For whatever reason, college radio stations seem to operate out of an old janitor’s closet in the basement of the Humanities Department. After navigating dark hallways and countless stairs, you’ll half-expect this to be the end—a murder setup. But then you’ll open the door and see a 20-year-old Art Major named Jade sitting behind a piece of plexiglass. She’ll have headphones on, speaking into a foam-covered microphone on a boom swing.
You’ll glance around and realize there’s hardly space for Jade, let alone you. Will you perform in the hallway? She’ll shove CDs, books, and random items aside. Soon enough, you’ll be perched on a pile of decades-old Rolling Stone and Spin magazines.
After five minutes, there’ll be a knock. It’s Ned, a 19-year-old Theater Major with a minor in Music Performance. He’s there to help.
Defying the laws of physics, Ned will twist his body into pretzels as he steps over cords and around bookcases. For a moment, you’ll imagine him as an art thief in a heist movie, evading laser beams.
While this is happening, you’ll angle your guitar this way and that, trying to find the best position to play without injuring Jade, whose chin is about six inches from your tuning knobs.
When the tape starts rolling, don’t expect Jade to have done much research on you. At best, she’ll have googled your name and your town—only to discover it belongs to someone else with the same name who is more famous. Sorting out that confusion will take time, but soon enough you’ll be off to the races—though the interview will be nearly over by then.
You’ll perform one or two songs. This is one of those moments when you wish you hadn’t written so many heartfelt pieces. As you sing about insecurities and heartbreak, Jade will oscillate her attention between you and her phone. You’ll keep your eyes closed and imagine yourself performing at Madison Square Garden.
It’s all over now.
You can open your eyes.
But just as you’re exiting the building—throwing your guitar case into the backseat of your Honda Accord and sinking into the driver’s seat with an exhale—that’s when it’ll hit you: the whole point of this debacle was to promote your evening gig at the coffeehouse downtown—which you completely forgot to do.