Dead air - closing down 'pirate' radio stations in Florida

Reason, August-Sept, 1999 by Michael W. Lynch

Bo got interested in radio in the early 1990s, when he was doing promotional spots for another Miami station. When a friend said he could put him on air, Bo's only question was, How much? Bo spent $4,000 to go live with 100 watts. Within a year, and many thousands of dollars later, he was blasting 2,000 watts, covering all of Dade County.

Bo was not only doing well; he was also doing good. As a commercial venture, Pure Funk Enterprises was a booming success. His radio station pumped up his DJ business and he became an even more prominent figure in the community. No one was getting rich, but that was never the goal. Local youths, many of them formerly skirting on the edge of the drug economy, had something to do, even if it was only carrying the speakers. Take G-Money, a Pure Funk DJ who started carrying Bo's speakers in the early 1990s. "Before I got with Bo, I was into a lot of wrong. I was very violent. I got shot two times," he says nonchalantly, pulling down his shirt at the neck and exposing a penny-sized scar smack in the middle of his upper chest.

"Bo just totally changed my life," he says, later adding, "I would put on gasoline drawers and jump into a fire for him."

Miami Police Sgt. Frank Dean is also a fan of Bo's. Unlike the FCC officials, Dean works Liberty City's streets, as both a police officer and a Baptist minister, and is familiar with the drug-infested corner on which Bo chose to locate his business. "It amazes me that he was able to set up a radio station in this area," says Dean, who calls Boa great entrepreneur. "He keeps these kids employed." Rodney Baltimore, the morning DJ with the licensed Hot 105.1, agrees. "These kids have done what the middle class has been unable to do: They got a black-owned radio station in Miami. They are making something out of nothing."

Bo's Pure Funk Enterprises also gives back to the community. When an errant bullet cut down a young girl on Martin Luther King Day in 1997, Hot 97 DJs took to the air and raised $7,000 for her family. Hot 97 had one weekly show that addressed the issue of teen pregnancy and another that dealt with the self-esteem of adolescent girls. Bo's Pure Funk DJs still provide music for a series of "Stop the Violence" assemblies at Miami area schools. "He has a tremendous following with the kids," says Baltimore. "He may not get a NAACP Image Award, but he will get the hearts and souls of the people who listen to him."

But few people are listening to him these days. When the police bust was splashed all over TV, clients thought the government had carted off his DJ equipment along with the broadcasting equipment. "It took us down, slap down," says Bo.

He's trying to get his equipment back and secure a broadcast license, but neither pursuit looks like it will be successful anytime soon. The community rallied behind Bo, sending the FCC some 11,000 signatures in support. The government ignored them; licensing, an FCC spokesman told the Miami New Times, is not a popularity contest. Elected office is, however, and the signature drive caught the attention of local politicians. Bo says many, including Rep. Carrie Meek (D-Fla.) who represents the area, offered support. But he's not happy with the follow-through. "I even went as far as to go up to Washington," he says, adding, "If they had stuck to their word, we would have already been on the air a long time ago."