At midnight on July 31, 1987, KKSF came alive at 103.7 FM.
The first thing anyone heard was Steve Winwood, “Back in the High Life Again,” which is either a coincidence or the most on-the-nose piece of programming in the history of San Francisco radio. Because that is more or less what the station promised everybody who found it in the weeks after: a higher life, a smoother one, arriving at 103.7 on your dial like a room you didn’t know you’d been missing.
I found it not long after, in my kitchen, which is where I found most things back then. The radio sat on the counter, tuned low enough that it lived beneath the sound of dishes and the refrigerator door and whatever else was happening in a life that was in the middle of being built.
This was after 8-tracks and before anyone had figured out you could carry a hundred thousand songs in your pocket, which meant the radio still had a kind of authority it doesn’t have now. You didn’t choose the next song. Somebody chose it for you, and you trusted them, the way you trust a bartender who’s been reading a room for twenty years.
On KKSF, the person doing the choosing had impeccable taste and a voice like a hand on your shoulder telling you it was going to be fine.
I think about how strange that arrangement sounds now, handing your afternoon over to a stranger’s judgment, and how completely I didn’t question it then. Roger Coryell had the mornings, or near enough to them, and he had that particular gift — rarer than people think — of sounding as though he was talking to exactly one person, and that the person happened to be you, standing at your own counter in your own kitchen a hundred miles from the studio.
Miranda Wilson took the middle of the day and kept it there for years, eventually becoming the last live voice on a station that had long since become an institution.
I didn’t know, listening in 1988 or 1991 or whenever it was, that I was living inside something that had an expiration date.
You never do.
You think the kitchen and the counter and the voice on the radio are just Tuesday, just the texture of an ordinary life. It takes twenty years and a different city outside the window before you understand that you were actually inside an era, capital E, and that eras, unlike Tuesdays, do not come back.
There was a name for what KKSF was doing: New Adult Contemporary, or NAC. But nobody listening in the kitchen cared about the name. The idea was simple enough — give the Bay Area something between the rock stations shouting at it and the classical stations lecturing it, light jazz easing into soft rock easing into something with a saxophone in it that nobody could quite name. Holding it together, day after day, song after song, was a program director named Steve Feinstein, chasing down lesser-known imports and out-of-print oddities that gave the station its particular ear, until he died in September of 1996, still on the job.
What they created was a kind of ambient permission.
You didn’t have to hurry.
You didn’t have to shout.
You didn’t even have to know what you were listening to.
The music simply arrived, and you let it stay.
There was a version of San Francisco in those years that felt, at least to me, as though it had room for that kind of unhurried, unbranded taste. This wasn’t necessarily a gentler city in any objective sense. San Francisco had plenty of its own troubles then, as it always has. But it was the city I was living in, and KKSF somehow belonged to its frequency.
Real estate hadn’t yet eaten everything. The tech money was already there, but it hadn’t yet rearranged the furniture of the entire region around itself. There were still corners of the Bay Area where nobody seemed to be optimizing anything.
KKSF didn’t optimize.
It curated.
And there is a difference.
The station lasted twenty-two years, which sounds like nothing until you try to think of anything else in your life that lasted twenty-two years without you noticing it was a relationship.
Then, in May 2009, it stopped being itself.
By then Clear Channel owned the station, and economics won. The format disappeared, the music changed, and Miranda’s voice — which had been finding its way into kitchens across the Bay Area for years — went quiet on that frequency for good.
I didn’t hear it happen.
I was somewhere else by then, doing something else, the way you are when the things that shaped you quietly stop existing without asking your permission first.
I only found out later, the way you find out most things now: long after the fact, scrolling, discovering that a piece of your own furniture had been sold at auction while you weren’t looking.
What I keep coming back to isn’t the music, exactly, though I could still hum half of it.
It’s the kitchen.
And the particular quality of trust required to let somebody else choose what you’d hear next — to be doing stuff and suddenly hear a song you’d never have chosen on your own, and follow it somewhere you wouldn’t have gone. I miss the feeling that the world could still surprise me without first asking what I wanted. Old world radio curation.
Sometimes I think about the city outside that kitchen window, too. It doesn’t sound like that anymore. It doesn’t have quite the same room, at least to my ears, for anything that isn’t trying to be the loudest thing in the room.
Sometimes when music is playing in the background and my mind is wandering I think of KKSF and how a radio station is just a number until somebody fills it with twenty-two years of somebody else’s kindness and wonderful taste.
