Let's talk about.

For my entire life, I’ve loved radio. I love having something live on somewhere in my house, and I’ve discussed it. Basketball is great for this. It helps that I love it. I don’t need to see every living moment of it.

There’s something about the disembodied live voice, though, that helps me – and a lot of people I suspect – feel less alone. A part of some of some kind of something: a niche audience. A first-time caller, finally heard. Go on single sideband to listen in on some weird shit. Be a spy. Be a voyeur.

I listen regularly to a station in New Zealand. Thinking this will be fascinating, I tuned in to hear talk about the same things people talk about here in the U.S. Crime. Prices. Business. Those Others. Those Other Communities. Yourself. In other words, it’s the same.

And yet it isn’t.

The station boasts a couple nationally popular cranky hosts. I admit I don’t really listen to them. A crank is a crank. Interesting that the same logic traps are employed worldwide by cranky hosts to trip up hopeful guests.

But the rest of the hosts are genuine. Human. They seem kind; they seem thoughtful. They seem like honestly decent people, but maybe that’s the trick of radio: none of the nonverbals are available. Anyone can seem nice.

Maybe my ears are special. No, that’s definitely not it.

On this New Zealand radio station, which is all chat of all kinds, the best part of the day doesn’t occur during the day at all. It’s the overnight talk shows that stand out. They begin at 7 a.m. my time, but in the New Zealand future. It’s then that hosts listen to the same callers, over and over, sometimes even telling the same story, tickling out interesting new information from these people who sound like friends. Callers advise hosts and each other and apparently meet each other sometimes in real life.

The best among these hosts, now having listened to a lot of overnight New Zealand talk, was one Mikey Beban. I say was, because he was a sub for two months while another host went on vacation. (Only anywhere else in theworld outside the U.S. can one even consider a two-month vacation.) Mikey was long-time caller from a city called Dunedin – nearly the bottom of the world.

He’d call into the regular host at, say, 4 a.m. NZ time, already impossibly awake and happy, to talk about what he was passing on his walk, I think to work because he doesn’t drive. He’d talk about his cat Dot, or a trip to Scotland, if I recall. If I didn’t hear him, I’d wonder if something was wrong with him. It bears mentioning the obvious but I don’t know this man. Some people are compelling.

Then he actually did stop calling. It was like the sun rising in the west instead of the east. (Or however that works in New Zealand.) Other callers called, asking about Mikey. I wondered about Mikey and wondered if I could call toll-free. The mystery was eventually solved. Mikey has gotten his own radio show in Dunedin, a dream of his I understand. This was in addition to his full-time job as a taxi coordinator. Where do people get all this energy?

As I further understand it, Mikey was able to parlay this radio experience into a new overnight gig at a station in Auckland. I didn’t know this, or I would’ve listened, but mentioning on a station this incredibly lovely and popular overnight host is at a different station, I guess, is not the done thing.

That radio job, which required the man to move clear across New Zealand, folded after just a year. I’m not sure when Mikey arrived during the station’s sort lifespan, March to March 2022-2023. I hope he got a good run.

More recently, Mikey found his way to that plum sub job, hosting overnight talk in a much more stable organization. His last night on the air was a sad one, and not just for me, but I suspect for everyone listening. Mikey was fine, of course. He discussed office burnout with a regular who admitted after a job less that he was a bastard at work. Someone to avoid. What a confession.

He talked to a caller who, after gigging with tribute bands for years, found during the pandemic that he had nothing save his voice so he started giving singing lessons. Another caller retold the story of his first job, a cub reporter covering the shipping notices. He mentioned he was anxious and insecure at that job, and still is, then threw out a quality pun. Tons of texts came in wishing Mikey well. You can imagine.

I could have done the same: I wanted to tell him I wish he was still going to be on regularly. That he seems like a truly wonderful person. That I wish he was family and he sounds irreplaceable. But I didn’t. I guess I’m doing it here. I hope it’s OK.