Local broadcasters struggle for exposure as control of the airwaves goes corporate
Story by Jordan Bentz
Photos Nick Pothetes & Andrew Creasey
A jaunty orchestral arrangement flits out of antiquated tweed speakers and off into the cool autumn evening. Blaring horns pulse to a swanky tango rhythm as Ramón Raquello and his band perform “La Cumparsita” to a standing-room-only crowd in New York’s Park Plaza Hotel. Across the country, a sea of listeners sits starry-eyed in front of their radios. The doldrums of the Great Depression are temporarily forgotten in the wash of sound.
Back to reality. A brusque reporter informs listeners of an “explosion of incandescent gas” observed on planet Mars. The breakneck report, issued twenty minutes before 8 p.m. hints at a series of atmospheric disturbances recorded from the Mount Jennings Observatory in Chicago. With condolences to the audience, the station returns to the scheduled broadcast – an ominous rendition of the jazz standard “Stardust.”
After more musical interludes, a distress signal interrupts the broadcast. A luminous disc, believed to be a meteorite has landed in the sleepy town of Miller’s Grove, New Jersey. A frantic reporter, broadcasting from the scene of the incident, provides a gripping eyewitness account of the terrifying extraterrestrial encounter: a creature, too terrible to imagine, emerges from the disc, hell-bent on ending human existence.
The resulting pandemonium – broadcast to an estimated audience of six million – incites many listeners to call their local authorities in panic. Some complain of smelling noxious gases, while others claim to have seen the alleged spacecraft.
In reality, the broadcast was an elaborate hoax masterminded by theater dynamo Orson Welles. Although intended to be a Halloween gag, the program demonstrated the irrevocable power of the emerging technology.
The ensuing years, termed the “Golden Age” of radio, marked the beginning of the end—a slow-motion swansong broadcast over stagnating air to a dwindling few.
Today, competing media platforms have ousted commercial radio from the forefront of the public consciousness. Congress’ decision to ratify the Telecommunications Act of 1996 compounded problems for struggling broadcasters by opening the doors for consolidation.
The flurry of corporate buyouts in the latter half of the decade occurred at a rapid rate. When the dust settled, only six major US media companies remained—an astonishing departure from the fifty-plus corporations operating in 1983.
For independent broadcasters, resistance to corporate takeover and federal regulation is necessary to preserve the legacy of community-based radio. These purists adhere to a singular code of conduct, pledging allegiance to a different authority: the immutable independent voice.
One station representing this ideal, the Portland Radio Authority (PRA), committed radio piracy when it commandeered a vacated FM frequency to disseminate their brand of homespun radio.
For more than three and a half years, the PRA, a grassroots community radio project, broadcast from an undisclosed location in southeast Portland. It relied on clandestine operations to subvert commercial saturation of the city’s airwaves. DJs played local bands in genre-spanning sets characterized by off-the-cuff commentary and total creative freedom – avoiding the trappings of the free-play-for-promotion model utilized by commercial broadcasters.
In spite of burgeoning appeal, the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) ignored the 100-watt station.
“We were able to broadcast to a small area within the city for quite a while before the FCC finally found us out,” says PRA Co-Founder and de facto engineer, Gus Elg.
Using a homemade transmitter nicknamed “Frankenstein,” Elg and other PRA volunteers broadcast for nearly three and a half years before the FCC intervened.
Citing Section 301 of the Communications Act – which states that a sanctioned license must be obtained in order to use any apparatus for transmission of radio signals – officials from the regulatory commission came to the door of the PRA with a cease-and-desist order and the threat of a $10,000 fine.
Elg attributes the FCC’s renewed interest in the station to a barrage of local media coverage. Broadcasters agreed to talk with reporters only if stories focused on the PRA’s online station, rather than the illegal FM frequency. An untimely feature in the Oregonian’s Arts & Entertainment section detailing the station’s illegal activities was enough to pique the interest of the FCC. The subsequent raid signaled the end of an era.
In spite of the closure, the station’s online presence maintains considerable influence within the community. Moreover, the PRA’s coup d’etat demonstrated the possibilities for a group of volunteers committed to upending mainstream radio. The station’s improbable run exceeded expectations in a market where Clear Channel Communications owns five of the top ten radio stations.
Although the broadcasts were innocuous, the FCC takeover proved how valuable airspace has become.
“Bandwidth is like the gold rush . . . it’s worth billions of dollars,” KBOO Program Director Chris Merrick says.
KBOO began as a community radio project in 1968 in the basement of a donated house in southeast Portland. With two tape recorders and a turntable, the station operated on a monthly budget of fifty dollars. The electric output was slightly less than that of a fluorescent light bulb.
Today, KBOO’s profile has grown considerably. A roster of nearly one hundred volunteers provides content for the station. With the help of a small but dedicated staff, KBOO has helped transform the face of mainstream radio by putting power in the hands of the public – a public eager to listen.
“We don’t get any federal money,” Merrick says. “Over half our money [comes from] memberships from people who phone in during pledge drives.”
As part of the station’s executive board, Merrick helps oversee the bi-annual pledge drive – a two-week event designed to raise money to alleviate the station’s high overhead costs.
It’s Friday afternoon at KBOO headquarters and the building is uncharacteristically quiet.
The often heated political ruminations of station volunteers – self-described “radio activists” – have all but subsided. An empty box of donuts and the lingering scent of stale coffee are the only remnants of a chaotic morning that saw the station’s employees rushing to finish work on the latest pledge drive.
The event was successful. KBOO generated over $140,000 in sponsorships, which is quite an accomplishment for a station that relies primarily on user-generated content.
“We try not to run any syndicated programming,” Merrick says. “Usually we get three or four stories turned in by volunteers and we go from there.”
Because of these varied sources of input, the station’s content never follows a set agenda. Past stories range from charges against Nike’s Indonesian sweatshops to natural gas spills in Portland neighborhoods.
As a twenty-one-year veteran of KBOO, Merrick is quick to establish a dichotomy between local and commercial radio.
“There’s a huge division psychologically between people who hate commercial radio. They listen to OPB and classical jazz and KBOO . . . and what do they all have in common? They’re the non-commercial stations,” Merrick says.
Across the state, other broadcasters share Merrick’s view on media consolidation.
“Bigger corporations plan to own most of the media, and then they try to tag it as local . . . but it’s not really local, it’s more national because they’re owned by bigger, rich companies,” says KPCN Co-Director Erubiel Valladares.
KPCN’s founding organization, the Pineros y Campesinos Unidos del Noroeste (PCUN), or Northwest Treeplanters and Farmworkers United, formed in 1985 as a way to empower farmworkers.
“Our slogan is ‘the voice of the people,’” Valladares explains.
Valladares, a native of Mexico’s Queretaro region, is an unassuming firebrand: amiable and soft-spoken, yet an ardent supporter of grassroots campaigning. Together with the help of a dedicated group of volunteers, Valladares helped create KPCN, the only radio station in Oregon owned by a labor union. It’s located in Woodburn, a town where over half the population speaks Spanish. KPCN’s first broadcast on November 20, 2006, the ninety-sixth anniversary of the Mexican Revolution. Volunteers christened the event, “Radio Revolution Day.”
From a quaint four-bedroom house in the shadow of an old church steeple, KPCN broadcasts twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. An inconspicuous hand-painted sign on the porch is the only telltale feature of the station.
The station’s volunteer-generated content varies depending on the issues at hand and the willingness of contributors. KPCN broadcasters include youth, women, farmworkers, immigrants, and other non-traditional voices.
“Our mission here at the station is to educate, raise consciousness, and entertain. We don’t care how it’s done, as long as we have those three,” Valladares says.
Once inside, flashes of character illuminate the residence: a stoic portraiture of Commadante Marcos – the Zapatista labor organizer and rebel radio broadcaster – greets visitors from a mural in the foyer. A littering of scrawled letters from local students adorns the walls.
Even when unattended, the house never feels vacant. A stereo in the hall blasts KPCN at all hours of the day. The view from the second floor office window offers a glimpse of the station’s broadcasting apparatus – a ninety-five-watt antenna fastened to the roof of the Woodburn water tower.
By comparison, KKCW, Oregon’s highest-rated radio station, emits 95,000 watts of power. While KPCN’s ten-mile broadcasting radius may seem insignificant in scope, the importance of the station cannot be undermined. KPCN is the culmination of a twenty-six-year journey.
The station’s first incarnation – a weekly one-hour show entitled La Hora Campesino (the Farmworker Hour) debuted in 1990 on KWBY. PCUN purchased the time slot to provide Oregon’s agricultural workers with a platform to discuss labor rights and issues of ethnicity and cultural identity. Laborers often called the show to air their grievances and advocate for better working conditions.
In the mid 1990s, the PCUN radio show was systematically shut down. Although the KWBY station manager never gave PCUN organizers a reason for the forced departure, many suspected regional employers were responsible for pressuring the reconciliatory action following a May Day strike organized on the weekly radio show. The incident reaffirmed the town’s commitment to establishing their own station.
“Corporate control of media and lack of access to our own airwaves impacted our struggle to protect our rights and to broadcast to the Latino community in the Willamette Valley,” Valladares says.
Today, KPCN is making strides toward expanding their coverage to other areas across Oregon. The station is in the process of applying for a full-power license in hopes of creating a network of community-run stations across the state.
KPCN, KBOO, and PRA’s ideals form an emerging paradigm of community radio: local broadcasters must represent local voices. Together, they stand on the front lines of a beleaguered but resolute group of stations redefining radio one broadcast at a time. For these broadcasters, maintaining identity amid the static of a conglomerated radio market remains the most important aspiration.
And while the sounds of revolution are faint, the signal is gaining clarity.

Gallery • 1 Photos

KPCN’s Director of Production Tomas Bartolo, twenty-three, oversees a broadcast. Bartolo also works with the station’s developing website, radiomovimiento.org, which they will use to release podcasts and other activities. The website launched in December.