Dayton Music Scene

Dayton Is a Frequency, Not a Place: A Love Letter with Feedback to a Scene That Won’t Sit Still

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If you want to understand American music, you don’t start in the places that market themselves as capitals. You start in places where people have learned how to survive without being watched. Dayton, Ohio, is one of those places. It’s not a brand; it’s a frequency—sometimes distorted, sometimes melodic, often both at once. It’s the sound of basements, nondescript halls, record stores, radio studios on the left side of the dial, and people who keep making music because not making it would be worse.

Dayton has long lived with the mythology of The Ohio Players, Brainiac, The Breeders, and Guided By Voices, and rightly so. Those bands didn’t just “come from” Dayton; they carried its nervous system with them. The Ohio Players reshaped the structure of music. Brainiac turned post-industrial anxiety into neon futurism. The Breeders made abrasion feel intimate. Guided By Voices proved that lo-fi wasn’t an aesthetic so much as a work ethic—songs written because they had to be written, not because the market asked for them. But the mistake outsiders make is assuming the story ended there, like a museum exhibit frozen in amber. Dayton never stopped. It just got better at multiplying.

What makes Dayton’s music community distinct is density. Musicians don’t just play in one band; they circulate. You’ll see David Payne one night in The New Old Fashioned, another night anchoring something else entirely, as if styles were jackets you try on before walking back out into the weather. You’ll hear Rich Reuter bring the same melodic intelligence to Kittinger. You can see Howard Hensley sing the narratives of your life that you keep hidden in a private journal. You’ll catch Kyleen Downes making vulnerability sound like strength, then turn around and hear Chad Wells and Aarika Voegele in Cricketbows and Creepy Crawlers remind you that psychedelia is still a radical act.

There’s a particular Dayton knack for bands that feel communal rather than hierarchical. Shrug operated like a shared engine—power pop with muscle memory, hooks built from collective trust. Smug Brothers do something similar in an indie lo-fi manner, but with a wink, as if to say: yes, we love the song, but we also love the joke inside it. Me Time pares things down until you can hear the room breathe, while Oh Condor leans into texture and atmosphere, stretching Dayton’s sound outward without losing its spine where punk urgency meets craft instead of fighting it.

And then there’s the streak of theatricality that runs through the city—not showbiz gloss, but the drama of people who know that art is a way to survive the week. Moira thrives on that tension between polish and pulse, while Todd The Fox reminds us that music doesn’t have to be ironic to be intelligent. Novena creates music that wraps around you and takes you through the experiences that you need not categorize but live within. Ghost Town Silence and Sadbox explore all of the corners, not as cosplay, but as honest terrain. They understand that Midwestern quiet can be loud if you listen closely enough.

Dayton also knows how to honor the songwriters—the ones who can stop a room with a voice and a guitar. Shannon Clark and The Sugar balance heart and harmony without sentimentality. Nick Kizinis crafts music that feels deeply personal and belonging to all of us at the same time. Mike Bankhead and Heather Redman carry storytelling traditions forward without turning them into nostalgia acts. Charlie Jackson, Sharon Lane, and Colin Richards and Spare Change all work in that space where craft meets community, where the goal isn’t fame but connection.

What’s striking is how the city supports experiments that don’t fit easy categories. The Nautical Theme reminds us that pop intelligence doesn’t have to announce itself with a thesis statement. Motel Faces and Motel Beds (separate names, shared grit) translate restlessness into motion, road songs for people who might not leave but still want to move. John Dubuc’s Guilty Pleasures embraces joy without apology, while Nick Kizirnis’s various projects show how longevity comes from curiosity, not branding.

Dayton’s rap and hip hop scene carries the same DIY backbone as its rock underground, but filtered through sharp lyricism, lived experience, and a deep sense of place. Tino delivers verses with clarity and purpose, balancing organic storytelling with an ear for hooks that stick without softening the message. Illwin brings a cerebral edge, blending introspection and technical skill in ways that reward close listening, while KCarter operates with a commanding presence, turning personal narrative into something anthemic and communal. Around them is a broader network of MCs, producers, DJs, and collaborators who treat hip hop not as a trend but as a language—one spoken fluently across clubs, community spaces, and independent releases. Like every vital Dayton scene, it thrives on collaboration over competition, local pride over imitation, and the belief that telling your own story, in your own voice, is the most radical move there is.

One of Dayton’s greatest strengths, too often undersold, never underpowered, is the depth and range of its women songwriters and musicians, artists who write with clarity, risk, and emotional authority. Amber Heart brings a fearless intimacy to her songs, pairing melodic grace with lyrical honesty that cuts clean through pretense. Samantha King writes with a restless intelligence, her work balancing vulnerability and bite, proof that introspection can still swing. Khrys Blank bends genre until it gives way, crafting songs that feel both deeply personal and quietly defiant, while Sharon Lane carries a lineage of soul, grit, and resilience that anchors the community itself. Add to this constellation the many other women shaping stages, sessions, and scenes across the city—singers, instrumentalists, bandleaders, collaborators—and a clearer picture emerges: Dayton doesn’t just feature women in its music culture; it is being actively defined by them. Their presence isn’t a sidebar or a trend. It’s the spine, the pulse, and the future of the sound.

Poptek Records operates like a pressure valve for Dayton pop intelligence, a label that understands hooks are a form of radical communication. The 1984 Draft brings nervy, literate indie punk rock that sounds like it’s pacing the room while thinking three steps ahead—melody sharpened by urgency, guitars wired straight into the bloodstream. Jill & Micah offer a different kind of voltage: intimate, harmonically rich, emotionally precise songs that trust quiet moments as much as crescendos, proving that restraint can hit just as hard as distortion. XL427 leans into power pop’s finest tradition—tight structures, smart turns, choruses that land without asking permission—while still carrying that unmistakable Dayton DNA of grit and sincerity. Taken together, and alongside the label’s other releases, Poptek’s roster feels less like a genre exercise and more like a shared belief system: songs matter, craft matters, and community matters. It’s pop music that knows where it’s from, isn’t embarrassed by joy, and refuses to confuse ambition with emptiness.

This ecosystem works because Dayton listens to itself. Bands go to each other’s shows. Musicians play on each other’s records. Area radio, house shows, small clubs, and DIY spaces form an infrastructure that doesn’t depend on permission. You can hear that lineage in The New Old Fashioned’s country infused power precision, in Oh Condor’s punk economy, in The Paint Splats’ melodic insistence, in Guided By Voices’s expansive moods still evolving. It’s a scene where influence flows sideways instead of top-down.

If the great rock critic, Lester Bangs (who I have been reading a lot of lately) taught us anything, it’s that scenes matter not because they’re perfect, but because they’re alive. Dayton’s scene is alive in the way a good band rehearsal is alive—messy, loud, generous, occasionally miraculous. It’s alive in the refusal to wait for validation. It’s alive in the way new bands grow up hearing old ones not as legends, but as neighbors.

So yes, celebrate Brainiac, The Breeders, and Guided By Voices. You should. But don’t stop there. Pay attention to Sharon Lane, Shrug, Amber Heart, Smug Brothers, The 1984 Draft, Age Nowhere, Moira, Tino, The Heisy Glass Company, Harold Hensley, Todd The Fox, Ghost Town Silence, Sadbox, Novena, Me Time, Oh Condor, Motel Faces, Motel Beds, Mike Bankhead, Cricketbows and Creepy Crawlers, The Nautical Theme, Illwin, Khrys Blank, Seth Canan, XL427, Samantha King, The Typical Johnsons, KCarter and all the songwriters and collaborators who keep showing up. Dayton isn’t a chapter in a rock history book. It’s an ongoing argument about why music matters—and it keeps winning that argument one show at a time.

New Music Isn’t Dead, You Just Stayed Home

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They keep saying it like it’s a diagnosis, like a doctor lowering his voice: There’s no good new music anymore. As if the patient is culture itself, lying flatlined under a white sheet, while the rest of us are supposed to nod solemnly and accept that the last real song was written sometime around when they were sixteen and emotionally combustible. This is nonsense, of course, the laziest kind of nonsense, the kind that requires no listening, no leaving the house, no risk, no sweat, no awkward eye contact in a half-lit room where the band is setting up next to a stack of amps that smell like beer, ozone, and promise.

New music is not dead. It’s just not coming to you. It’s not ringing your doorbell or algorithmically tucking itself into your ears while you scroll. It’s happening out there, in rooms that require pants and presence and a willingness to be changed, even slightly. And that’s the real problem: new music demands participation. It demands that you show up.

The great (boy, would he hate that sentiment) rock critic, Lester Bangs, understood this instinctively. He knew that music wasn’t an artifact to be archived, but a live wire, something that crackles when bodies gather, and sound hits air, and something unpredictable happens. The excitement of new music isn’t about novelty for novelty’s sake; it’s about the shock of recognition when you hear something you didn’t know you needed until it’s already inside your head, rearranging the furniture.

Going out to see local music—real local music, not brand-approved “scenes” packaged for export—is a civic act. It’s how communities remember they’re alive. You walk into a bar, a VFW hall, a coffee shop after hours, a basement with questionable wiring, and suddenly you’re part of a temporary republic founded on volume and intent. You’re standing next to people who live where you live, who work the jobs you know, who are writing songs not because it will scale, but because it has to come out. That matters. That changes things.

The need for new music isn’t abstract. It’s psychic. It’s the need to hear someone else articulate the same confusion, joy, dread, or stubborn hope you’re carrying around without a language. No documentation, just a real human need. When people say nothing is exciting being made anymore, what they’re really saying is that they’ve stopped being curious about other people’s interior lives. They want the old songs because the old songs already agree with them. New music argues back, it’s the packaging/re-packaging of human feelings in new bottles.

And that argument is healthy. It keeps culture from calcifying into a museum gift shop stocked with endlessly remastered memories. Live local music reminds us that art is a process, not a product. Bands miss notes. Lyrics change. Drummers (guitarists, bass players, etc.) quit. Someone forgets the bridge and laughs. These imperfections are not flaws; they’re evidence of life. They’re proof that the thing you’re witnessing hasn’t been fully decided yet.

The positive consequences ripple outward. You support a venue, which supports staff, which keeps a place open where people can gather without a screen between them. You give musicians a reason to keep writing, to keep rehearsing, to keep believing that the hours spent hauling gear and arguing about tempos aren’t insane. You create informal networks—musicians meet other musicians, shows lead to collaborations, friendships form, ideas cross-pollinate. This is how scenes happen, not because someone declares one into existence, but because enough people decide that showing up matters.

Local music also recalibrates your sense of scale. Not everything needs to be monumental to be meaningful. A great song played for forty people can hit harder than a festival set swallowed by branding and distance. There’s an intimacy in local shows that can’t be replicated: eye contact with the singer, the thump of the kick drum in your sternum, the shared glance when a chorus lands just right. You don’t leave as a consumer; you leave as a witness to something that you cannot quite describe.

And let’s be honest about the frustration. The claim that nothing compelling is being released now is often a cover for disengagement. It’s easier to blame the times than to admit you’ve stopped listening actively. The world didn’t run out of ideas; you ran out of patience. Meanwhile, musicians are still out here folding genres into new shapes, writing songs about now—about precarity, community, grief, humor, survival—with tools and influences that didn’t exist twenty years ago.

If you want excitement, you have to seek it out. You have to court it. You have to risk boredom, risk disappointment, risk being wrong. That’s the deal. New music doesn’t owe you greatness on demand; it asks for your attention in exchange for the possibility of revelation.

So go out. Stand in the back or press up front. Clap awkwardly. Buy the record/CD/download/tape. Talk to the band. Argue with your friends about what you heard. This is how culture stays porous and human. This is how a town sounds like itself instead of a rerun.

The future of music isn’t missing—it’s tuning up, waiting for you to get off the couch and walk through the door.

Last Show of 2024

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The last YTAA Show of 2024 broadcast on 12-31-2024 is up on the YTAA Mixcloud page! Please give the show a listen and share it with all of your friends. The first time you sit behind the mic and hear that low hum of the studio, you realize it’s a weird kind of experience. You’re not broadcasting a war, no, you’re not even sending out a weather report; you’re sending out your heartbeat. You’re putting yourself on the line, with nothing but an inch-thick foam divider and a sliding board full of dials between you and the abyss of total silence, the void of being utterly ignored. But that’s the thing. Even when you feel apart and separated from others, you’re not really alone.

There’s something visceral about radio. Yeah, even in 2024. It’s a love affair with anonymity after a fashion — you’re sending out these fragments of yourself, these half-thoughts, barely strung together sentences (I try, I actually am trying for something snappy and catchy), hoping someone, anyone, will hear. But even when no one’s listening, it doesn’t matter. You can say the weirdest stuff. You can be as loud as you want, or as quiet as you need to be in that moment. It’s like a secret between you and the speakers on the other side of the room. Who knows if anyone’s tuned in? Does it matter? Perhaps, it doesn’t matter. You’ve got the mic, and in this space, it’s yours even if it is only for three hours. You’re not just DJing songs; you’re performing the act of being. Becoming.

And there’s a rhythm to it, a pulse you can feel in your chest. The songs bleed into each other, and you start talking, almost without thinking, like an out-of-body experience. You riff, you ramble, you may talk about everything and nothing — akin to late-night rants, whispered secrets, some tale of life in the margins. It’s punk, it’s soul, it’s funk, it’s rock ‘n’ roll, and if you’re doing it right, it’s all on the edge of disaster, waiting to fly off the rails at any moment. And that’s the magic. You could screw it up. You probably will. But that’s what makes it real. In an increasingly overproduced, AI-scam-laden world, radio may be messy but that is what creates some of the joy in doing it.

Well, folks, here we are at the end of 2024, and I gotta say—thank you for sticking with me through the weirdness, the noise, and the absolute chaos that is Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative. You could’ve been anywhere, listening to anything, but you chose to tune in to this mess of records, rants, and ramblings. Maybe you were searching for something new, or maybe you just wanted to escape the grind. Either way, I’m grateful for your ears, your time, and your madness. This isn’t just my show—it’s our show, so keep riding the wave, wherever it takes us in 2025.

See ya next Tuesday!

Holly Jolly Chaos: A Raucous Rebellion With a Dash of Cheer: The 14th Annual YTAA Indie Holiday

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In the coming weeks we celebrate the holidays in full indie music style — is that really a thing?  On Tuesday, December 17th we will be playing new, classic, and cover holiday songs on the show.  Another year has come and gone. Can anyone else believe that we have been doing this for at least fourteen years, sheesh time does pass fast!

Indie holiday music is like that stray cat you take in—scrappy, scruffy, full of attitude, but somehow comforting. It’s the sound of bells and lo-fi drum beats weaving through a haze of reverb and melancholy, like a cold winter’s night painted in pastel hues. Forget those sugar-coated carols, these songs are the unsung heroes of the season, cloaked in irony, aching for connection amidst the forced cheer. They’ve got that off-kilter honesty, a rawness that refuses to conform to the Hallmark image of Christmas. It’s a quiet rebellion, but hell, it’s also really kind of beautiful.

We know that there is a lot of stress during the holidays with all the planning, shopping, and whatever else we are told to do during the holiday season.  Well, we believe that any task goes better with music.  So, pour yourself the ‘Nog, eat a cookie or three and let us help you relax with some great indie holiday music.  If you have a suggestion for a cool holiday tune, let us know on drjytaa on the gmail!

Dr. J can’t wait to co-host the 14th Annual Indie Holiday Radio Show on WUDR Flyer Radio 99.5/98.1’s Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative with our good friend and frequent guest on the program, Tom Gilliam, who always brings some interesting holiday music to the mix.  And as always, the talented Mrs Dr. J has made many a fine contribution to the show as well! You expect nothing less.

This year you have two chances to hear the indie holiday festivities!  The first broadcast is on Tuesday, December 17th from 3-6 PM. Listen on 99.5 FM in Dayton, Ohio, USA, or stream the broadcast at wudr.udayton.edu.  And if that was not enough we load the show into Mixcloud! You can listen on Wednesday at our Mixcloud page! We just can’t wait to play new and classic indie holiday songs for you.  Save us some of the ‘nog.

See you there and Happy Holidays!

Static Dreams: Why College and Community Independent Radio Still Matters

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Let’s get something straight from the jump: independent radio—college stations, community stations, those hissing, crackling signals of barely legal wattage—are more than relics. They’re lifelines, and in a world drowning in curated blandness, they’re salvation that is desperately needed. Sure, you’ve got your algorithmic playlists and big-budget streaming platforms that can spit out the sonic equivalent of a hamburger combo meal, but let me ask you this: when’s the last time one of those songs on the apps and services truly blew your mind? When’s the last time a Spotify playlist made you feel something raw, something real, something alive?

Enter the humble, often-overlooked world of independent radio. These stations don’t play by the rules and thank God for that. College and community DJs who aren’t bound by focus groups or corporate overlords telling them which ten songs to cycle endlessly. They’re the anarchists of the airwaves, throwing down pop punk at 3 a.m., jazz fusion at noon, and some spoken-word poetry over ambient noise just because they can. They’re the kid in the back of the record store who’ll tell you that the B-side of a 7” pressed in someone’s basement in 1984 will change your life—and they’re right. Forgive me if this sounds trite or self-serving, but we believe in the power of music to change your life.

This is radio as it was meant to be: unpolished, unpredictable, and unafraid to go weird. College radio, especially, is often powered by the most crucial demographic for musical discovery—students who don’t yet know the rules they’re breaking. These DJs are sometimes just learning what it means to piece together a playlist, to tell a story in 20-minute sets, to unearth that obscure track nobody else has heard of. It’s raw, and it’s beautiful because it’s real.

And let’s not forget the community stations—the hyper-local powerhouses keeping neighborhoods and subcultures alive. These aren’t just radio shows; they’re conversations. They’re where you tune in to hear the pulse of your city, the heartbeat of your neighbors. It’s where activists and artists collide, where voices ignored by the mainstream get a microphone. It’s radio as rebellion, as resistance, as a refuge from the overpowering heavy challenges we all face.

Here’s the thing the big media conglomerates and tech giants don’t want you to realize: not everything should be convenient. Finding great music—or a great anything—takes work. It takes passion. That’s what makes it matter. Independent radio doesn’t spoon-feed you the hits; it hands you a map, points vaguely in a direction, and says, “Go get lost.” And in that wandering, you discover magic. You stumble across a DJ spinning a 10-minute opus made by an area band or a live set from some local group that sounds like they’re playing from the edge of the world. And you want to go there so you can be part of it.

In an era where everything feels like it’s been prepackaged, sanitized, and optimized for maximum engagement, independent radio stands as a glorious middle finger to the machine. It’s messy, it’s chaotic, and it’s alive in ways that nothing else in the modern media landscape can touch even thought they try to say that experimentation came from them.

What’s more, independent radio matters because it’s often the training ground for the voices we’ll be listening to in 10, 20, or 30 years. Think about all the media icons who got their start in college radio. Two words: Howard Stern. Ever heard of Rick Rubin? He was just some punk kid spinning records at NYU before founding Def Jam. Or Ira Glass, who honed his storytelling chops on the airwaves before becoming public radio’s golden boy. The indie stations are incubators for talent because they’re places where experimentation isn’t just allowed—it’s expected.

And don’t let anyone tell you radio is dead. Sure, the format’s shifted, and the big commercial stations are shells of their former selves, but indie radio persists because it’s adaptable. College stations now stream online, bringing their wild, untamed ethos to a global audience. Community stations podcast their shows, extending their reach far beyond the low-powered transmitter on the roof.

But more than that, indie radio matters because it’s personal. It’s not just about the music—it’s about the human connection. There’s something deeply comforting about hearing another person on the other end of the signal, someone who isn’t trying to sell you something, someone who’s just as excited about this obscure Brazilian psych-rock track as you are now that you’ve heard it. It’s a reminder that music isn’t just content—it’s communion.

And yeah, maybe it’s a little romantic to wax poetic about this scrappy corner of the media world. Maybe it’s easier to dismiss it as nostalgia for a pre-streaming era. But dismissing indie radio is to dismiss the very soul of music, the thing that makes it matter in the first place. It’s the idea that art doesn’t have to be perfect, that it doesn’t have to be profitable, that it can just be.

So the next time you’re scrolling through an endless stream of playlists that all sound the same, do yourself a favor: tune in to the static. Find the frequency where some over-caffeinated college kid is ranting about a new band you’ve never heard of, or where a local DJ is spinning records in a tiny room plastered with band posters and graffiti. Listen with your whole heart, and remember what it feels like to discover.

Because independent radio isn’t just a medium—it’s a movement. And in a world that desperately wants you to settle for the lowest common denominator, it’s the one place still daring to reach higher.

Full Show from 11-26-2024 up on Mixcloud

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Let me tell you something about Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative with Dr. J on WUDR, broadcasting from the unassuming outpost of Dayton, Ohio: it’s not just a radio show; it’s a séance for the musically restless. Dr. J, equal parts professor (sorry), music priest, and punk-rock lifer, orchestrates a sonic sermon that grabs you by the collar and drags you kicking, screaming, and grinning through the unpolished spaces of independent and local music.

This isn’t your prepackaged corporate playlist drivel, churned out by some algorithm. No, this is real-deal, deep-dive, bloodshot-eye curation. We don’t just play songs; we conduct a reckless, unhinged exploration of soundscapes that defy the mainstream’s sterilized borders. One minute you’re grooving to the jangly guitars of a Midwest indie gem; the next, you’re pummeled by fuzz-soaked shoegaze or swept away by a tender acoustic ballad. It’s a rollercoaster for your ears, and you’re strapped in tight for the ride.

The show’s strength lies in its refusal to compromise. We are not here to appease Spotify metrics or chase TikTok trends. We pride ourselves on digging into the marrow of what makes music vital: the stories, the sweat, and the imperfections that turn a song into a revelation. Local bands? We’ve got them. Overlooked gems? You bet. It’s a treasure map to sounds you didn’t know you needed but now can’t imagine living without.

Sure, the production’s raw, the format loose, but that’s part of the charm. A little nerdy? You betcha! It feels like you’re eavesdropping on a record store conversation in town. If music is a lifeline, Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative is one of the buoys that keeps us from drowning in the sea of mediocrity. Dayton might be criminally overlooked, but we strive to ensure it’s never unheard of.

Listen to YTAA on Mixcloud

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Today’s program featured music from Wussy, The Tragically Hip, Fancy Gap, Latvian Radio, Shai Fox, Rockaway, The English Beat, The Talking Heads, The Boxcar Suite, Smug Brothers, Friedberg, Brian Lisik, and much more. We also heard two songs recorded by and two live songs performed by our guests, Kyleen Downes and Sisco Red of Freya’s Felines.

Freya’s Felines is an engaging band from Dayton, Ohio, blending a unique mix of indie rock and folk influences with a touch of ethereal storytelling. The group’s name, inspired by Freya, the Norse goddess associated with love, beauty, and cats, reflects their whimsical yet deeply introspective artistic vision. Their music resonates with themes of nature, mysticism, and human connection, offering a fresh sound that has captivated local audiences.

The band, which began as a trio, is now composed of four members: guitarists and vocalists Kyleen Downes and Sisco Red form an unshakeable foundation. Their voices blend in waves of evocative yet accessible timbre, pitch, and flow. Abigail Moone’s hauntingly soulful voice serves as a key part of their sound. The most recent member Gabriella Erbacher is a bassist who brings a rhythmic pulse to their tracks with an almost soulful groove. Moone also contributes drumming whose subtle yet powerful beats add depth to their arrangements. Together, these musicians weave a sonic atmosphere that feels both intimate and expansive, drawing listeners into their world.

YTAA Full Show is up!

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Doing local indie radio for 20 years is a labor of love, a commitment to the community, and a constant source of joy. At least, it sure has been for us at YTAA! Indie radio is a unique space where personality and passion shine through, where the constraints of commercial programming give way to creativity, spontaneity, and local voices. For two decades, the joy has been in connecting people through sound, amplifying voices that would otherwise go unheard, and showcasing music, stories, and topics that truly reflect the heart of music in times of darkness and light.

One of the most rewarding aspects of this journey has been building connections with listeners. Over the years, these listeners become more than just people tuning in—they become a family. Calls, emails, tweets, comments, posts, and even the occasional letter remind us that the work is meaningful and that there’s an audience who feels seen, heard, and represented by what’s being aired. In a world where media often feels homogenized and so darn artificial, we would like to believe that indie radio creates an unbreakable bond with its listeners by staying local, rooted, and real.

Another source of joy for us here at YTAA is discovering and promoting new, underrepresented music. The indie scene is full of gems that don’t always make it to mainstream playlists (for shame!), and introducing these sounds to an eager audience is incredibly fulfilling, heck – you might say it is the thing that keeps us coming back for more. The excitement of finding a new track or local artist and knowing that it will resonate with someone out there makes the work feel fresh, even after so many years.

The joy of indie radio also lies in the freedom to take risks, to be unconventional, and to experiment. Unlike larger stations tied to strict playlists or advertising pressures, an indie station, like WUDR, has the freedom to talk about niche issues, dive into deep conversations, and let shows develop organically. After 20 years, it’s clear that indie radio is more than just broadcasting; it’s about fostering a shared experience, celebrating local culture, and continuing a legacy of creativity and authenticity.

YTAA Full Show from November 05, 2024

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“Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative,” hosted by Dr. J on WUDR Flyer Radio has been around for almost 20 years now! I try to offer an eclectic mix of indie, local, and alternative music that appeals to both dedicated fans and curious newcomers. I try to balance both well-known and emerging artists, providing listeners with a blend of what we hope are fresh discoveries alongside some familiar sounds that keep each episode engaging.

One of our show’s unique aspects is the passion for showcasing local and regional artists, particularly from the Dayton area, giving exposure to the rich musical talent often overlooked by mainstream outlets. Shame on them! I hope that our enthusiasm shines through, as we weave in anecdotes about the bands and tracks we play. This is meant to create a deeper connection to the music. We strive for passion but also for a laid-back, conversational tone that allows listeners to feel as though they’re joining a friend who’s sharing their latest musical finds. Because, in truth, that is what I do every week.

Transmissions Never Stopped

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In music certain bands emerge as pioneers, shapers of sound, catalyzing a moment in time that resonates beside them and long after. Influential bands become vanguards of a movement, keepers of a feeling that is always felt, something captivating and special. Brainiac, hailing from Dayton, Ohio, is one such band. Despite their brief existence in the 1990s, their sonic experimentation, genre-blurring compositions, and electrifying live performances continue to reverberate through the sweep of the music industry. Their music and their story equal parts exciting and tragic, leaving an indelible mark on subsequent generations of artists, fans, and music writers. In celebration of Justin Vellucci’s new book about the band and before posting a conversation we had about the book and the band, I wanted to take some time and consider the continuing relevance of Brainiac. It is worth exploring their innovative approach to music, their impact on subsequent genres, connection to the hometown that we share, and their enduring influence on contemporary music culture.

Brainiac’s journey began in the fertile underground music scene of Dayton, Ohio, in the late 1980s. Formed in 1992 by vocalist, guitarist, and keyboardist Tim Taylor, guitarist Michelle Bodine, bassist Juan Monasterio, and drummer Tyler Trent, Brainiac quickly gained attention for their unconventional blend of punk, new wave, rock, funk and electronic elements. Drawing inspiration from diverse influences such as Devo, Kraftwerk, Pere Ubu, The Breeders, Dayton’s Funk music legends, and Sonic Youth, Brainiac forged a distinctive sonic identity characterized by angular riffs, frenetic rhythms, and Taylor’s enigmatic vocals. Although Bodine left the band and was replaced by guitarist John Schmersal in 1993, her adventurous guitar style contributed significantly to the band’s early development.

Part of what makes Brainiac so unique is a fearless sonic deconstruction and reassembly. The courage to take songs apart and rebuild them in unexpected ways is a characteristic of everything the band ever created. At the heart of Brainiac’s music lies a spirit of willful experimentation and yearning for innovation. Their albums, including “Smack Bunny Baby” (1993), “Bonsai Superstar” (1994), “Hissing Prigs in Static Couture” (1996), showcase a complete and remarkable fearless willingness to push the boundaries of conventional rock music. Tracks like “Vincent Come On Down” and “Hot Seat Can’t Sit Down” bristle with manic energy, driven by Trent’s propulsive drumming and Monasterio’s solid bass, and across all of it is the sound of zigzagging jagged guitar lines. Keyboards and synth puncturing the rhythm taking the music in different directions. Meanwhile, Taylor’s lyrics, often oblique and surreal, add an additional layer of intrigue to Brainiac’s sonic tapestry. Sometimes bands write lyrics as if they are members of a secret club full of clues apropos of nothing and everything.

“Hissing Prigs in Static Couture,” the seminal album by Brainiac, stands as a testament to the band’s unparalleled creativity and sonic innovation. Released in 1996, it represents the apex of Brainiac’s artistic vision, encapsulating their unique blend of punk, new wave, and electronic influences. From the frenetic opener to the haunting closer “I am a Cracked Machine,” the album takes listeners on a wild, electrifying journey through a sonic landscape unlike any other.

At the heart of “Hissing Prigs in Static Couture” lies Brainiac’s fearless experimentation. Tracks like “Pussyfootin'” and “Strung” showcase the band’s ability to seamlessly meld abrasive guitars, pulsating synths, and infectious hooks, creating a sound that is simultaneously chaotic, melodic, and hypnotic. Meanwhile, Tim Taylor’s enigmatic vocals, veering from manic yelps to eerie whispers, add an extra layer of intrigue to the proceedings.

Decades after its release, “Hissing Prigs in Static Couture” remains a touchstone for fans of alternative and experimental music. Its influence can be heard in the work of countless artists, attesting to Brainiac’s enduring legacy as sonic pioneers. With its boundary-pushing compositions and electrifying energy, this album cements Brainiac’s status as one of the most innovative bands of the 1990s. Brainiac’s sonic adventurousness and take no prisoners approach laid the groundwork for numerous subsequent genres and musical movements. Their incorporation of electronic elements foreshadowed the rise of electronic rock and indie electronic music in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Bands like The Faint and LCD Soundsystem cite Brainiac as a formative influence, recognizing their pioneering role in bridging the gap between rock and electronic music.

Despite their tragically short-lived career—cut short by Taylor’s untimely death in 1997—Brainiac’s legacy endures. Their influence can be heard in the work of contemporary artists across a range of genres, from experimental rock to synth-pop. Moreover, Brainiac’s DIY ethos and fierce independence continue to inspire aspiring musicians and bands, serving as a reminder of the transformative power of artistic vision and uncompromising creativity. DIY is more than a slogan in the hands of bands making music that invades the consciousness and the musical bloodstream of fans.

Brainiac remains a singular force in the history of alternative and indie music, their legacy burnished by their fearless experimentation, genre-defying compositions, and electrifying live performances. More than two decades after their dissolution, their music continues to captivate and inspire, reminding us of the enduring power of sonic innovation and artistic vision. The recent reunion shows demonstrate the continuing hunger of music fans for this music and artistic vision. As long as there are musicians willing to push the boundaries of creativity and challenge the seemingly impenetrable music status quo, Brainiac’s influence will endure, ensuring their place in the pantheon of musical revolutionaries for generations to come.

Video of The Day: Knotts – Good Morning

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Knotts, a dynamic artistic band hailing from Cincinnati, Ohio, has captivated audiences with their innovative approach to musical art. Comprising vocalist and multi-instrumentalist Adalia Powell-Boehne, Keyboardist Antoine Franklin, guitarist Jordan Wilson and drummer Isaiah Cook, KNOTTS has carved a niche for itself in the contemporary music scene through their catchy collaborative melodic weaving of rock, soul, loops, electronic and boundary-pushing sonic creations. Together, the band creates immersive moving personal musical experiences that challenge conventional notions of identity, connection and perception.

One of Knotts‘ most captivating and haunting songs is “Good Morning,” a large-scale sonic architecture that explores the interconnectedness of humanity, kindness and the irreplaceable act of uniting and building a relationship. Adalia’s powerful, plaintive, and emotional voice feels like the embrace of a long lost friend. The spark, heck the joy in the song springs from her incredible voice. The Song feels as if it comprises thousands of intricately woven musical threads suspended from the heart, forming a dense canopy that envelops listeners as they navigate the powerful act of deciding to spend a life together. Each thread of the song represents a human connection, symbolizing the invisible ties that bind individuals together in a shared experience of living.

As listeners move through the song (and the dare I say happy and vibrant accompanying video), they become acutely aware of their presence within this web of connections, prompting introspection and contemplation of their relationships with others. But this is not a heavy drowning question, it is has color and energy — saying yes to being with someone is supposed to be magical, mysterious and fun. Would you stay with someone while your face — and you — slowly age as demonstrated with the coming of lines on your face? The immersive and joyful bounce in the song allows for a deeply personal engagement with the music , transcending the boundaries of the all too often casual love song. “Good Morning” expresses the contentment and adventure of being with someone when you want to be there.

Knotts‘ work is characterized by a sense of fluidity and transformation, with many of their songs evolving over time in response to the questions of connection, identity, and being entangled within one another. By layering lyrical images and a sweep of keyboards, guitars and drums, they create a composition that challenge listeners to confront the realities of would they make the same decision to stay.

In a world increasingly characterized by division and isolation, Knotts offers a beacon of hope and connectivity through their music. By challenging listeners to reconsider their relationships with themselves and others, they inspire a renewed sense of empathy and understanding in an ever-changing world. As they continue to push the boundaries of artistic expression of love and connection in their music, KNOTTS remains a vital voice in the local music scene, reminding us of the transformative power of creativity and collaboration.

Knotts are playing tonight — Friday, March 1st at 7pm — with the powerhouse Heather Redman & The Reputation at The Oregon Express. Go Go Go!