By Al Fasoldt
Copyright © 1989, The Syracuse Newspapers
A woman called me the other day and didn't wait for pleasantries
before she went right to the point.
"Don't call me crazy," she said. "The cops think
I'm crazy but I'm not.
Just tell me something. Can the guy downstairs do something to
control my stereo?"
First I told her I didn't think she was crazy. Something was obviously
driving her crazy, but that's not what we mean by "crazy,"
as in "nuts."
I asked her to tell me more. It turned out that something was
happening to the radio. She was sure the guy downstairs was causing it.
Sometimes it would get louder. Sometimes it would get fainter.
Sometimes she'd lose the station.
Was it a plot? Was he out to get her?
I didn't have any way of making judgments on the way neighbors
get along or on the effect of feuds on community living. So I tried to reassure
her that it was, indeed, quite possible that the guy downstairs was doing
something to her radio. And it was very likely that he wasn't doing it on purpose.
Radios are the most fickle of our electronic companions. They
depend on a source far away for their operation. If something gets in the
way, they don't work.
It doesn't matter if everything else is hooked up right, if the
transistors are transisting and the capacitors are capacitating and the batteries
are batting 1,000.
No signal, no sound.
Those of us who enjoy the hobby of DX listening—that's technospeak
for "long-distance radio"—know how fickle radios can be.
And drivers who try to stick with the Stones on an FM broadcast know how big buildings
and long tunnels can keep them from getting any satisfaction.
But radios have become so omnipresent that we often forget this
failing. We push the button, turn the knob and expect Mozart or Larry King.
It's almost a Constitutional right.
The biggest failing of radio can be blamed on the generosity of
AM. The name comes from "amplitude modulation," meaning nothing
more than loud and soft.
AM is generous because it lets any other loud and soft signals
join in the fray. Who's there? A little static from a lightning storm 70 miles
away? C'mon in! A little bleed-through from a station in Carnevales? Join
the fun!
Worse yet, the interloper might be an electric motor up the street.
Or in the apartment down below.
FM changed all that. It stands for "frequency modulation,"
which means the radio waves that make up the signal vibrate all over the place.
If you can vibrate your own set of waves exactly right and make them just
the right strength, you can horn in on an FM signal. But otherwise the door's
closed, bub.
FM has a few weaknesses, too, but they're piddling compared with
the woes of AM. That's why FM has turned AM into wimp radio all over the
world. Turn on the FM and you get music—in stereo. Turn on AM and you get yak-yak.
Now and then you get music—on WQXR in New York City, for example—but
you have to work hard to find it.
Even AM stereo has all but disappeared. Nobody wanted it. It was
a typical airhead idea: Take something that sounds bad out of one speaker
and make it sound bad out of two.
As for my hapless caller, her worries were a lot less theoretical.
When she mentioned the call letters of her favorite stations, I figured
that AM was the culprit, even if her neighbor was not. Any appliance in her building
might turn her radio into a buzzbox, and even a car passing by could
make life miserable for her.
Was her radio in need of a tuneup? Maybe. But she said she was
taking no chances and she hung up to call a private eye.
And no, I didn't laugh, even after I put the phone down. I was
trying to pick up the news on my little Radio Shack pocket portable. All
I was getting was the rasping of the big motors that drive the presses, one
floor down.
technofile:
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