riff from his recent book, Fluke: Chance, Chaos, and Why Everything We Do Matters that covers everything from navigational neurons to the calculation of longitude (with helpful updates to Dava Sobel’s estimable account)– and on how that history demonstrates the importance of curiosity…
We now navigate the world with ease, our location pinpointed by satellites floating high above us in the heavens, but it was not always so. How have our brains evolved to explore a complex landscape? And how did an 18th century government harness the dreams of crackpots and obsessive craftsmen to solve one of the most important questions of them all: where am I? The answer lies with an extraordinary story, linking neurons with naval history…
[Klass illustrates the cost of bad navigation [naval disasters], explains how animals [including humans] use “magnetic maps to navigate by a kind of dead reckoning], and unpacks the many obstacles to determining longitude at sea [mainly that it depended on very accurate time-keeping, a problem at sea with current clocks. The British Parliament offered a monumental cash prize for solving the conundrum, but there were no winners… until John Harrison came along…]
… John Harrison changed everything.
Harrison had little formal education, but was masterful working with wood and was fascinated by clocks. At first, he had difficulty convincing the scientific establishment of his ideas, but soon, his clocks dazzled. He refined them over decades—in one case spending seventeen years working on a single clock—producing five timepieces, the first working marine chronometers. Little by little, they improved, making it plain that scientific impossibility was becoming reality, forged through the determination and inventiveness of a self-taught craftsmen with a laudable obsession with problem-solving and timekeeping.
Harrision came up with several innovations that changed not just marine history, but world history. His clocks solved the problem of oil by designing it away; his timepieces—seemingly miraculously—employed several new anti-friction devices, facilitated by, among other innovations, using a naturally oily wood. Then, taking his genius one step further, Harrison invented the caged roller bearing, a nearly frictionless mechanism that later helped unleash the industrial revolution by improving machinery. Caged roller bearings are still used in “virtually every complex machine made today.”
To solve the problem of pendulums that elongate or shrink in varied climates, Harrison invented a bimetallic mechanism of canceling these expansions and contractions out. By combining brass and steel, he could effectively ensure that any bit of the mechanism that elongated would be offset as “the downward expansion of the steel rods is counteracted by the upward expansion of the brass rods.” Harrison’s related invention of the bimetallic strip is still used today and has been instrumental in thermometers, gas safety valves in ovens, electric circuit breakers, and cars, to name a few…
…
… For centuries, Harrison’s innovations changed history, and revolutionized navigation on the seas. That only changed in the early 20th century, when the wireless telegraph and radio signals made it possible to transmit time signals across vast distances to shipboard receivers. Finally, GPS—using satellites—eclipsed methods that relied on earthbound timekeeping.
But the tale of longitude—and the ongoing scientific sleuthing into the neurons we use to navigate across shorter distances—yield three important lessons.
First, government prizes can act as a crucial catalyst for scientific innovation. The industrial revolution and the rise of British naval superiority were both partially unleashed due to an investment of just two million pounds in today’s value [the prize offered by Parlaiment]. We should be developing many more state-funded scientific prizes today, particularly for research into neuroscience, as the 21st century will likely be defined by our understanding of complex cognition, both artificial and human.
Second, scientific snobbery—and excluding people from innovation based on credentialism—could have kept Harrison’s ideas from emerging, delaying crucial progress. It’s a cautionary tale for the modern world, in which our degrees are often wrongly imagined as an accurate shorthand for our intellectual worth.
Finally, the tale of longitude highlights the intellectual incuriosity of our modern age, in which we, to an unprecedented degree, drift through the world while rarely pausing to ask “how does that work?” We happily tap our destination into Google Maps, never wondering how the solution to what is now such a banal task as navigation changed the fate of the world forever.
In one wonderful psychology study, participants were asked if they knew how a toilet worked. “Of course!” the participants replied. “Great!” said the scientists. “Please write down, or draw, how it works.”
At that point, the participants realized they had no idea how a toilet works much beyond how to make it flush. As
Adam Mastroianni highlights: “This isn’t specific to toilets—you can get it with everything from spray bottles to helicopters.” This is known as the “illusion of explanatory depth,” where we imagine that we understand something, but are completely flummoxed when we’re asked how it actually works. Gravity is another great example. (Try explaining, in detail, exactly why stuff falls down, other than saying that masses exert forces on each other. Sure, but how?).
The point, then, is that human problems are often best solved by diverse—but stubborn thinkers—who are insatiably curious and relentlessly ask two simple questions that we mostly take for granted: “Why?” and “How?”
Countless lives were saved and the trajectory of world history shifted across centuries, all because one clockmaker couldn’t get those questions out of his head…
On the abiding importance of curiosity: “The Thrilling Tale of Longitude and Our Neurons of Navigation,” from @brianklaas.
* Albert Einstein
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As we find our place, we might recall that this date in 1896 is important to the technology that ultimately replaced the chronometer in navigation: it was the day that Guglielmo Marconi applied for British Patent number 12039 regarding a system of telegraphy using Hertzian waves. We call it radio.
“I would drive on streets that were one-way and think, ‘Why are they all honking at me?'”*…
Lachan Summers decodes the “language” of Mexico City’s streets…
Anyone who spends time in Mexico City will spend much of it in traffic. One of the most clogged cities in the world, residents will lose on average 158 hours per year to congestion on the road (Ortego et al 2021). In recent years, the city government has sought to limit the number of cars that take to the streets each day, but these efforts have largely targeted poorer people who travel from their homes in the city’s outskirts to their workplaces in the centre, rather than those who live and drive short distances in wealthy, congested regions (Guerra and Reyes 2022). So, gridlock continues apace…
Mexico City’s streets have a peculiarly large number of endemic sounds (Alba Vega and Rodríguez 2022). When I bring up street sounds with my friends, we invariably begin listing all we can, often reaching 15 or 20 unique sounds that can be heard on Mexico City’s streets on any given day. We can add to this the symphony of expressive honks that echo along the city’s brimming streets. With the thickening traffic, the sound of the street increases exponentially, each new car adding to the din while demanding auditory escalation from other motorists. Although the traffic might be stationary, its sound will still travel, overflowing the streets to amble through parks, markets, and the most buffered corners of the city’s apartments. Even if you’re not on Mexico City’s streets, you never really leave them.
Riding my bike through its traffic over the last five years, I’ve learned by force Mexico City’s wide vocabulary of horns. Being able to identify that different vehicles use different honks and toots, and knowing that these will vary according to infrastructure, conditions, weather, time of day, and part of the year, is what Steven Feld (1996) calls “acoustemology”: a portmanteau of “acoustic” and “epistemology” that names a sonic way of knowing the world. As sonic practices and expectations accumulate socially and historically, undifferentiated noise becomes differentiated sounds, and Mexico City’s streets transform from cacophony to systematic commotion. So, in the interest of systematic knowledge (and public safety), this essay tabulates the streets’ honks into a taxonomy of cláxones [horns], a “claxonomy” of Mexico City’s traffic.
Taxonomies are a peculiar form of knowledge production. Lorraine Daston (2004) shows in her history of botany that taxonomies often use holotypes, which combine the range of peculiarities a species might exhibit into an ideal specimen that has never existed. Concrete abstractions, this attention to minute detail is not only a catalogue of diversity but, as Foucault pointed out long ago, a mode of adjudicating difference that generates an overarching sense of order. By assuming the world to be rational, the taxonomic mind is deeply functionalist–famously, the Russian chemist Dmitry Mendeleev left gaps in his 1869 Periodic Table of Elements for the yet-unknown elements a coherent world would require (Neale, Phan, and Addison 2019).
In their pursuit of the world’s universal order, taxonomists seek a universal language that avoids the problem of synonymy–multiple names for the same thing–while their critics point to the hubris of believing that the world’s multitudes could be, in G.K. Chesterton’s (1904) words, represented by a “system of grunts and squeals”…
In the spirit of classical taxonomy, this essay arbitrarily selects a series of common honks to assert an overarching system of meaning shared by people on Mexico City’s streets. While it might sound cacophonous, that residents can distinguish the meaning of each horn shows we’re far from Babel; motorists’ improvisations are a vocabulary emergent from the demands made by a megacity that is, in Dean Chahim’s (2022) memorable phrasing, “governed beyond capacity”. As residents loudly fill the void left by the state with new apparatuses of meaning and management, convention replaces rule so people can keep moving…
Complete with illustrative sounds files: “A Claxonomy of Mexico City’s Traffic,” in @allegra_lab via @TheBrowser.
* Sandra Cisneros
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As we tackle taxonomy, we might spare a thought for Errett Lobban “E. L.” Cord; he died on this date in 1974. A race car driver, mechanic, and car salesman, he was offered the opportunity to manage the dying Auburn Automobile Company in 1924. By 1928 he controlled Auburn, which by 1931 was the 13th largest seller of autos in the United States. The acquisitive Cord founded the Cord Corporation in 1929 as a holding company for over 150 companies he controlled, mostly in the field of transportation. The corporation controlled the Auburn Automobile Company, which built the Auburn and Cord automobiles; Lycoming Engines; Duesenberg Inc.; New York Shipbuilding; Checker Motors; Stinson Aircraft Company; and American Airways (later American Airlines), amongst other holdings.
After a 1937 investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission into his dealings in Checker Cab stock, Cord sold the Cord Corporation to the Aviation Corporation and retired to Los Angeles… where he earned even more millions in real estate, and then in broadcasting: Cord owned several of the first radio and television stations in California and later Nevada, where he moved in the 1940s. In the call letters of his Los Angeles radio station, KFAC, the A.C. stands for Auburn Cord. In Reno, Cord established KCRL-TV and radio in the 1950s and operated it for more than 25 years. The ‘CRL’ in the station’s call letters stood for “Circle L”—a ranch Cord owned in the Nevada desert.
“Follow the money”*…
Professor and author Dave Karpf is re-reading the entire WIRED back catalog chronologically (for the second time) for a book project on the “history of the digital future.” A consideration of a 2000 issue devoted to the future has led him to a fascinating insight…
The January 2000 issue is themed around predictions. The magazine did the same thing in January 1999. They ask a ton of experts and celebrities to talk about what the future is going to be like. Some take it seriously, others make jokes. Some are prescient, others notsomuch. It’s a window into what the future looked like back then.
[Karpf reviews a number of the predictions, concluding with…]
…And then there’s this perfect Nathan Myrvhold quote “There won’t be TV per se in three decades. There will be video service over the Internet, but it will be as different from TV today as, say, MTV from the Milton Berle show of the 1950s or from radio plays of the 1940s.”
This is art. I want to frame Myrvhold’s quote and put it in a museum of lopsided tech futurist predictions.
The part that he gets right is the technological development curve. There he is, at the turn of the millennium, five years before the inception of YouTube, telling us that the future of television is going to be video service over the Internet. Yes, absolutely right!
But the part he gets wrong is the industrial, social, and economic impacts of this technological development. We’re seeing this right now, in 2023, as the various streaming services add advertising and strike content-sharing partnership deals with each other. We have these revolutionary new technological developments, and, for about a decade, they were supported by a stock market bonanza. But now that the stocks are no longer ridiculously overvalued, the companies driving these technological developments have settled on a vision of replacing old cable tv with new cable tv. (I wrote about this in July 2022, btw, back when this Substack had a much smaller readership. I think the piece holds up well.)
Technologically, it didn’t have to be this way. But, given all the existing incentive structures established by 21st century capitalism, it was all-but-certain that we would end up here.
I see this time and time again when reading predictions of social transformation from 90s- and 00s-era technologists [cough NicholasNegropontewasconstantlywrong cough]. And I see the same thing today, every time an artificial general intelligence true believer starts opining on the glorious future of education/entertainment/science/manufacturing/art.
I wrote about this phenomenon last year in The Atlantic, where I argued that we won’t be able to tell what the future of AI looks like until we have a sense of where the revenue streams come from. The trajectory of any emerging technology bends towards money.
…
I’m writing a whole book about the lopsided ways in which tech futurists always get their predictions wrong. And one major reason why is that they focus on what the technology could do, given time and mass adoption, rather than considering what capitalism will surely do to those technologies, unless we alter the incentives through regulations.
The trajectory of every emerging technology bends toward revenue streams. If you want to build a better future, you cannot ignore the shaping force of money…
A peek back at some tech predictions from January 2000: “From the WIRED archives: The trajectory of any emerging technology bends toward money,” by @davekarpf (referral account)
See also “The frantic battle over OpenAI shows that money triumphs in the end” (in which Robert Reich argues that, though the revenue streams aren’t yet obvious, protecting their emergence was at the core of the recent battle for control of what was, ostensibly, a not-for-profit) and the oddly apposite “Nerd culture is murdering intellectuals.”
And for more on Karpf’s march through WIRED’s history and what it can tell us about the ways that tech and our culture have changed, see “Notes from #WIRED30.”
* Deep Throat (as portrayed the film adaptation of All the President’s Men)
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As we pay attention to the profit motive, we might recall that this is an important date in broadcast history. On this date in 1896, Guglielmo Marconi introduced “radio”: he amazed a group at Toynbee Hall in East London with a demonstration of wireless communication across a room. Every time Marconi hit a key beside him at the podium, a bell would ring from a box being carried around the room by William Henry Preece.
Then exactly five years later, on this date in 1901, Marconi confounded those who believed that the curvature of the earth would limit the effective range of radio waves when he broadcast a signal from Cornwall, England to Newfoundland, Canada– over 2,100 miles– and in so doing, demonstrated the viability of worldwide wireless communication.
In the earliest days of radio, when it was essentially a wireless telegraph, there were myriad predictions of what the technology might become– from an internet-like decentralized community of communicators to a provider of education, telemedicine, and other special services… in the event, of course, it followed the money.
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