"My access to music when I was growing up was through pirate radio, you know, transistor radio under the pillow, listening to one more and then 'just one more' until your favourite track comes on"
About this Quote
There is a whole underground education packed into Palmer's image of a transistor radio under the pillow: music as contraband, pleasure as a minor act of rebellion, taste formed after bedtime in the private glow of static and secrecy. He isn't romanticizing piracy as an ideology so much as describing a pipeline. When official channels felt gated, pirate radio became the back door, and the back door is where a lot of culture actually gets built.
The telling move is how he frames access as ritual. "One more" isn't just a kid bargaining with sleep; it's the compulsion that pop music manufactures and then rewards. The station becomes a slot machine: you keep pulling the lever of late-night patience because the payoff might be your song, the one that feels like it was made for you. That scarcity matters. Unlike today's endless scroll, pirate radio offered a mix of chance and desire that sharpened attachment. You couldn't summon your favorite track; you had to wait for it, endure other people's tastes, and learn the sound of the era through proximity.
Palmer's casual "you know" also does social work. He's inviting listeners into a shared memory of pre-digital hunger, when discovery depended on signal range, DJs, and the low-level thrill of doing something slightly forbidden. In the late 60s and 70s, pirate stations weren't just broadcasting hits; they were broadcasting alternatives to institutional taste-making. Palmer quietly credits that ecosystem with shaping him: before he was a tastemaker, he was a kid chasing a chorus through the dark, learning that music is worth staying up for - and worth breaking the rules to hear.
The telling move is how he frames access as ritual. "One more" isn't just a kid bargaining with sleep; it's the compulsion that pop music manufactures and then rewards. The station becomes a slot machine: you keep pulling the lever of late-night patience because the payoff might be your song, the one that feels like it was made for you. That scarcity matters. Unlike today's endless scroll, pirate radio offered a mix of chance and desire that sharpened attachment. You couldn't summon your favorite track; you had to wait for it, endure other people's tastes, and learn the sound of the era through proximity.
Palmer's casual "you know" also does social work. He's inviting listeners into a shared memory of pre-digital hunger, when discovery depended on signal range, DJs, and the low-level thrill of doing something slightly forbidden. In the late 60s and 70s, pirate stations weren't just broadcasting hits; they were broadcasting alternatives to institutional taste-making. Palmer quietly credits that ecosystem with shaping him: before he was a tastemaker, he was a kid chasing a chorus through the dark, learning that music is worth staying up for - and worth breaking the rules to hear.
Quote Details
| Topic | Music |
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