The question is: WHY?
Why is this and other utterly unproductive air pollution allowed to contaminate the ether and continue long after WBAI has exhausted its raison d'etre?
I rehired Bob Fass, who had been prematurely discarded by my predecessor, but that was back in the era when convention crashed, Brylcreem and Old Spice remained in the bottle, and the blooming flower generation smothered us with ersatz love. Dylan and a mixed assortment of rebels became frequent midnight visitors at BAI, and everything old suddenly seemed even older. Bob Fass did not orchestrate this, but he knew the score and conducted his program accordingly. It would be wrong to dilute his role in the success of Radio Unnameable, but it is also wrong to overlook the fact that none of this would have happened if Lew Hill's Pacifica had not set the stage.
Today, there is hardly a trace of that Pacifica left. A disastrous u-turn has long since killed the spirit of America's first non-profit, listener-sponsored broadcast experiment. Most of the original participants have moved on, some to great success, but even they can no longer reach back and offer, in good conscience, to help an organization run by small-minded vandals.
You probably do not listen to WBAI these days, so here is an unedited, torturous excerpt from last week's "Radio Unnameable." I don't know what triggered the rambling, disjointed recollections that goes from Jean Shepherd to Fass' grandmother via Wanamaker's burned out New York store, but the bumpy narrative's volume eventually sinks several decibels and remains there until Fass fizzles out and we are left with a very confused Bill Propp, who throws fragments of an old Fass show into the New York night.
There is bad radio and there is this sort of thing.