He looks like a combination of Santa Claus and Ed Asner, his real identity is kept a mystery, and his on-air shtick is lifted straight from the Wolfman Jack School of deejaying. We don't care: Da Boogieman's funny. He reigns over the airwaves from 7 p.m. to midnight, weeknights on KOOL -- singing along with songs from the oldies canon and cutting up like a kid at the controls. But it isn't just his "Barbara Ann" jokes that get us giggling. It's his voice -- a scratchy, nasal patois of undetermined origin. Is he supposed to sound like a Motor City madman? A rock-and-roll loving Southern boy? A billy goat? Who can say? All we know is that his show is one of the most unabashedly fun features on the dial.
KCUV, which was launched late last year by the same folks who brought us KNRC, is doing a much better job of living up to its potential than is its sister station. The outlet features a wide range of music that fits under the Americana umbrella -- country, alternative country, blues and plenty of other genres that are too seldom heard on area airwaves. KCUV's nickname, Colorado's Underground Voice, is appropriate, because its minuscule advertising budget has forced staffers to don sandwich boards to spread their musical gospel. There's no telling if this word-of-mouth campaign will succeed, but it's got a chance -- because KCUV is worth talking about.
KCUV, which was launched late last year by the same folks who brought us KNRC, is doing a much better job of living up to its potential than is its sister station. The outlet features a wide range of music that fits under the Americana umbrella -- country, alternative country, blues and plenty of other genres that are too seldom heard on area airwaves. KCUV's nickname, Colorado's Underground Voice, is appropriate, because its minuscule advertising budget has forced staffers to don sandwich boards to spread their musical gospel. There's no telling if this word-of-mouth campaign will succeed, but it's got a chance -- because KCUV is worth talking about.


Many aspects of Radio 1190, a station affiliated with the University of Colorado, are deserving of praise: its commitment to promoting interesting concerts in Denver and Boulder; the presence of specialty shows such as a.side//b.side, which celebrates the art of the mix tape; and an unpolished but compelling style that's much more stimulating than the stuff pumped out by its corporate competitors. The main draw, though, is the music. Staffers are students of sound who seek out the best of contemporary indie rock, hip-hop and more, and they're not shy about sharing. At Radio 1190, learning is fun-damental.
Many aspects of Radio 1190, a station affiliated with the University of Colorado, are deserving of praise: its commitment to promoting interesting concerts in Denver and Boulder; the presence of specialty shows such as a.side//b.side, which celebrates the art of the mix tape; and an unpolished but compelling style that's much more stimulating than the stuff pumped out by its corporate competitors. The main draw, though, is the music. Staffers are students of sound who seek out the best of contemporary indie rock, hip-hop and more, and they're not shy about sharing. At Radio 1190, learning is fun-damental.
In the Mountain's commercials and promo spots, the station is portrayed as nothing less than a transcendent, primitive, spiritual force -- not some tawdry way to deliver customers to advertisers. And while that may be a stretch, as the only commercial rock station to take a sincere interest in music over demographics, the Mountain has done something that non-believers thought impossible: It's kicked ass. Much of the station's success, and its good ratings, can be tagged to afternoon DJ Pete MacKay, who mans the drive-time shift and spins amazingly diverse, music-loving sets that vary wildly from day to day and hour to hour. Like most Mountain DJs, MacKay knows his stuff, from the Fab Four to the Four Tops, Marvin Gaye to Bob Marley, Elvis Presley to Elvis Costello. Witty and urbane, MacKay has an on-air persona that's casual, and his selections are accessible. More adventurous listeners will appreciate his trips to the archives, when he pulls deep album cuts and obscure singles. Tune in and turn on; you won't want to drop out.
In the Mountain's commercials and promo spots, the station is portrayed as nothing less than a transcendent, primitive, spiritual force -- not some tawdry way to deliver customers to advertisers. And while that may be a stretch, as the only commercial rock station to take a sincere interest in music over demographics, the Mountain has done something that non-believers thought impossible: It's kicked ass. Much of the station's success, and its good ratings, can be tagged to afternoon DJ Pete MacKay, who mans the drive-time shift and spins amazingly diverse, music-loving sets that vary wildly from day to day and hour to hour. Like most Mountain DJs, MacKay knows his stuff, from the Fab Four to the Four Tops, Marvin Gaye to Bob Marley, Elvis Presley to Elvis Costello. Witty and urbane, MacKay has an on-air persona that's casual, and his selections are accessible. More adventurous listeners will appreciate his trips to the archives, when he pulls deep album cuts and obscure singles. Tune in and turn on; you won't want to drop out.
Someone on the planet may know more about rock and roll than Raechel Donahue, but it's doubtful. Because her husband, the late Tom Donahue, gave birth to the FM-radio revolution in the '60s in San Francisco, she's been on the front lines of the movement since before the beginning. And her presence on the staff of L.A.'s KROQ in the '80s, when it was establishing the blueprint for modern rock broadcasting, gives her firsthand knowledge of another important period in pop-music history. She shares this collected wisdom weeknights on the Mountain, transcending nostalgia to make the songs she plays seem as vibrant as they did on the day they were made.
Someone on the planet may know more about rock and roll than Raechel Donahue, but it's doubtful. Because her husband, the late Tom Donahue, gave birth to the FM-radio revolution in the '60s in San Francisco, she's been on the front lines of the movement since before the beginning. And her presence on the staff of L.A.'s KROQ in the '80s, when it was establishing the blueprint for modern rock broadcasting, gives her firsthand knowledge of another important period in pop-music history. She shares this collected wisdom weeknights on the Mountain, transcending nostalgia to make the songs she plays seem as vibrant as they did on the day they were made.


Subjects of stories with something to hide had better hope they don't receive a phone call from David Migoya, because he's the journalistic equivalent of a stalker, pursuing every stray fact until he makes it his own. His reports about the meatpacking industry have been some of the most comprehensive -- and disturbing -- to have appeared about any subject in years, and they seemed particularly prescient when the mad-cow scare broke a few months later. He's equally strong when it comes to long-term projects and breaking news. Migoya's byline spells trouble -- but in a good way.

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