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Tuesday, January 7th, 2025

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    7:05a
    Radio Caroline, the Pirate Radio Ship That Rocked the British Music World (1965)

    Nowadays musicians can reach hundreds, thousands, sometimes millions of listeners with a few, usually free, online services and a minimal grasp of technology. That’s not to say there aren’t still economic barriers aplenty for the struggling artist, but true independence is not an impossible prospect.

    In the 1950s and 60s, on the other hand, as popular music attained newfound commercial value, musicians found themselves completely beholden to record companies and radio stations in order to have their music heard by nearly anyone. And those entities schemed together to promote certain recordings and ignore or marginalize others. Payola, in a word, ruled the day.

    In the UK, a different but no less impregnable order presented itself to the aspiring obscurity. Rather than corporate interests and well-bribed DJs, the BBC and British government, writes the Modesto Radio Museum, “were increasingly hostile toward any competition for their radio monopoly.” (After WWII, the British Broadcasting Service maintained a monopoly on radio, and later television, broadcasting in the UK.) Enter the pirates.

    While the phrase now denotes a class of freebooters who work from their terminals, the original music pirates actually took to the seas. The first, Radio Mercur, “established by a group of Danish businessmen” in 1958, “transmitted from a small ship anchored off Copenhagen, Denmark.” Mercur inspired Radio Nord in 1960, anchored off the Swedish Coast, then the Dutch Radio Veronica that same year.

    Then, in 1962, Irish manager Ronan O’Rahilly met Australian businessman Allan Crawford. O’Rahilly had previously attempted to launch the career of musician Georgie Fame, but to no avail. Record companies wouldn’t record him, and when O’Rahilly funded an album, the BBC refused to play it—he wasn’t on their favored labels, EMI and Decca. So O’Rahilly and Crawford conspired to create their own pirate station, Radio Caroline (named after the daughter of John F. Kennedy).

    They purchased their first ship, the MV Mi Amigo, in 1963, then set about securing funds and rigging up the vessel with two 10 Kilowatt AM transmitters and a 13-ton, 165 foot antenna mast. Broadcasting from 6am to 6pm daily, Radio Caroline managed to break the BBC monopoly (and launch Georgie Fame to… well actual, chart-topping fame). In 1965, a British Pathé film crew visited the ship, noting in their narration that “for over a year,” Radio Caroline had “given pop music to something like 20 million listeners,” changing British pop culture “with the connivance of almost every teenager in Southeast England.”

    The station kicked off their first broadcast, which you can hear above, on Easter Sunday, March 1964, with the announcement, “This is Radio Caroline on 199, your all day music station.” The very first tune they played was the Rolling Stones’ cover of Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away” (one of the band’s first major hits). In the mid-60s pirate radio, particularly Radio Caroline, helped break a number of bands, introducing eager young listeners to The Who’s first four singles, for example. (The band returned the favor by attempting to give 1967’s The Who Sell Out the raw sound and feel of a pirate radio broadcast.)

    Learn more about Radio Caroline’s long and storied existence in the documentary segment further up, Part 6 of DMC World’s comprehensive The History of DJ. The Modesto Radio Museum’s thorough, multipart essay series, complete with photographs, offers a rich history, as does Ray Clark’s book, Radio Caroline: The True Story of the Boat that Rocked. “The world’s most famous offshore radio station,” is still on the air today (even though the original ship sank in 1980) or rather, on the web, with streaming programs and “gadgets and widgets” for Android devices, iPhones, iPads, and browsers.

    It’s something of an irony that they’ve ended up just one of hundreds of online streaming stations vying for listeners’ attention, but it’s safe to say that without their exploits in the 60s and beyond, pop music as we know it—with all its legal and not-so-legal means of dissemination—may never have spread and evolved into the myriad forms we now take for granted.

    Note: An earlier version of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

    Related Content:

    How to Listen to the Radio: The BBC’s 1930 Manual for Using a New Technology

    David Bowie Becomes a DJ on BBC Radio in 1979; Introduces Listeners to The Velvet Underground, Talking Heads, Blondie & More

    “Joe Strummer’s London Calling”: All 8 Episodes of Strummer’s UK Radio Show Free Online

    Jimi Hendrix Wreaks Havoc on the Lulu Show, Gets Banned From BBC (1969)

    Josh Jones is a writer and musician based in Durham, NC. Follow him at @jdmagness

    10:00a
    Why the Tavern Scene in Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds Is a Master Class in Filmmaking

    Ideally, a viewer should be able to identify the work of a particular auteur from any one scene that the auteur has directed. In reality, it’s not always possible to do so, even in the work of filmmakers with highly idiosyncratic styles. But in the case of Quentin Tarantino, it would probably be more difficult not to recognize his scenes. Some of them have propagated so far through popular culture that they have a life apart from the films themselves: the dance in Pulp Fiction, say, or more recently, the opening of Inglourious Basterds, a picture that, to video essayists looking to explicate Tarantino’s distinctive genius, offers a particular abundance of material.

    In the new video above, YouTuber Lancelloti selects a different scene from Inglourious Basterds to declare a “modern masterpiece” in itself. It takes place in a basement tavern in Nazi-occupied northern France, where three of the titular black-ops “Basterds,” disguised as German officers, meet Bridget von Hammersmark, a German movie star turned undercover Allied agent.

    As one might expect, the tension starts high, gets higher, and eventually explodes in a chaotic bloodbath: not an easy sequence to pull off effectively, but one that Tarantino and his collaborators arrange with consummate skill, using a host of techniques not necessarily visible on the first viewing — or even the first few viewings.

    Lancelloti highlights how the scene gradually reveals its tight space and the many figures who occupy it; uses dialogue to reflect core themes of identity and nationality; creates sympathy even for villain-coded German soldiers; keeps shifting the balance of power; injects unpredictability into the action; foreshadows the ways in which events will eventually go wrong; and hints in many ways at the presence of the character who will light up the tinder box. Of course, no director could make all this happen single-handedly, and few directors would be conscious of all these elements at work in the first place. But given all we’ve learned about Tarantino over the years, he’s surely one of them.

    Related Content:

    A Deep Study of the Opening Scene of Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds

    An Analysis of Quentin Tarantino’s Films Narrated (Mostly) by Quentin Tarantino

    How Quentin Tarantino Creates Suspense in His Favorite Scene, the Tension-Filled Opening Moments of Inglourious Basterds

    Quentin Tarantino’s Copycat Cinema: How the Postmodern Filmmaker Perfected the Art of the Steal

    How Quentin Tarantino Remixes History: A Brief Study of Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood

    Quentin Tarantino’s World War II Reading List

    Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletter Books on Cities and the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles. Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.

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