The Malaysian Deejays (A narrative descent into madness)

The Malaysian radio and I have a very indifferent relationship. I only tune in during moments when I'm infected by extreme ennui. And when I do so, it is as a man who has lived in the cozy darkness of his own careful listening suddenly and violently thrown out of his warm and familiar cave into the full glare of slick neon melodies, repetitive lyrics and perfect harmonies, but worst of all, for me anyway, are the deejays. I don't hate deejays per se. Seriously, I don't. Just the Malaysian ones.

The first thing is that they talk to much. Our deejays don't just talk. They yelp, they bark, yap and flap. And the worse part is that they feel they have to do it within a very narrow band at the higher volume levels. Can they go on? Yes, they can and do. As if the music was there merely to decorate what passes for the deejays as witty and intelligent banter. Then there are those with exaggerated accents. Where do they come from? Why are they on the radios? Those fellas are like a screeches from a blackboard. Then there are those popular call in programs that are now a regular part of the show. Those are pretty much hit and miss sometimes. The problem sometimes is that our deejays talk more than the caller does. They are only too ready to sacrifice the caller for a cheap joke and hope people don't notice it for what it is.

Deejays for me are merely there to usher the music, apprise us of some interesting trivia about the song and its performer(s) then to shut up and make sure they play us good music. They are not the program. They merely embellish the song or the program. And they should do so in a calm and clear manner in a gentle and pleasant voice. Not in a cackling cacophony. They are like our air hostesses on Malaysian Airlines that make our musical journey pleasant and comfortable. They are supposed to take care of our listening habits. Ensure that we truly know what it is we are listening to and what to look out for when we listen. Not sell us out like five a dime whores to the music industry, forcing us to listen to corporate-driven compositions designed to sound good but empty of proper healthy musical ingredient like intelligent or beautiful lyrics and subtler and cleverer melodies. The music served up is as disposable and current as a freshly used condom.

Truth be told deejays are the guardians of music, the gatekeepers of the Apollo with each of us, the sentries of our musical souls. Theirs is not just any duty; it is one divinely ordained for music is the food of love, and God is Love. If seen in this light, how lightly now do our deejays look upon their duty! Hear how they soil themselves with their cheesy jarring chatter, play up their manic and artificial interest like monkeys that just snorted four six inch lines of cocaine each (think that's just four cups of strong coffee?), and bellow and laugh at their own jokes. Oh ye, Malaysian deejays! Repent! Oh repent! For Satan hath a taste for those that know not when to shut their mouths and play the music. Lucifer loveth those that bellow over the microphone like a water buffalo in heat or speak with unnecessary inflexion in their tongue. If not, off with their heads! Their heads, dammit! On a freaking pike! Argh.

(Breathe. Doctor told you to breathe.)

Hm.

(Stretches)

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