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That's not necessarily a bad thing. Every healthy music scene needs promoters, managers, publicists, booking agents, and people willing to do the behind-the-scenes work that most musicians don't have the time or experience to handle themselves.

The problem starts when bands forget that not everyone standing next to the stage is there for the music.

A young band gets offered management. Someone promises to help with bookings, promotion, media coverage, or industry connections. The offer sounds great because, honestly, most bands need help. They're working day jobs, hauling gear, writing songs, and trying to figure out how to grow at the same time.

What often gets overlooked is a simple question: what does that person actually want in return?

Sometimes the answer is straightforward. They want to build a successful business and help the band succeed. That's fair.

Other times, the answer is less clear.

We live in a culture where influence is valuable. Even a local band with a modest following has something people want: an audience. A few thousand loyal fans may not sound like much, but to the right person, that's a platform. It's a way to spread ideas, shape conversations, and build influence beyond the music itself.

There's nothing wrong with bands having opinions. Metal has always tackled politics, social issues, religion, war, and every other controversial subject imaginable. Artists should be free to say what they believe.

The issue is when those beliefs stop being their own.

I've seen bands encouraged to jump into arguments they barely understand. I've watched artists get pushed toward public controversies that had nothing to do with their music. They're told it's good for engagement. They're told it will get people talking. They're told controversy builds a brand.

Maybe it does, for a little while.

What nobody talks about is the aftermath.

The internet loves controversy until it doesn't. One bad post, one reckless statement, or one manufactured fight can follow a band for years. Venues notice. Radio stations notice. Festival organizers notice. Potential fans notice.

The people giving the advice rarely pay the price.

The band does.

That's why musicians need to be careful about who they allow into their circle. Not every promoter deserves your trust. Not every manager deserves your loyalty. Not every person offering guidance is looking out for your best interests.

Before taking advice, ask a simple question: who benefits?

If the answer is the band, great.

If the answer seems to be everyone except the band, that's a warning sign.

At the end of the day, a band's reputation is one of the few things it truly owns. Not its social media accounts. Not its streaming numbers. Not even its songs.

Its credibility.

Once people stop believing you're authentic, getting that trust back is incredibly difficult.

Denver's metal scene has the potential to become one of the most important heavy music communities in the country. The talent is here. The fans are here. The momentum is here.

But for that to happen, artists have to hold on to something that's becoming increasingly rare: ownership of their own voice.

A promoter can help sell tickets. A manager can help grow a career. A publicist can get attention.

None of them should decide what a band thinks, what it believes, or what it stands for.

That's a decision artists need to make for themselves.

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Most bands are bar bands. Let's stop pretending otherwise.

A bar band isn't a failed band. A bar band is a band whose audience is local, whose reputation is local, and whose opportunities are local. There's nothing shameful about that. Some of the best musicians in Denver will spend their entire careers playing clubs, breweries, dives, and small venues. They entertain people. They contribute to the culture. They keep the scene alive.

The problem isn't being a bar band. The problem is believing you're too important to be one.

I've watched bands stop supporting local shows because they think they're beyond that stage. I've seen musicians complain about opening slots, complain about turnout, complain about venues, complain about promoters, and complain about everything except the fact that nobody outside their friend group knows who they are.

A lot of bands want the benefits of a thriving scene without participating in it.

They want packed rooms but don't attend anyone else's shows. They want loyalty from fans but show none toward the community. They want recognition without putting in the years of often thankless work required to earn it.

Metal scenes are built by people who show up.

They show up when they're not playing. They buy tickets. They help move gear. They stick around for the opening bands. They promote friends' releases. They understand that scenes are communities, not ladders.

The funny thing is that the bands most obsessed with "making it" are often the first to burn out. Reality arrives quickly. Touring costs money. Recording costs money. Life costs money. Suddenly the dream collides with rent, jobs, relationships, and exhaustion.

Five years later the band is gone.

Meanwhile, the groups that were supposedly less ambitious are still around. They're still playing. They're still drawing crowds. They're still contributing. They may never headline a major festival, but they built something real instead of chasing an image of success.

Every local scene needs dreamers. Ambition matters. Nobody is arguing that bands should be content forever.

But before declaring yourselves too big for Denver, try becoming big in Denver first.

Most bands never clear that hurdle.

And that's why so many of them don't survive.

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The point is that the size of a pirate station should not automatically be taken as a measure of the abilities of the people behind it. The very act of establishing an unauthorized broadcast operation demonstrates a willingness to enter a heavily regulated and technically demanding space. While pirate broadcasters vary widely in skill, experience, and resources, many possess knowledge that extends well beyond what is visible from the modest footprint of their stations.

By remaining small and focused on a particular neighborhood, community, or audience, some pirate broadcasters demonstrate a degree of restraint in their use of the public airwaves. Whether motivated by practicality, philosophy, or a desire to avoid attention, their limited coverage does not necessarily reflect the limits of their technical understanding. The capabilities of an operator cannot always be judged by the size of the signal they choose to place on the air.

This distinction is important when considering the rationale behind substantial penalties for unlicensed broadcasting. Regulators are not concerned solely with the immediate reach of a station. They are also concerned with the broader principle that radio spectrum is a shared and finite resource whose orderly use depends on adherence to established rules. From that perspective, enforcement actions are aimed not only at the interference a station may cause today, but at preserving the integrity of the system that governs access to the airwaves tomorrow.

In that sense, the small neighborhood pirate station and the large commercial broadcaster exist within the same spectrum environment. One may operate on a far smaller scale than the other, but neither should be understood solely by the strength of its signal. Behind every transmission lies a set of capabilities, intentions, and choices that are not always apparent to the listener tuning across the dial.

Radio is not the Internet. Radio broadcasts are directed toward a geographically concentrated audience that shares common communities, institutions, and local concerns. Within that bounded space, each signal competes with relatively few others and is more likely to be noticed. The Internet, by contrast, disperses attention across a global network where countless voices compete simultaneously. Radio concentrates attention within a place; the Internet fragments it across the world.

This distinction matters. A broadcaster who has demonstrated the ability to establish and maintain an unauthorized station has already shown capabilities that fall outside the experience of the average person. Whether operating on a small scale or a larger one, such an individual possesses a means of reaching listeners directly and repeatedly within a defined community.

As a result, those who seek to pressure, intimidate, or otherwise interfere with a broadcaster should recognize that their actions may not go unnoticed. Radio provides a platform through which local issues, local disputes, and local actors can be brought before a local audience. In this way, the medium serves as a mechanism for public accountability by making matters of community concern visible to the communities they affect. Individuals and organizations accustomed to operating with limited public scrutiny may find their actions subject to greater attention and discussion than anticipated.

The same principle applies when established broadcasters no longer adequately serve their communities or when existing stations are disrupted by disaster, civil unrest, conflict, or other emergencies. In such circumstances, radio can provide an alternative channel through which local information, concerns, and perspectives continue to reach the public, helping preserve community awareness and engagement when other sources are absent or diminished.

The lesson is not that pirate broadcasters are uniquely powerful, but that they are often underestimated. The same determination, technical knowledge, and persistence required to place an unauthorized signal on the air can also provide a means of drawing public attention to matters that others would prefer remain unnoticed.

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Soon, Pirate Radio Denver will substantially increase its broadcasting power to cover a much wider area. Targeted regions will receive at least four hours of programming during peak hours. As this expansion takes place, the station's ability to attract new listeners on a consistent basis will also increase significantly.

It has long been the policy of Pirate Radio Denver not to actively grow its presence. In keeping with that policy, I have been moving the signal around a lot, putting on at least 500 miles per week, and I often delete social media profiles only start over when the time comes. This year, however, I decided to keep the new social media profiles that were created and do more to increase awareness of the station. I am no longer going to delete profiles, and I preparing my finances to begin setting up powerful fixed locations once again. As for the radio station's social media presence, if anything, I will simply make them private when I am ready to step away rather than remove them altogether.

The strategy has been to better manage Pirate Radio Denver's presence in the community, and each of its social media profile's following while maintaining the appearance of a smaller audience. So far, this approach has worked to some degree, especially in fooling those who base their opinions solely on follower counts. I consider them stupid because they fail to recognize that something must be amiss when a profile has fewer than 300 followers, yet consistently receives hundreds of views and more engagement than a following of that size would normally generate.

My point is simple: some people have upset me, and that includes a few businesses and nonprofits. My message to each of them is this: I am going to make you feel the same heat you put under my ass. And when I do, I am not going to hold anything back. People want to attack me socially? Fine. I can attack back, and my voice is bigger and louder than yours.

I love it when the ignorant dismiss pirate radio. They speak as if they're criticizing something powerless, completely unaware that we’ve already proven our ability to break into public airwaves whenever we choose. The only reason our presence seems small is because we prefer it that way.

For the most part, we operate quietly and without fanfare. Not because we lack capability, but because we have no need to constantly display it. The mistake our critics make is confusing restraint for weakness. When circumstances demand it, we can remind people exactly what we’re capable of, and just how far our reach extends.

Pirating public airwaves is expensive, and extremely technical. It will take time to come up with the money needed, but expect to see Pirate Radio Denver make a big splash soon.

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The band onstage, Orbital Destroyer, was good. Not "good for a local band" good. Actually good. Tight, energetic, clearly prepared. The kind of set that should have had people talking afterward.

Yet the tavern appeared at half occupancy.

I've heard plenty of explanations for scenes like that. Streaming has changed listening habits. People are more careful with discretionary spending, even when there is no cover charge. Staying home is easier than ever, and the number of venues competing with each other is fragmenting the audiences of nearly every genre. All of those factors matter.

But after spending years talking with bands, venue owners, promoters, and fans, I think we're overlooking a simpler explanation.

There is almost too much happening.

Denver has become one of the busiest music markets in the country. On any given weekend, fans can choose from dozens of shows spread across the metro area. That's a sign of a healthy scene, but it also means attention gets divided in ways that weren't common twenty years ago.

I don't think fans are choosing between one show and staying home anymore. It looks to me like they are choosing between multiple venues, multiple lineups, and multiple competing events. The same thing happens in nearly every other corner of the local music community.

As a result, we end up with three half-full rooms instead of one packed room.

I sometimes hear people interpret those half-full rooms as evidence that audiences don't care, and I almost fell into that mantality myself. But I'm not buying into that. In fact, my work with Metal Mayhem at Denver Skatepark tells me otherwise. The audience is still here. It's just scattered.

There's another issue that doesn't get discussed nearly as often. That is, young bands need repetition. They need stage time. They need the chance to be seen and heard repeatedly by the same audience. Most successful local acts didn't build a following because hundreds of people discovered them overnight. They built it because people kept running into them.

Someone catches an opening set. A few weeks later they see the same band on another bill. Next time they bring a friend. That's how scenes grow.

The problem is that opportunities to play regularly can be harder to find than many fans realize. Booking restrictions, exclusivity agreements, and market-radius policies exist for legitimate business reasons, but they can also slow the development of newer artists trying to establish themselves and thus forcing them to look in other areas. For example, recently I have noticed new bands digging deeper into the underground by organizing their own house parties, which can be more attractive to younger audiences who are not being allowed to express themselves culturely through the bands they follow.

The result is a strange contradiction.

Denver looks busy. In many ways, it has never been busier. There are more venues, more bands, and more shows than ever before. Yet some of the artists with the most potential struggle to stay visible long enough to build momentum. That's not just a challenge for musicians. Every headliner starts somewhere. Every band selling out rooms today was once the opening act that nobody arrived early enough to watch.

If emerging artists can't consistently grow audiences, the entire ecosystem eventually feels it. In other words, we may have built such an active music market that we've divided the audience into smaller and smaller pieces.

The question isn't whether Denver has enough music. It's whether we've made it harder for people to find each other in the middle of all that noise.

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This small group attacked DJ Chaz last year, calling him some kind of federal agent, undercover officer for the Denver Police Department, or bootlicker. They obviously do not know DJ Chaz, his history, or the many years he spent in prison for pirating radio. It is safe to say that the last people he would want to associate with are the police.

Considering the risk of multi-million-dollar fines and the complete shutdown of Pirate Radio Denver, it is even more apparent that the last people he would want to associate with are the police.

On June 6, local punk and metal bands held a free concert at Denver Skatepark. At approximately 5:00 p.m., two of the individuals who attacked DJ Chaz last year at the August Freedom Event, centered around Pirate Radio Denver at Commons Park, showed up and canvassed the crowd. Thirty to forty-five minutes after they left, police were called and shut down the show after explaining that they had received a noise complaint. This has never happened in the three years that Pirate Radio Denver has been bringing music to the park.

It has always been the position of DJ Chaz and Pirate Radio Denver to turn the other cheek and walk away. However, this issue appears to be ongoing and is one that requires exposure.

Efforts to obtain the complete story for reporting purposes are currently underway. KLOKi Pirate Radio Denver is all about community and protecting youth through awareness. Expect to see the full story, with identities revealed, soon.

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Because here's the truth no one in the glossy media reports wants to admit. Radio isn't just dying. It is being quietly erased. Not by accident, but by neglect, consolidation, and the slow suffocation of everything that made it dangerous.

When I first cracked open a transmitter, radio was still alive in the margins. The big stations were predictable. Corporate playlists, safe talk, voices sanded down to nothing. But in between the cracks, you had people like me. Broadcasting music no algorithm would recommend. Talking about things no sponsor would touch. Reaching whoever happened to be scanning the dial at the right moment. It was messy. It was illegal. It was real.

Now the dial feels like a ghost town.

Streaming didn't just compete with radio. It replaced the idea of it. People don't tune in anymore. They select. They curate. They live inside headphones, sealed off in personalized worlds where nothing unexpected gets through unless it has been pre approved by code. You cannot hijack a playlist. You cannot interrupt a podcast with a signal from the outside. The airwaves used to be public space. Now they are just empty space.

And what is left of licensed radio is hardly better. A handful of companies own most of the stations, piping the same content across cities like it is fast food. Local DJs are gone. Weird late night shows are gone. Risk is gone. They have sanitized the medium so thoroughly that even rebellion sounds pre recorded.

That is the part that gets to me. Pirate radio was never just about breaking rules. It was about proving the rules did not have to exist. Anyone with enough nerve and a bit of technical know how could speak. Could reach people. Could create something live, unpredictable, shared. You would get callers sometimes. Total strangers. Just excited that someone was out there, broadcasting from the shadows. That connection does not exist in a comment section.

But it is harder now. Not just because of enforcement, though that is still there, but because fewer people are even listening. I can blast a signal across a neighborhood, and half the people inside it do not even own a radio. The rest are driving cars that default to apps. The audience has not just shrunk. It has vanished into other systems.

So yes, radio is dying. I hear it every night in the static between stations. In the empty frequencies no one is fighting over anymore. In the silence where there used to be voices trying to reach someone, anyone.

And still, I broadcast.

Not because I think I am saving radio. That ship is already halfway underwater. I do it because there is something stubbornly human about sending your voice into the air and not knowing who might catch it. No metrics. No tracking. No algorithm deciding if you are worth hearing.

Just signal and chance.

Maybe that is what is really dying. Not radio itself, but the idea that communication can be wild, unfiltered, and shared by accident. The idea that somewhere, someone might stumble across your voice and stop, just for a second, to listen.

If that disappears, radio will not just be dead.

It will be forgotten.

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Today, I wanted to go to the skate park and hang out, but time got away from me. The truth of the matter is that I took a nap and slept a little longer than I wanted. I put the slider buns on the cabinet for the studio in the van, then cleaned it out really well before taking it to the car wash. I spent the rest of the day tidying up loose ends.

Watch Video

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I took some video if you are interested.

Watch Video

Most of my days are spent working with signals, frequencies, and equipment, invisible systems that move information across miles in seconds. It's fascinating work, but it's also quiet work. Solitary work.

Ironically, I help enable communication while often feeling disconnected from the community around me.

That realization has been sitting with me for a while now. It's what pushed me to start thinking about public spaces, parks, open areas, places that were originally designed for people to gather but often sit half empty.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped showing up for each other in those spaces.

So this summer, I'm trying something new: concert takeovers in public spaces throughout the community.

Simple idea. Music, open air, and a reason for people to come outside and meet each other.

But starting something new has never been easy for me.

I've spent hundreds of hours on ideas before that never really took off. Projects that seemed promising but quietly disappeared. After enough of those experiences, you start carrying doubt into every new idea.

Still, the need for connection hasn't gone away.

So this summer, I'm trying again.

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Spring is coming, and I've been in isolation working for far too long. I'm ready to spread my wings, to get out, go places, meet people, and do things.

This year I want to bring people together in public spaces. Not just the usual venues, but the places that belong to everyone. I want to focalize energy and turn those spaces into gathering points for the community. For now, to get started, DPark is that spot.

The idea is simple. People coming together in the open, powered by live concerts from talent here in Denver. Raw sound, shared space, and real human presence. Unforgettable experiences created by the people who show up.

If you feel that same pull to get out into the world again, come help make it happen. Bring your energy. Bring your friends. Bring the music.

Tell help the effort, I created an email notification system that will keep us all stay informed when bands announce they are going to play at DPark. If you are about making something happen, join the network and show up.

Go here to signup

It wasn't always like this.

There was a time when people tuned into the same signal, shared the same songs, and discovered new bands together. That's the world stations like KLOKi were built for, a place where underground metal could find ears willing to listen.

But the landscape keeps shifting. Listeners drift to endless playlists and automated streams, and independent radio fights to stay heard in the noise.

So the question sits there, hanging in the airwaves.

The signal is still broadcasting.