On the Air
Sunny, the Chinese DJ with whom I will host a weekly show on Changsha Music Radio (
http://www.whatsfm.com), met me at the university on Thursday morning. As we rode in a cab on our way to do our first show, Sunny had some advice.
"My station manager wants to make sure you're aware, Daniel," she said, "you cannot say the things about politics or religion. You can not say the swear words, either. And, because you are a foreigner, you are not allowed to be on the air live. We must record the show in advance."
No worries, I thought. The format of the show is Western music, and who wants to waste time talking politics or religion, or swearing, when we could be listening to Louis Armstrong?
Sunny told me to introduce each song, give background about the musician, fit the song into its cultural and historical context. For hosting the one-hour show each week, I will be paid 100 yuan, twelve-and-a-half dollars, a lavish salary in the Chinese DJ business. "We think you are the perfect fit for our audience," Sunny explained, "young, modern, very knowledgable about Western music and culture."
The problem occurred to me: but I don't freakin know squat about Western music or culture. And then, a solution: who freakin cares? I will impersonate someone who knows squat about Western music and culture.
Sunny talks a lot, even in English, and she giggles after everything she says, not in a ditzy way or a condescending way, just in a way that conveys her belief that life is a big laugh, not to be taken too seriously. She's 28, studied English at a Changsha college and has climbed the DJ ladder for the past eight years to get to where she is today: near the top, a celebrity voice in Changsha, a rich woman.
You'd never know any of this by meeting her. She has the bounce and light touch of Amelie. Plus, she wears a sailor's hat that, even to me, looks pretty freakin dorky. I loved her from the second I met her.
We got off at Sunny's apartment, a palace by Chinese standards: two bedrooms, a computer room, a living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. Everything is new and modern and funky. Sunny shares the place with her husband, a computer programmer whom Sunny dated for nine years before finally making it offical last summer. "He is such a lovely man," Sunny said, before breaking into giggles.
Sunny got us some coffee, went downstairs and bought us some bread and pastries, and we began listening to CDs in English, intent on planning the first show. My meager collection, all CDs I've bought in China, was all we had: Bruce Springsteen, Norah Jones, REM, Nirvana, Eminem, Louis Armstrong, Radiohead, U2.
As we were listening to The Boss, Sunny said, "Do you mind if I smoke?" "It's your house," I replied, "smoke away." This question startled me. A woman smoking is China is almost as rare as a man not smoking. And to ask another person if they
mind your smoking? This is wholly unprecedented.
Sunny packed her smokes like a pro, pulled one out and lit up. Of course she offered me one -- it's custom -- but I declined. "Maybe I'll quit when I have the baby," Sunny said, before giggling. She plans her one child "a long, long time from now," she explained, before giggling. For now, she's going to smoke. And giggle.
Listening to music for radio playability proved challenging. I told myself: pretty much choose the songs that you'd least like to listen to. Simple rhythm? Cheesy lyrics? Shallow theme? Perfect for radio. Not necessarily adhering to these criteria for all the songs, I made this playlist:
"Dancing in the Dark" (Springsteen)
"Come Away with Me" (Norah Jones)
"On the Sunny Side of the Street" (Louis Armstrong)
"Stand" (REM)
"Everybody Hurts" (REM)
"Oh Me" (Nirvana)
"Sunrise" (Norah Jones)
"What Am I to You?" (Norah Jones)
"My Name is Slim Shady" (Eminem)
Despite the inherent flaws in this playlist -- I don't know what they are, for I don't know squat about Western music, just that there must be inherent flaws -- making it couldn't have more of a lark. I couldn't help cutting rug in Sunny's living room as REM played, or singing along to Norah Jones. It's a privilege I've never had -- choose whatever songs I like. It's my show. Delicious. "I think you can do the singing on this show, too," Sunny said, before giggling.
The playlist in place, it was time to go. I don't recall how it came up, but at one point I mentioned that I like taking motorcycle taxis. "Do you know how to drive a motorcycle?" Sunny asked. "Of course," I lied. "Okay, you can drive me to work on my motorcycle," Sunny said.
And, no lie, we went downstairs and Sunny pulled out of her garage in her "ladies motorcycle" -- basically a souped-up Honda Spree scooter. She was wearing a red motorcycle helmet and a bright yellow jacket. "Okay, you will drive," she said.
The thought occured to me: I haven't freakin driven a motorcycle in six years. And then the solution: who freakin cares? I will impersonate a motorcycle driver. And onto the scooter I leapt.
Before long, I was weaving through Changsha traffic, with Sunny sitting on the back of the scooter. I very nearly collided head-on with a police SUV, which scared the bejesus out of me. Sunny giggled. "Oh, Daniel, you are a perfect driver," she said, giggling. This is not a very convincing impersonation, I thought.
After 10 frightening minutes on the road, we arrived at the studio in downtown Changsha. When we got there, Sunny showed me into her station manager's office.
Her station manager is a middle-aged woman, very fit and trim and attractive, who wears the power business suit but comes off as a giddy 18-year-old on Spring Break. She welcomed me warmly, giggled, got me some tea, told me I'm handsome, made some jokes.
We went over the terms of the show: 100 yuan, paid monthly, we will record the show in advance, it will air Sundays from 8-9 p.m., blah blah blah. "Do you understand the format of the show?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. "Sunny said I should talk about religion and politics in China." There was a slight pause, then rapturous giggles, from both Sunny and the station manager. This is going to be fun, I thought.
Grace, a 24-year-old grad student in English who's a friend of the friend who set me up with this gig, arrived. The show will be the three of us: Sunny, Grace and me.
We entered the studio, a dilapidated room reminiscent of college radio, and began. No rehearsal. Sunny was at the big mike, while Grace and I shared the smaller mike. We started our banter, which came amazingly easy.
Sunny would ask me a question, Grace would butt in with a smart-aleck comment, I'd respond, we'd mock-quarrel/flirt, Sunny would break us up, we'd all giggle, then I'd introduce a song. When I'd speak for more than a few seconds, Sunny would break in. "Daniel, you're too loud! Please, keep quiet." "Sorry," I replied, "I get excited sometimes." We giggled.
I impersonated an expert on Western music far more convincingly than I did a motorcycle driver. I realized that I know the basic sketch biographies of all the artists we played, and I know somewhat about the genre of music they belong to, and anything I didn't know, I didn't bother to say. There wasn't a single moment to approximate the near-collision with the cop in the SUV, not one moment when I felt I was being exposed as the fraud I am.
Plus, the three of us had such perfect chemistry, from the start, that any gaffes could quickly be smoothed over. Of course, our audience knows English much less fluently than we do, and knows even less about Western music, so there's a monumental margin-of-error safety net.
However, there was one total dud: Sunny asked me to tell a joke. What came to mind immediately was the peanut joke -- two peanuts were walking down the street, one was assaulted. It was met by no giggles. No understanding. Silence. Worse, they asked me to explain it. I need to get some more accessible jokes for next show. And, of course, they couldn't resist the temptation to make the show into a personal ad for me, in Chinese.
Overall, though, it couldn't have been a better beginning. Our on-air banter was not a gimmick. It resembled exactly our conversations in real life. We were the same three giggly dorks that we are without a microphone in our face. Perhaps this natural sound came about because we didn't rehearse or attach any kind of pressure to "the show." We walked in, started talking, as friends do.
This week, on the way to take the bus to Changsha to record next week's show, Sunny called me on my cell-out phone. "Daniel, I hope you're not on the bus yet," she said. I wasn't. "Okay, Daniel, don't bother coming this week," Sunny said, giggling. "The station manager has decided we will record live, starting this Sunday. She moved the show to prime time, seven to eight o'clock. She will join us on the program from now on. See you Sunday night." Right on.
