hen
Allston-Brighton Free Radio (1670 AM) went off the air for a few
days last week, no syndication rights or equity stakes were
involved, as was the case with WBUR-FM's (90.9) ''Connection''
controversy. Nor was it caused by concerns about racy program
content, as invoked in the recent standoff between WEEI-AM (850) and
The Boston Globe.
In fact, listeners of this tiny, non-commercial, ultra-low-power
community radio station - and nobody knows how many listeners there
are - may have been unaware the signal had disappeared. It is a
signal, after all, that even on good days has trouble crossing
Brighton Avenue without getting lost.
''If you're in a car with a decent radio, during the day you can
get us for probably a range of a couple of miles,'' says station
founder and general manager Stephen Provizer. ''In a house during
the daytime, maybe half a mile.''
Provizer, whose contempt for Big Media often makes him sound like
a cross between Abbie Hoffman and Newton Minow, adds that, ''if you
are driving through our listening area, you're probably not
in it for very long.''
Call it drive-by radio for a drive-time world. Because ABFR also
broadcasts over its Web site (abfreeradio.org), drawing listeners
from as far away as Germany, it does get around to some surprising
places, well beyond the reach of its puny 100-milliwatt signal. The
station further extends its sphere of influence through WJIB (740
AM), which rebroadcasts ABFR public affairs shows on Saturday
nights.
Last week's shutdown? It was necessitated by ABFR taking three
days off to move into new studio space on Cambridge Street. The
station went back on the air Thursday.
Still, compared to virtually all other stations in the Boston
area, ABFR is a broadcasting nonentity, a quirky combination of
community theater, neighborhood bulletin board, amateur radio hour,
and antiestablishment politics, all produced on good intentions and
a shoestring budget.
Drive-by radio? Call it walk-in radio, too. Provizer has
approached dozens of community organizations during the 14 months
his station has been in operation, opening the microphones to a
broad cross section of local groups and individuals. In a
broadcasting jungle where consultant-driven programming is king,
what Provizer has put together is both an exotic species and an
endangered one.
''It hasn't been a complete success because the signal is so
limited,'' notes businessman Marc Cooper, an ABFR listener and
supporter who sits on Allston's board of trade. ''But Steve's kept
his promise to reach out to the whole community. And the fact that
he's kept it going this long is amazing.''
''Without this station, I never would have gotten my voice out
there,'' says Jade Charlotin, who works for City Hall and hosts a
Saturday-morning gospel music show on ABFR. ''I love what I do, even
if only one person is listening.''
Refreshingly retro
Charlotin may be closer to the numerical truth than she knows.
Even with 50,000 people living within a half-mile radius, ABFR has
no way to measure audience size. Everything else about the station
is refreshingly retro, too. The new basement studio occupies the
site of a former travel agency. It looks like a UMass dorm room
circa 1972, with a round kitchen table and a few headsets making up
the broadcast booth and colorful hand-painted signage adorning the
walls. The rest of the equipment would hardly pass muster with a
reputable college station, and at ABFR, programmers pay the station
for air time, not the other way around. Harnessing the transmission
power of a garage-door opener, ABFR is certainly no KISS-108. Matty
in the Morning owns an electric shaver with a wider broadcast field.
And that, say those involved, is both the shame and the charm of
enterprises like ABFR (only a handful of which operate in the US
without university or college affiliation, according to Provizer).
Unlike commercial radio, or even public radio, community radio is
true ''roots'' radio, say Provizer and others. More important to its
current health, the station operates in compliance with Federal
Communications Commission licensing restrictions, something the last
station Provizer launched - in 1997 - did not.
''In its earliest days, radio was basically what Steve is doing
now,'' says Kevin Howley of Northeastern University's department of
communication studies. ''Before commercial interests took over, it
was a bunch of guys across America using radio to unite an
increasingly fragmented country.''
Provizer, 50, relishes the role of renegade broadcaster.
''One of my missions is to demystify technology and the art of
communications,'' he says, bending over the turntable to play a
Lionel Hampton record during a recent interview. Another mission is
to get more citizens involved in the regulatory process, says
Provizer, and a third is to avoid the pressure of having to program
for a mass audience.
''Even if I could buy a commercial station,'' he says, ''there's
only so much centralization you can do before people think you're
broadcasting from a bunker in Cincinnati.''
Grassroots programming
A rundown of ABFR's weekly programming reflects the grassroots
nature of the product.
There are shows on caring for pets (Mondays 4-4:30 p.m.), on New
Age spirituality (Thursdays 10-11 p.m.), and on children's health
issues (Tuesdays 2-3 p.m.). A pair of Tuesday-night shows features
Jewish themes, one beginning at 7, the other at 11:30. A show on
elderly affairs (Tuesdays 3-4 p.m.) is also offered, along with
programs about mental health issues (Thursdays at 5 p.m.), personal
finances (Mondays 10:30-11:30 p.m.), and progressive politics, one
hosted by a member of the Greater Boston Young People's Socialist
League (Thursdays 7:30-8:30 p.m.) and another by representatives of
the Green Party (Mondays at 12:45 p.m.).
Music shows cover every genre from gospel to psychedelia, from
jazz on vinyl to hard-core punk to world music. On Sunday afternoon
the station broadcasts a one-hour show in Cantonese. Friday at 5:30
p.m. is ''Konnin Bibla,'' an hourlong show broadcast in Creole for
the local Haitian community. Portuguese- and Spanish-language shows
are also part of the weekly lineup.
Diversity plus volunteerism plus the modest cost of doing
business - program hosts pay the station $2 per show, guests pay $1
- help make community radio what it is, amateurish though it may
sound at times. Citizens Media Corps, the station's parent company,
also raises money through yearly memberships at $10 apiece.
Lorraine Bossi, a retired accountant manager and longtime
resident of the Allston-Brighton area, is typical of the studio
hosts Provizer has recruited. Since March 2000, when ABFR first went
on air, the 65-year-old Bossi has anchored a Wednesday-evening show
called ''The Allston-Brighton Roundtable.'' The show highlights
community and public affairs; guests might include the chief of
police or an assistant district attorney discussing local crime
issues. Bossi not only had no broadcast experience before meeting
Provizer, she had little desire to try it. But she quickly
discovered her inner Nina Totenberg.
''I was terribly shy at first, which seems humorous to me now,''
says Bossi, who debuted in 1997 on Provizer's first community
station, Radio Free Allston. ''The moment they put a microphone in
my hand, I became a total ham.''
Children's health issues are the provenance of Brigitte Paine, a
pediatric nurse practitioner at St. Franciscan Children's Center in
Brighton. Paine's show, for which cohost Rosalva Teran provides a
Spanish translation, tries to raise questions ''that don't get
brought up in a 10-minute visit with the pediatrician,'' says Paine.
A recent show on childhood immunization was typical, according to
Paine.
''We try to explain the `why,' not just say, `Don't do it,'''
Paine says. ''A lot of people in this community, especially
immigrants, aren't watching the evening news or reading daily
newspapers. We're their source of medical news.''
Radio renegade
Provizer, meanwhile, is the glue holding it all together. A
Brookline native, he bounced around colleges in the 1970s, playing
trumpet in jazz and blues bands and trying to fashion a career in
music. As that dream faded, he got a job writing radio scripts for
National Public Radio in Washington. In the '80s, Provizer helped
produce TV shows for WGBH (''French in Action'') and WHDH (''Ready
to Go''). He has also freelanced for local periodicals such as the
Tabs, Cambridge Chronicle, and Jewish Advocate. He's married to a
Lesley College professor, and they have a 3-year-old daughter.
Provizer also teaches a course in radio and mass media at Brighton
High School.
At least indirectly, ABFR owes its existence to the Gulf War.
''Repoliticized'' by that conflict, says Provizer, he began
questioning the role big money plays in media coverage, including
the then-fledgling Internet. In 1996, he heard about microradio, or
low-powered radio, and he attended a conference sponsored by Free
Radio Berkeley. Most participants were pirate operators in their
20s, he says, idealists with punkers' mentalities and robust disdain
for commercial radio.
''I saw the technology involved, and it wasn't rocket science,''
Provizer recalls. ''Someone with no training and a modicum of
technical skills could put this together, so I did.''
With the help of some renegade techies, Provizer installed a
pirate station in his basement. A transmitter cost $500 and came in
kit form, ordered from a pirate supplier in Florida. Provizer spent
''a couple of thousand dollars'' on gear. When Cooper, the manager
of Herrell's Ice Cream on Brighton Avenue, offered Provizer a
broadcast venue at his shop, Radio Free Allston was born. But it was
short-lived. Even at 15 watts, RFA operated in open defiance of FCC
law. Cooper didn't profess to care, but the FCC did.
In the fall of 1997, the National Association of Broadcasters
moved to shut down all pirate stations, lobbying the FCC to withhold
licensing all sub-100-watt stations. The NAB got support from NPR,
among others, an act that still outrages Provizer and others in the
community-radio movement.
Provizer notes that outlaw music stations were supposed to be the
primary targets of the NAB's action, not small, community-oriented
stations like his. Still, when WROR-FM (105.7) complained about
interference with its signal, the FCC closed down Provizer's station
in a hurry.
Provizer later founded Citizens Media Corps, the nonprofit entity
behind ABFR. He also discovered Part 15 broadcasting, a low-power
radio niche too small for even the FCC to bother with. Owners of a
building on Braintree Street let Provizer put up a 10-foot whip
antenna, and he was back in business. Restoring the station cost
about $12,000, according to Provizer, who pays himself a ''low
five-figure salary.'' Besides fund-raisers and private donations,
ABFR has gotten support from the Hyams Foundation totaling about
$35,000 over two years.
Broadcasting via the Internet is now a key part of his strategy,
Provizer says. The signal is strong, and the audience it reaches is
younger and more politically progressive. If even a few online
listeners use home transmitters to rebroadcast the station's signal,
Provizer says, the station can extend its range significantly beyond
current limitations.
''Doing this legally is a lot more difficult than doing it
illegally,'' he says with a smile.
As for questions about ABFR's political leanings, Provizer
doesn't pretend to be looking for the next Rush Limbaugh.
''It's fair to raise those questions,'' he concedes. ''But if you
jump through the right hoops, you can get a show here. I have people
who are extremely mainstream, even right wing, in their point of
view. They're not the majority, though.''
''Despite its small coverage area, the station is reaching people
who are hungry for this sort of thing,'' says Howley. ''In the end
it's all about treating listeners as citizens, not consumers.''