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For 40 bucks, you can buy a device that emits some of the most irritating and beautiful sounds imaginable, a device that not only presents an international kaleidoscope of opinion, but also receives secret spy transmissions. Best of all, every time you turn it on, the thing behaves differently, depending on where you listen to it. It's an old, discarded technology that most tech nerds know little about. It's free to operate, and every program it receives is shrouded in mystery.
It's a short-wave radio, and every serious fan of strange music, stranger noises, and divergent political and religious views should own one. For less than $50, you can buy a unit that picks up a decent number of domestic and more powerful international stations. For less than $200, you can land one that picks up Radio Togo and Voice of Iran.
Short-wave listening (Sling) is not just a pastime, it's a way of life, and those who purchase these radios find themselves obsessed with all the far-off bleeps and whooshes their receivers collect. Newbie SWLers often find themselves fondling the dial well into the wee hours, like a breathy adolescent looking for release on prom night.
"Last night it was right here at 8300 kHz," they mutter into the blank stare of their radios, "between the agro Russian woman and the Balinese gamelan broadcasts." Alas, now the transmission is just a squelchy fart.
Constancy and security are foreign concepts on the short-wave band. Short wave generally refers to the frequencies between 1700 kHz (the upper limit of the AM broadcasting band) and 30 MHz (the lower limit). What's compelling about the broadcasts in this band is that they travel globally. Broadcasters in Europe can "shoot the Atlantic" to target U.S. listeners, and SWLers in just about every corner of the planet can get the BBC, the longest-running short-wave presence of them all. Short wave is also affected by weather and sunspot activity, so no two sessions are alike.
Best of all, short-wave broadcasters are often fly-by-night operations or outright pirates that go on and off-air sporadically. The World Radio TV Handbook is the bible for SWLers hoping to identify a broadcast, but anything in print quickly becomes obsolete, so different Web sites that fill in the gap are essential for their hourly schedules of programming (try Monitoringtimes.com).
The numbers are impossible to ascertain, but American listener estimates are in the millions. Even David Letterman counts himself among them.
Since the Library of Congress decided to start charging Internet broadcasters licensing fees, the breadth of publicly available music has shrunk considerably. Short wave, historically underscrutinized by the feds, is the last bastion for the incredibly weird. And because many are announced in non-English tongues or not at all, you usually don't have a clue of what you're listening to or from where it's emanating. This aspect is great for defusing your inner music journalist who constantly tries to classify every sound you come across.
Some recent choice broadcasts include weepy Ukrainian instrumental string music; the Catholic music jukebox; Bollywood-sounding Indian music; and hard-line, old-school country. Particular favorites of many listeners are the North Korean stations that broadcast endless praise songs of Kim Jong Il. Fred Osterman, the short-wave buff who edits www.Dxing.com (DXers are SWLers who try to receive especially weak and distant signals), reports frequently finding lagu melayu, which he describes as "a cross between Indian-style instrumentals and an Arabic vocal style" very popular in Indonesia.
"The so-called world beat' popular with young people had its origins in the high life' music broadcast by short-wave stations in Africa," he continues. "Some SWL music fans have compiled tape-recorded libraries of folk and indigenous music from short-wave broadcasts that many college and university music departments would envy."
Then there are the sounds short-wave units make when tuned between stations or when receiving interference. Short wave is especially prone to the radio phenomenon known as "fading," and even when you finally snag the station you want, it may periodically ebb and flow into warm static. Fans of experimental electronic music will find that tweaking the dial or merely tuning in to a signal that blips away on its own can convincingly approximate the entire aesthetics of certain famed artists in that scene.
Self-described underground audio artists Hal McGee and Brian Noring created a 74-minute CD, New Music for Shortwave Receiver and Tape Recorder, from short-wave radio tones, static, and noise captured on handheld cassette recorders. If you buy an affordable radio, almost every transmission received is bathed in some degree of hiss, and the way the baseline noise increases and decreases makes the listening experience very organic. Short-wave broadcasts seem to breathe.
Receiving and listening to short wave is tied to specifics of place and space as few technologies are. You'll find an entirely different palette of sounds on mountaintops than in valleys, and the trajectory of the signal itself matters. Transpolar propagation (signals that cross the North Pole), for instance, will make stations sound as if they're underwater.
Perhaps most intriguing of all short-wave phenomena are the so-called numbers stations that are nothing more than orations of digits. Around the time of the Cuban missile crisis, American SWLers began coming across unidentified broadcasts of women reading a series of numbers in Spanish. Since then, numbers broadcasts in all manner of languages and originating from numerous countries have cropped up regularly. They begin with an interval broadcast -- a set of tones or a piece of music to let listeners know they are beginning. One defunct East German broadcast always began with off-key bells that were just plain spooky (SWLers have compiled CDs of old numbers-station broadcasts), and another that persists to this day opens with the English folk song "Cherry Ripe" repeated 12 times.