If the transistor radio gave me ownership of music, then KJRB 790 AM gave that music a voice.
In the early 1960s, tucked into a small town thirty-three miles south of Spokane, I discovered that a tiny radio in my pocket could reach across space and make the world feel bigger. The Beatles were coming, Motown was rising, and somewhere out there—broadcasting just beyond the wheat fields of Rosalia—was a station that made it all feel personal.
That station was KJRB.
Back then, KJRB wasn’t just a frequency—it was a lifeline. It played what we now call the soundtrack of a generation, but in the moment, it was just what was on. You didn’t analyze it. You didn’t curate it. You turned the dial, and there it was: “She Loves You,” “Dancing in the Street,” “California Girls.” One song at a time, one breathless DJ break after another, they arrived.
And for a kid listening in from a small town, it felt like being let in on a secret.
KJRB was a Top 40 powerhouse out of Spokane, and even if I didn’t know what “Top 40” meant, I knew what it felt like. The songs came fast and bright. The DJs spoke like they knew you. The music wasn’t handed down by adults—it was passed along by radio rebels, spinning 45s like candy, one after another.
I remember holding my transistor radio under my pillow late at night, the volume turned down just enough not to get caught. That quiet crackle of the AM signal was its own kind of magic. Some nights, I’d wake up to the tail end of a song I loved, wishing I’d stayed awake just a little longer.
And because KJRB reached across the Inland Northwest, it connected us—kids in Spokane, in Rosalia, in farm towns and city blocks—through the shared act of listening. Before FM took over. Before streaming. Before music got algorithmic. Back when the thrill was not knowing what song would play next.
It didn’t matter if you had no money, no stereo system, no record collection. All you needed was a battery, a pocket-sized radio, and a signal strong enough to reach you. KJRB was that signal. It brought the world to my ears.
Looking back, I realize I didn’t just listen to KJRB. I grew up on it.
So many of the songs that still live in my heart didn’t come from vinyl or variety shows. They came from that little box with a wire antenna—and the DJs and producers at KJRB who filled the airwaves with joy, rebellion, longing, and life.
That’s how music found me.
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