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.

Considerable time and print has been expended in attempting to define and date the first British brass band. This controversy should take a subordinate place to the more interesting questions that can be applied to the topic of brass bands when, unambiguously, they do exist as a fairly widespread activity and can reasonably be regarded as the active embryo of the standard ensembles which eventually formed the brass band ‘movement’.

Several patterns emerge in bachata's discussions of love, sex and relationships with women. There is little sense of place in the songs – rarely is a specific place name mentioned or invoked, in marked contrast to other Caribbean musical genres associated with listeners of rural origins, in which place names are constantly invoked for affective purposes. The people in bachata songs do not seem to exist anywhere – except the bar, which, I suggest, is a metaphor for the urban shantytown itself. Neither is there a sense of movement, of going anywhere. There is no imagery of journey, or travel, unlike other musics, such as Brazilian popular music or US country music, in which the road and trucks figure prominently. People are neither being pulled or pushed anywhere – out of home, into home, out of work, into work.

Life, as expressed in bachata songs, seems fragmentary and lacks coherence – and in that sense, these songs are thoroughly modern. The songs as texts are vignettes, brief snapshots – bites, to use contemporary jargon – that evoke salient parts of events or situations, rather than descriptive narratives that carefully develop a story over time and place. (The only exceptions are the double entendre songs, in which narrative is more a necessity as a framework for the word play than an end in itself.)

Bachata songs focus on the pain of losing a woman, but the difficulties of city life are implicitly to blame. Given that both men and women experience this pain, it seems odd that bachateros express no sense of solidarity with women, of shared social and economic trouble, as can sometimes be found in rock songs, for example, where singers invoke the power of love to overcome economic hardship or social prejudice. Bachata expresses a strong sense of vulnerability, betrayal, alienation and despair; yet the songs' anger is directed not at those above – the middle and upper classes – who have indeed betrayed and abandoned the poor as a class: instead, men's wrath is directed below, to a group of people – women – even more vulnerable to exploitation than men themselves. As we have seen, in bachata women are often portrayed as the aggressors and men as victims. Yet men certainly know that even if they can no longer control women as they once may have, in the modern world men clearly exercise more power over their lives than women. Men can, in fact, afford the luxury of expressing vulnerability to emotional pain. Women are the silent ones; their voices are not heard, although their presence can nevertheless be felt intensely. These unresolved tensions, between owner and property, aggressor and victim, voice and silence, freedom and control, order and chaos, are all symbolically explored in bachata.

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’