In the autumn of 1954, the triumphal tour of a young white singer started in the south of the United States. Although many objected to his music and his way of performing, the rise of this artist – by the name of Elvis Presley – in states like Texas, Arkansas and Louisiana was not to be stopped (Goldman 1981, p. 124; Gillett 1970, p. 21).

Anyone who can remember anything at all about pirate radio in the 1960s can usually remember two names: Radio Caroline and Radio London are synonymous with the offshore era. Between them they accounted for the majority of the audience who listened to the pirates, and the majority of the sponsors who advertised on them. But although they basically shared the same market rationale Caroline and London approached their task completely differently. London sought respect, prestige and accommodation. Its every move was geared towards being incorporated into the existing system of broadcasting, and its main purpose for existing seemed to be to bring about a legal commercial radio system in Great Britain. Radio Caroline had a very different rulebook and a very different guiding ethos. By a series of acts which culminated in a highly symbolic stand against what it saw as repressive legislation Caroline made explicit an underlying set of contradictions which anticipated in microcosm the wider philosophical and political contradictions of the 1960s counter-culture. For Radio London respect would eventually be won and the station's influence and programming legacy would endure in the shape of its replacement – BBC Radio One. For Radio Caroline there would be nothing like the same degree of influence. This contrast of approaches and outcomes between the two major pirate stations is at the very epicentre of the story of offshore radio.

Radio is commonly referred to as a ‘secondary medium’ in the broadcasting industry. The phrase conveys the industry's pragmatic view that no one cares whether you listen to radio so long as you do not turn it off. Since it has been displaced by television, radio is expected to accommodate itself technologically and discursively to every situation. Are you brushing your teeth, turning the corner, buying or selling jeans or entering inventory into the computer? So much the better. Your broadcaster respects the fact that these important activities must come first. Radio is humble and friendly, it follows you everywhere. In any event, television makes more money.

‘Radio’ records have always been with us. And breakfast show records, as the first two golden oldies above testify, have formed a major subset of these. Cynics will know why. Radio's peak audience has always been breakfast time, so airplay then can ‘break’ your record, leading to the obvious course of action, flatter the breakfast dj's self-importance by singing about him. But in Britain in 1989 things have changed. Nowadays it seems the best way to get breakfast airplay for a new record is to slag off radio djs ruthlessly. There have always been ‘anti-radio’ records. But few can have enjoyed the recent chart and airplay success of both The Reynolds Girls and The Beatmasters. Both records are riddled with contradictions. Both were written by men in their thirties, yet address a disgruntled teenage audience: The Reynolds Girls appearing to speak for twelve-year-old Yazz fans; The Beatmasters apparently voicing the protest of excluded hip-hop fans. Yet, despite articulating distinct objections to airplay policy, both records were almost certainly bought, in large numbers, by radio listeners. They turn up on the same radio shows. Why not? A hit is a hit.

On 12 July 1989, the Independent Broadcasting Authority (IBA) announced that the Greater London FM licence would go to London Jazz Radio (LJR). This franchise was allocated as part of the expansion of commercial radio in Britain. As in most other countries, the British state owns the electromagnetic spectrum. This allows the government to choose who can broadcast over the airwaves. However, unlike most industrialised countries, the British state chooses not to use all the frequencies made available for broadcasting under international treaties. Instead, there has been a ‘duopoly’ between the radio stations of the state-owned British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) and commercial stations authorised by the IBA. This limitation on the number of radio stations makes the British broadcasting system seem backward compared not only with the USA, but also the rest of the European Community. However, this oligopoly is now slowly collapsing. The licencing of LJR was a first stage of a period of rapid growth in commercial radio in Britain.

What do Michel Rivard's ‘Un trou dans les nuages’ and Marjo's ‘Les chats sauvages’ have in common? Both songs were released in 1987 by two well-known French-speaking Québécois artists; they sold over 500,000 copies each and remained on the Top-Ten chart of Radio-Activité for over seventy weeks. These songs were played repeatedly on AM and FM radio stations in Quebec. However, unlike most other hits, Rivard's middle of the road (MOR) ballad was even heard on dance-music radios and Marjo's slow-beat rock appeared on the regular playlist of stations devoted primarily to easy-listening music! In fact, these songs are two examples of ‘transformat’ radio music, that is songs that get airplay on various stations which according to their respective operating license, should specialise in different musical genres and display contrasting programming styles. Using examples drawn from an exploratory study of radio music in private (commercial) FM stations in the Eastern Townships (Québec), this article will address some of the issues raised by transformat music. After a brief analytical portrait of Canada's radio policies and format regulations, I shall examine contrasting explanations of this phenomenon which focus on genre/style, state policy and business/industry. In the closing section, I shall present outlines of an alternative approach which rests upon the acknowledgement of the specific contribution of radio to the social production of popular music and addresses transformats as the outcome of creative repetition broadcasting devices.

The following errata appeared in the article ‘Musica mizrakhit: ethnicity and class culture in Israel’, in Popular Music 8(2):

p. 131, line 13 – for ‘musica cassettot’ read ‘musicat cassetot’

p. 133, line 11 – for ‘mizuq qaluyot’ read ‘mizug galuyot’

p. 136, line 10 – for ‘leqaven’ read ‘legaven’

p. 136, line 20 – for ‘mequvan’ read ‘meguvan’

p. 136, line 21 – for ‘mesamakh et ha-qahal’ read ‘mesameakh et haqahal’

p. 137, line 30 – for ‘vsheli’ read ‘vesheli’ and for ‘meshaqa'at’ read ‘meshaga'at’

p. 137, line 31 – for ‘mifutzatz’ read ‘mefutzatz’; and for ‘mechir’ read ‘mekhir’

p. 139, line 12 – for ‘amcha’ read ‘amkha’