May 21–28, 1998
cover story
Sidebar: Pirate Programming on WPPR 91.3 FM
Radio In The Raw
The FCC be damned: West Philadelphia's illegal Radio Mutiny goes full speed ahead with its eclectic mix of music, poetry and politics.
by Gwen Shaffer
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No one would suspect that a revolution is taking place inside.
The mood turns slightly eerie as soon as the front door slams shut, and the deadbolt locks shut with a deliberate click. A dimly lit stairwell, its brown carpet threadbare and stained, leads up several flights to the attic. Three distinct rooms sit at the top of the landing. Two of them are typical storage rooms—dark as night, and filled with half-empty cans of paint and broken furniture.
A sliver of light seeps under the door of the third room, however, casting a glow on the dirty paneled floor just beyond the door. The pulsating, slightly muffled rhythms blaring from a stereo filter out into the hallway.
Inside this room, a nude woman sits perched on a folding metal chair, her long freckled legs stretched out in front of her. One of her crossed ankles displays a small circular yin and yang tattoo. She sits behind a rectangular Formica table, the same kind used by little old ladies in church-sponsored bingo halls. Resting atop the table are run-of-the-mill record, CD and cassette players, as well as a music mixer and a pair of speakers. Several scented candles are scattered among the equipment. Their orange and yellow flames flicker with the woman's breath. A single bare bulb dangles from the ceiling, providing the only other light in the room.
The woman runs slender fingers through her short, spiky auburn hair, before moving them down to grip the shiny coiled neck of a microphone. As the last notes of a song fade, she swivels a knob on the mixer. The woman leans her mouth toward a chunk of foam carpet backing that has been jammed over the head of the mike to serve as a makeshift windscreen.
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Radio Mutiny enlisted Ben Franklin in last year's rally
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In some ways, this late April evening is typical for West Philadelphia's pirate radio station, 91.3 FM. Just as she does every Thursday, the Condom Lady is hosting her show, "Sweet City Sensation." For nearly two hours, she spouts tips on how to practice sex and drugs more safely. Between helpful hints, she spins K-Tel classics and funk.
But the Condom Lady doesn't usually broadcast in the nude. This night is special.
She is expecting some very distinctive guests—federal regulators.
Twice in the previous two weeks, this tiny 20-watt station that dubs itself Radio Mutiny has been visited by agents from the Federal Communications Commission (FCC). The agency has ordered the DJs off the air for broadcasting without a federal license. If the station does not "cease and desist" broadcasting, it could face a $10,000 fine and confiscation of its equipment.
The FCC's threats did succeed in shutting the station down for six days the previous week. DJs, however, have vowed they will not be intimidated and are once again back on the airwaves. But they all realize it is just a matter of time before the FCC comes knocking again. And if enforcers show up on the Condom Lady's shift this evening, she will be ready.
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The operators of Radio Mutiny are quick to point out that it was the only station in Pennsylvania to broadcast Mumia Abu-Jamal's commentaries from death row in April 1997.
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In just a year and a half of existence, Philadelphia's Radio Mutiny has emerged as a major force in the pirate radio world.
The Condom Lady is one of about 35 DJs who host an eclectic lineup of programming that airs on Radio Mutiny six evenings a week. They all hide behind pseudonyms to protect their true identities from FCC agents. While many of the shows consist primarily of music, nearly all of them have a political bent. Not surprising, since the station's mere existence is steeped in politics.
"The difference between us and commercial radio is the difference between listening to a robot playing songs that will bring the highest profit, and meeting a weird stranger who takes you home and begins playing records for you," explains Pete triDish (pronounced "petri dish"), a station operator who was sitting around the dinner table where the notion of starting a pirate radio station was first hatched in early 1996.
Radio Mutiny prides itself on catering to West Philadelphia's ethnically diverse, low-income—and disenfranchised—population. Those who run Radio Mutiny are quick to point out that it was the only station in Pennsylvania to broadcast Mumia Abu-Jamal's commentaries from death row in April 1997.
Most of the station's shows could be characterized as niche programming, and the niches they fill are rarely explored anywhere else on local radio.
Want to wrap up your weekend on a cerebral note? Tune in Sunday evenings for Poetry Sauce, when DJ Morgan LeFaye brings you a "simmering pot of spoken word performed by Philly poets." Or perhaps you're feeling under the weather and need an alternative diagnosis? Turn up WPPR on Thursday evenings, when Salubrious Sounds brings you "Wholistic Health Info and music to make you feel good." Want the inside story on local music? DJ SOMA (stands for "Sexiest Old Man Alive") offers music, news and interviews with local musicians and DJs on Friday's Noxsoma Radio Magazine.
And Radio Mutiny is constantly scavenging the city for new DJs who can fill in the gaps. The station is currently recruiting people to host shows geared toward West Philly's growing Asian and Ethiopian communities.
WPPR can be heard within about a three-mile radius of the studio. The station says it is possible to pick up their signal as far northwest as Lower Merion Township and West River Drive, just before Germantown; halfway across the Betsy Ross Bridge; to the west in Springfield and Yeadon; and even in South Philly near the airport.
WPPR's collective of about eight committed members has been the real driving force behind the station's ability not only to occupy a place on the dial, but to consistently expand that presence. Although members would probably shun any comparison to the corporate world, the collective serves a role similar to a board of directors. Each member is obligated to attend meetings just twice a month, but most devote far more time to keeping the station running.
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Radio Mutiny does not play commercials and is financially self-sustaining. DJs chip in $5 a month to cover studio rent, the phone bill, electricity and any repairs made to equipment. Since many DJs spend most of their days volunteering for social causes—earning income through part-time bartending or serving as guinea pigs for Philadelphia's huge medical research engine—even that paltry amount is often a sacrifice. Monthly benefits at local bars typically bring in another couple hundred bucks for the station.
During WPPR's first year on the air, the collective went out of its way to maintain as low a profile as possible. But after the station was slapped with a "cease and desist order" in late 1997, things began to change.
"Once the FCC actually contacted us, we took off our blinders and realized we needed to act with solidarity and bold action," says Pete triDish, a 28-year-old self-described ideologue. With his long black beard, baseball cap and Radio Mutiny T-shirt, he looks like a Hassidic Jew who got lost and stumbled into a Grateful Dead concert.
As he speaks, Pete triDish intermittently pushes his big square glasses up the bridge of his nose. "The one thing that protects pirate radio is that so many people want to do it."
Radio Mutiny operators say they feel morally obligated to act as the poster children for microbroadcasters across the country. "We are well-prepared to meet [the FCC] compared to other stations," Pete triDish says. "They tend to scare small stations who can't defend themselves."
At the beginning of this year, several WPPR pirates embarked on a 25-city tour to promote radio revolution. Stopping at bookstores, cafes and classrooms, they set up and demonstrated a transmitter. They met with small stations just getting off the ground, serving up equal portions of technical advice and encouragement.
After returning to Philadelphia, the Radio Mutiny collective continued to carry out this mission. This past April, the station hosted the three-day "First East Coast Microbroadcasting Conference" in West Philadelphia. The gathering aimed to strengthen the network and solidarity of existing microradio stations, as well as to provide fledgling stations with the nuts and bolts of how to actually get onto the air.
During the conference, radio pirates publicly debated an FCC enforcement officer for the first time. WPPR led calls to create 10 new stations for every one the feds shut down.
Considering that regulators crashed the station just two weeks later, some may question if speaking out so boldly was such a wise move.
It is a strange juxtaposition. On the one hand, the FCC is verbally softening its stance against microbroadcasters, and even considering the possibility of licensing them. At the same time, however, the agency is attempting to shut down stations faster than Mayor Rendell rips through a hoagie.
During the first five months of 1998, more than 70 stations have been visited by the FCC. In contrast, the agency attempted to silence about 100 microbroadcasters during all of 1997.
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Considering that the FCC recently crashed the station, some may question if speaking out so boldly is wise.
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But low-power stations allege that the federal government leaves them with no recourse except to operate illegally. Until 17 years ago, the FCC allowed students and nonprofit organizations to obtain "Class D" licenses, granting them permission to broadcast at 10 watts. Then, in 1980, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB) stepped up lobbying efforts. The CPB argued that tiny stations were cluttering frequencies that otherwise could be occupied by National Public Radio affiliates. As a result, the FCC discontinued Class D permits and shooed all stations of less than 100 watts off the commercial band.
The FCC now says it wants to revisit the issue. In February, it solicited public comments on two petitions for a potential new law that would allow the agency to license a community-based low-power radio service. The comment period closed April 27.
If the National Association of Broadcasters (NAB) has anything to say about the matter, however, low-power stations should disappear from the bandwidth—whether they are legal or not. Representing the bulk of commercial radio and TV stations in this country, the NAB has accused radio pirates of "bordering on racketeering" for broadcasting without regard to FCC rules.
"To stay on the air after receiving a letter from a federal agency saying 'Please, cease and desist'… it is like saying you are going to continue driving without a license or insurance—it's wrong," says John Earnhardt, a spokesperson for the NAB.
In comments filed with the FCC, the association argued against licensing low-power stations, alleging that they would destabilize radio coverage. Microradio would "create small islands of usable coverage in an ocean of interference," the comments say.
The association is clearly concerned about the microbroadcasting community's threats to blanket the airwaves with new stations. Earnhardt accuses the pirates of attempting to overwhelm the FCC so that the agency cannot possibly track them all down.
"It is a Robin Hood scenario," he says.
According to both the NAB and the FCC, microbroadcasters threaten to interfere with reception of licensed commercial stations, as well as with air traffic control systems. FCC compliance chief Lee points to a pirate radio station in San Juan, Puerto Rico, that disrupted control tower/pilot communications in January. The same thing happened in March near the Sacramento airport, he contends.
But pirates says interference is extremely rare and is almost always caused by malfunctioning equipment.
Philadelphia's regional Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) office has never encountered interference from Radio Mutiny—or any other radio station, for that matter.
"I checked with the facility on both the equipment side and the air-traffic side," says FAA spokesperson Jim Peters, "and we have no knowledge of any interference occurring."
Earnhardt promised to get back to City Paper with a list of problems experienced by commercial stations due to pirates. He never did.
Even if the FCC decides to alter its rules and sanction low-power stations, not every radio pirate digs the idea of having to obtain a license from the federal government. In fact, the issue has caused a slight rift in the microbroadcasting community.
Some allege it would force small stations to ask permission for something that is a constitutional guarantee.
At the other end of the ideological spectrum are those who believe a license would allow stations to focus on their programming, rather than on eluding the government.
"On the one hand, we feel that what we are doing is below regulatory concern," Pete triDish says, contending that the regulation of microbroadcasters makes as much sense as regulating bicyclists. Especially when one considers that Radio Mutiny broadcasts at a mere 20 watts, while commercial giants beam over entire regions at 3,000 to 100,000 watts. "It is not something the government should have its hands in."
Because she talks about illegal issues such as prostitution and drug use, the Condom Lady is concerned that along with a federal license would come censorship.
"I am afraid the government would start to attack my words," she says. "I would certainly be walking a finer line. I am able to say whatever I want, as it now stands."
It's not just ideology that stands in the way of these stations getting licensed, however; it's cold, hard cash.
Currently, the initial fee for obtaining a broadcast license from the federal government is $2,500. The application entails "filling out a stack of papers four and a half feet high," according to one pirate. Legal fees can run as high as $100,000 and, on top of this, new stations must assure the government they are financially sound enough to operate for a year without generating a profit.
Those monthly bar benefits would need to start drawing a lot more people.
After nearly a year of planning, WPPR first went on the air Oct. 12, 1996. The fact that it was Columbus Day was no coincidence. That very first programming included a sea of declarations exclaiming "how commercial radio sucked" and why the need for a community radio station was so dire.
Initially, the kick-off date was scheduled for the previous January, to mark the anniversary of the Zapatistas uprising against the government in Chiapas, Mexico.
"We ordered a kit [of unassembled on-the-air equipment] and thought it would take three days to put together," remembers Pete triDish. "It actually took 10 months."
When WPPR eventually did hit the airwaves, nobody in the collective knew if it would be broadcasting for the next week, month or decade.
"We wondered if the FCC would catch us right away," triDish says. "We thought the FCC was constantly monitoring the station. Then we realized it is just a bunch of bureaucrats and that it's not all-powerful."
Most of the station's DJs identify themselves as members of Philadelphia's "anarchist community." If Radio Mutiny folks are any gauge, the standard look for local anarchists conforms to popular stereotypes: multiple pierced body parts; tattoos; either massive hair or none at all; and an aversion to frequent bathing.
It was their roles as local activists, not a common interest in radio, that brought Radio Mutiny creators together. Both members of WPPR's collective and its DJs continue to fight for grassroots causes. They can be found volunteering for a wide array of groups including ACT UP, Books Through Bars, Food Not Bombs, the National People's Campaign, Prevention Point, ADAPT, American Indian Movement and Critical Mass.
In fact, most of the DJs had no radio experience at all. They learned both their technical and broadcast skills on the fly. And that fact is pretty evident when listening to the station. It is not unusual to hear DJs clearing their throats, taking personal calls, or fumbling with tapes while on the air. Smooth transitions between songs and commentary barely exist.
During a recent broadcast of DJ Jah-Sun's show, he racked up a tape of indigenous music, hoping it could carry the program for several minutes—while he ran down the street to a neighbor's house to confirm that the show was actually being heard beyond the four walls of the studio.
"Yeah, it is," panted a visibly winded and relieved DJ Jah-Sun, as he jolted back to the stereo console.
Jah-Sun, 25, is a Seneca Indian. He wears his long black hair slicked back into a serpentine braid that dangles below his waist. The name of his show, Red Sun Rising, is intended to reflect images of both "the Red people" and the notion that indigenous movements are constantly being elevated. Every Wednesday he plays music performed by aboriginal artists hailing from countries such as New Zealand, Africa and Australia and talks about native struggles taking place around the world.
"Anything dealing with revolutionary politics," he elaborates.
Jah-Sun is among the hardcore DJs who view Radio Mutiny as not merely a form of communication, but as a statement of rebellion.
Jah-Sun articulates his theories on the mainstream media in rapid succession, with the obvious ease of someone who has repeated them often.
He believes network news intentionally focuses on disasters—such as murders, fires and plane crashes—so as to numb people to human suffering. "The average person doesn't feel in control," he says. "Part of that is conditioned by this constant bombardment of horrific stories, with no context or analysis."
Jah-Sun's abhorrence of commercial media is rivaled by his animosity toward the government's crackdown on pirate radio stations. He is adamantly opposed to the idea of obtaining a broadcast license, should the FCC begin issuing them for low-power stations.
"The FCC would want to regulate the content of what we can say," he speculates. "Right now, we can say whatever we want—it's an open marketplace of ideas. But the government would curtail our First Amendment rights."
Jah-Sun pauses to light up a cigarette, commenting that other DJs would surely give him shit if they knew he was smoking in the studio. "But whatever," he says, fiddling to open the studio's sole little window. After a few minutes of yanking and jimmying the glass, Jah-Sun gives up. He plops down in a chair and scans the back of a record jacket, cigarette smoke swirling around his head before dissipating into the already-stuffy air.
Midway through the evening, the Condom Lady is clearly growing impatient with the FCC agents, who appear to be no-shows. "I feel like a girl on her prom night," she opines.
Just then, the doorbell rings. Like lightning, the Condom Lady bolts out of her chair to scoop up the gifts, then darts barefoot across the floor and down the stairs.
A minute later, what sounds distinctly like two pairs of footsteps can be heard bounding back up the steps. It seems as though her guests have arrived, at last.
But when the studio door swings open, it is Pete triDish, whom the Condom Lady escorts in. Damn, false alarm.
Pete triDish plops his backpack down on the table and begins rifling through it. Eventually, he yanks out a stack of fliers and hands the Condom Lady an updated phone list of station volunteers. Then, he reaches over to tack the other fliers onto a cork board mounted to the side wall.
"I made some copies of the non-waiver of Miranda rights," he informs the Condom Lady, who works full-time as a public health advocate, "so if you don't already have it, you will when the time comes."
"Zapatistas Need Radio Equipment," announces one sheet of paper.
Pete triDish tells the Condom Lady he just came from a lecture given by a journalist who was thrown out of Chiapas. They chat about Latin America, the FCC, how the show is going. They say goodbye and Pete triDish saunters out of the studio.
When the Condom Lady returns to her on-air commentary, she has some serious thoughts to share on a playful topic.
"Lubricants can be a lot of fun," she informs West Philadelphia, "whether for sexual pleasure or contraception. Never use an oil-based lubricant like Crisco—it can pop your condom or gloves, in addition to carrying bacteria."
She segues into another song, pushing play on the CD player. Her efforts are met with a cold silence. She tries pressing a few more buttons. Still, nothing happens.
"I don't even know how to cue up a record," the Condom Lady drawls. "That is a sad and pathetic fact."
Okay, so the technical end of things doesn't always run so smoothly.
Wealthy commercial and public radio stations rely on producers to generate programming ideas, and engineers to maintain sound quality.
WPPR DJs obviously can't afford that kind of help. So, when plagued by glitches, they have learned to cope another way—Plan B.
"I always have a back-up," declares DJ Morgan LeFaye, named for the mythological half-sister of King Arthur who possessed the ability to calm rough seas through her songs.
And, frequently, she has been forced to stay calm herself.
"I invite local poets on my show to read, and sometimes they don't show up," says LeFaye. Dressed in jeans and a pullover jacket, she looks more mainstream than many of her pirate radio comrades. "One time, this poet came in to the studio with a singer to perform, and we experienced every technical problem that could possibly happen."
But LeFaye says her listeners are content to forfeit style in exchange for substance. "Poetry is a form of art that has traditionally been ignored on the radio. It is just as powerful as music, that sense of mystery is there."
Even "pure" music shows are intended to stir the conscience of their listeners. When DJ Morticia hijacks the airwaves with her show, Sub-basement Elevator, she isn't just spinning tunes. She is providing "musical mayhem for your tortured soul." DJ Margem characterizes her Monday stints playing music from the '70s as chock full of "unexpected sounds" and "brazen girls."
But it is Blanketman who holds the title for tackling one of the most controversial—and least publicly discussed—topics in society. Every Sunday evening, Incarceration Nation offers analysis of the issues affecting the 1.6 million "legal slaves" in the United States today. He is talking about prisoners.
Blanketman rails against prisoner abuse, and decries the injustice of the criminal justice system. During a show in late April, he raised questions on topics ranging from corrupt street cops to vegetarians being denied their "ethical right" to abstain from eating meat.
At one point, he evangelized against the right-to-life group Operation Rescue. "If they are going to take a pro-life stance, they should be opening orphanages." But, in his next breath, Blanketman condemned a recent court decision allowing the group to be prosecuted under federal racketeering charges.
"Any precedent brought against the right will definitely be brought against the left—and doubled," warned Blanketman, whose pseudonym honors a group of Irish Republican prisoners who refused to wear uniforms in 1981.
When Blanketman speaks about prison conditions, he speaks from experience.
His University of Virginia fraternity house was raided by federal drug enforcement officers in March 1991, and Blanketman was among four frat brothers busted for drug possession.
Blanketman learned the hard way what it means when someone uses the expression "making a federal case out of it."
He figured he would plead guilty to a lower charge and get off with a hefty fine. Instead, the feds threatened to trump up the charges if he didn't plead guilty to the initial charges. A jury found him guilty of possessing an ounce of marijuana and two doses of LSD. The judge locked him up for an entire year.
"At the time, I thought I was the most unlucky person in the world. But I came to realize what happened to me is routine," Blanketman says. "When the feds prosecute you, they are out to crush you like a bug."
Today, he certainly doesn't fit the stereotypical image of a frat boy. Rather, Blanketman is likely to be found wearing an olive drab U.S. Army surplus jacket, unbuttoned, over a Radio Mutiny T-shirt. His long curly blond hair is held back with a rubberband, and glasses dominate his face. His ripped jeans droop low on his waist and sag around his ankles, like pants belonging to someone who has recently lost weight.
Like everybody else who works for Radio Mutiny, Blanketman is tired of the constant game of cat-and-mouse the station is forced to play with the FCC. But he doesn't particularly want to see the station get licensed and believes the costs of operating legally could be unrealistic. Instead, he favors "decriminalization with notification," a system similar to that used by CB radio operators.
"We would tell the FCC we are broadcasting on a particular band and make sure we are not interfering," he says.
Five minutes before airtime, Blanketman trades his floppy fishing hat—adorned with a button that reads "CIA, Cocaine Import Agency"—for a pair of headphones. The studio is permeated by the vague hum emanating from a pair of speakers, like the soft crash of the ocean when you hold a shell up to your ear.
Blanketman anxiously taps his sneakered feet on the studio floor. His head is bowed over a scattering of newspaper clippings. He clutches a red pen, which he uses to frantically underline the important parts.
"I don't have the resources to do a lot of original reporting," he explains, looking up from a publication called "Defenestration."
If WPPR were to choose a theme song, "Band on the Run" would be a strong contender. The station's current studio in this rickety old attic is the fourth location from which it has broadcast. Most DJs agree that these prevailing digs are the nicest to date.
When Radio Mutiny initially went on the air, its first home was also an attic. The circumstances, however, were slightly less congenial.
"It was so hot in there, it was like a sauna," DJ Morgan LeFaye laughs at the memory. "We were set up in a hallway between two bedrooms. When the women who lived there wanted to go to sleep, that's when we would get off the air."
After the station achieved a little more stability "and the kinks got worked out," it set sail for more tranquil seas. The rebel ship docked on the ground floor of another neighborhood house. This space was a considerable improvement. It had a separate door which allowed DJs to come and go as needed, and the fact that it included a bathroom was also a real bonus. Unfortunately, there was one major drawback to the place.
The feds knew about it.
"When the FCC showed up, we left," LeFaye says.
On Nov. 26, 1997, FCC agents appeared for the first time with a "cease and desist" order. At that point, the station took a brief hiatus from the airwaves while operators formulated a strategy for dealing with federal regulators.
Up until this point, secrecy was the station's M.O. But with the FCC hot on its stern, the pirates opted to draw their swords publicly against the feds.
On Dec. 1, 1997, Radio Mutiny staged a protest in front of Franklin Court on Independence Mall. The station loudly declared its First Amendment right to occupy a spot on the dial. It dared the FCC to kiss its Bill of Rights. And to punctuate their intentions, station operators broadcast live from the rally.
After that day, WPPR began pumping out its eclectic mix of music and commentary from an empty house in West Philly. The owners of the home—friends of several radio pirates—were in the process of fixing it up. But without heat, winter temperatures froze the DJs out.
From there, WPPR took up port in an old publishing company, a building owned by several DJs. At last, they had found a studio ruled by peace and quiet.
Until the building was sold to "an evil man," LeFaye says. "The new owner told us we had one day to get out."
The station has comfortably broadcast out of its current studio for several months. But now that the FCC has successfully tracked it down, it may be time to pack up again. The collective says it can't reveal too much, but that members are working on a plan.
Running a pirate station is obviously hard work for the DJs, but even listening requires serious commitment. Unlike larger stations, Radio Mutiny's reception is "line of sight." Most stations rely on their signal bouncing off walls or trees and into your house. But WPPR's signal only gets one shot to be picked up by a home stereo antenna.
A tipsheet distributed by Radio Mutiny lays out a few helpful techniques—ranging in difficulty from effortless to painstaking—for gaining reception. For instance, the station recommends holding the antenna in your hand. WPPR recognizes this could be limiting if you are planning to clean the house or cook dinner, not to mention practically anything else, while listening to the radio. As an alternative, it suggests placing a big pot of water in the room "to shield your antenna from the evil, giant waves of the other stations and expose the antenna to the nice, perky little waves from Radio Mutiny."
Those airwaves may be jaunty enough to be catching the attention of some of the larger stations in town. WRTI and WXPN both carry spoken word shows, and Radio Mutiny says Poetry Sauce may have had an influence. The pirates also speculate that some of the more obscure alternative and blues songs that have been getting local airtime were first heard on their shows.
But WRTI's station manager, Tobias Poole, indicates otherwise. "What station? WPPR?"
Music director for WXPN, Bruce Warren, was equally miffed. "Never heard of 'em."
A clock quietly ticks from a corner of the studio. The Condom Lady eyes it anxiously every few minutes. By midnight, she resigns herself to the fact that the FCC isn't going to bust the station this evening. She dons a silk robe—ironically enough, it is patterned with colorful license plates—and sinks back down in her chair.
The Condom Lady is clearly baffled. "I've been stood up by the FCC," she says. "They mistook me for a latex condom."
Before shutting off the transmitter for the night, she teaches listeners one final lesson about the risky practice of sharing dildos ("If you and a friend are using the same vibrator, stop it right now"). She also describes how to clean up drops of blood accidentally drawn during S&M. And, with that nasty cold virus going around, the Condom Lady offers some seasonal advice.
"Never deep throat a sore throat."
The FCC doesn't know what it's missing.
