On July 10th, 2025 we’re celebrating WFHB Past and Present – a commemorative concert marking 50 years since the first benefit for the Bloomington Community Radio Project. So today, on WFHB Rewind, we’re taking you back – way back – to the very beginning. Before the transmitters, before the studios, before the call letters were even on paper, there was just an idea. An idea that started in a garage 50 years ago. In this episode of WFHB Youth Radio Director, Jessie Grubb, and WFHB Music Director, Abby Noroozi are joined by three voices central to the long journey of forming WFHB – Mark Hood, Jim Manion, and Jeffrey “Sundog” Morris.
“Mark Hood and I were living in a garage behind a house that a jazz drummer named Jack Gilfoy had turned into a cool 16 track recording studio, and in those days, was two inch tape and was the only really studio with that quality around and Mark hood had come down from Interlochen, Michigan, where he was kind of grew up and learned sound, and so Jack had hired him being an engineer.” said Morris.
Photo of Jeffrey “Sundog” Morris from the WFHB Archive
“Sun dog and I were roommates. I had taken over a two car garage behind the recording studio where I worked that wasn’t being used. And I am not a carpenter, and don’t know about carpentry, but I made myself a room with no water, no plumbing, no running water, little bit of electricity, and then Sundog needed a place to live, so I ran into him, and he said, ‘Can I stay with you?’ And I said, ‘Sure’. So we wound up being roommates, and we had a lot in common that to do with radio. In our teenage years, we were both radio amateurs, so we actually had equipment and we could talk to other amateur radio operators all over the world and have conversations. And at some point, Sundog and I just said, you know, we should start a radio station. How hard can it be? That’s the famous last words.” said Hood.
Photo of Mark Hood courtesy of Discogs
That spark didn’t come from nowhere. Across the country, Community Radio was beginning to take root in a handful of cities, and for young radio obsessives like Mark and Sundog, the dial was full of strange and compelling signals, proof that something different was possible.
“Another thing that formed it was we never had a TV that worked, but we did have an old console radio that we’d dug up somewhere, and we’d listened to AM radio at night, and there was a truck driver station, WWL in New Orleans that was one of those 50,000 watt clear channel stations, and at nighttime, it skips all over the country, so truck drivers could listen to it all the time. So they played lots of Old Country and Western truck driving classics, but they also played a lot of Carter Family and that kind of early leading into bluegrass music and some quasi folk. But, you know, who knows how to genre it. I had actually never heard the Carter Family stuff. A lot of those crazy truck driver songs are really funny, you know, like Phantom 409, and all of these heroic truck driver folk songs and things. So we listened to that a lot, and that somehow that stuck in our mind, too, is, oh, yeah, we should start a station that plays weird stuff, but we didn’t know how to do it. So that was the germ. And then we started trying to figure out how to do it.” said Hood.
“So we went ahead and incorporated that point. So we were, I think we were, Community Radio Project Inc, it changed its name a number of times over the years, while they were still trying to get it organized, led by Sundog, but other people were involved over the years, at different times,” said Hood.
Figuring it out would take years, but the community started forming around the project early on. In 1974, a young audio enthusiast named Jim Manion arrived in Bloomington.
“In the summer of ’74, which was my first summer in Bloomington and the summer I turned 20 years old, one of the things that Mark Hood did at the studio to generate some income is he had a multi-track recording workshop. It was a week long workshop, you know, maybe four or five days during the week, and cost $200 and I was just so hungry to learn that stuff, because I had grown up looking at albums with pictures of the studios. I remember once making a list of engineers and producers, you know, from different albums. I was trying to figure out what all that was about. So of course, I convinced my parents to give me $200 to do that. And so that put me at Gilfoy Sound Studios for a week that summer, and I quickly became fast friends with Mark Hood, and I quickly found out about the radio station and was involved in the conversation, so to speak, just because, you know, it was a real isolated idea in terms of what else was going on around the country, because we absolutely didn’t know. Yeah, we knew there was like WBAI in New York and a couple stations in California, but we knew nothing about the burgeoning grassroots community radio efforts that were already being made in the early 70s.” said Manion.
Photo of Jim Manion from the WFHB Archive
The next step was trying to make it real, but building a community station from scratch was no small feat.
“Up to this point, we were looking at the FCC papers and anything we could find in the library about low power FM stations and things like that. But there’s not a lot of published literature. And then somebody somewhere discovered this book called Sex and broadcasting, written by Lorenzo Milam, which was a radical right wing, or sorry left wing, some wing. He was a wing, wing person, some wing. He was out there, but very experienced in community radio out in California, and a very irreverent writer and advocate. So, the history the Communications Act of 1934 which sort of establishes broadcast license. So that was the operating law specifically states that the entire radio spectrum is the property of the people of the United States, and that the license grants stations like WFHB and WFIU and all it grants them the right to broadcast in the public interest. So you know, until recently, stations had to document how much PSA time they do, how much public service time they do, how much religious program, how much news programming, how much music program to prove. Every time they had to renew their license, they had to prove that they were operating in the public interest and that they deserved the use of that spectrum. So Lorenzo Milo, you know, was just over the top firebrand about, you know, this is the people’s property. These airways belong to the people. They don’t belong to the government. So, but that got everybody hyped up in addition to that, yeah, so he was a firebrand for all of that stuff. But it also was the first book that we’d ever read, or first anything we’d ever read that, like listed other radio stations and and sort of the his idea of the history of them and his history of them, and mentioned the NFCB, the National Federation of community broadcaster we didn’t know there was such a thing. So that was a big breakthrough, the real well, sort of the realization like, Oh, somebody’s done this before. Yeah, oh, we don’t have to reinvent the wheel. Maybe we could talk to somebody and get some help.” said Hood.
Inspiration alone wouldn’t be enough. They started connecting with others, and slowly, belief started turning into a plan.
“We also did things like, we visited the community station in Champaign, Illinois, community station in Columbia, Missouri, a number of times, and we had a weekend like workshop retreat to sort of get everybody together for a weekend and talk about community radio. And we brought two people, I can’t remember their names now, over from Columbia, Missouri, to Bloomington. And they were sort of, you know, back then, anybody that had a station on the air. We were like, oh, you’re so amazing. I can’t believe it, we’ll never do that. And and so we really looked up to these people but, that was a big thing that I organized. And basically I was, you know, sort of pushed into the position of being the president of the organization. And, you know, we were going to NonCom, like, I remember going to Jasper Indiana for a seminar on Indiana Arts Commission grants. And I’m like, we were just finding out about it, and then we did work on that application really seriously, and figured out ways to prove that we had the money, basically by getting all these people to sign pledges that if we got the license, they would donate.” said Manion.
“So starting in sort of 1974 ish, Sundog and I started thinking about it and investigating. So we did go to the library and get books, and Sundog called the FCC from our dial telephone. And they sent him this pile of Xeroxed information about what it’s like to start a nonprofit non commercial radio station, what it takes, what the rules are, and they’re enormous. It’s a huge amount of engineering and stuff that we didn’t realize, but that didn’t stop us. So we said, well, obviously this is going to take money. We need to, like, raise some money.” said Hood.
Poster design by Greg Coffey
And that brings us to the night it all started coming together. On July 9, 1975, the first benefit for what would become WFHB was held at the Bluebird Nightclub.
“The bluebird didn’t have a in house sound system, so we had to borrow speakers in an amp and a little mixer that was actually like a mix in the front. It wasn’t flat like this. I think it was called a suburban sound, and it was part of Gilfoys, and the speakers we borrowed from somewhere else. And so I remember just pulling all that together.” said Morris.
“The PA was donated by parts of it were donated by a friend of mine who actually ran a PA company. So the speakers were really good speakers and stuff. But for microphones, I actually borrowed, quote, unquote, all the good studio microphones from the studio where I worked with without neglecting to tell, without neglecting to tell anybody. Most of the acts were pretty they were the people that were already with us, right? Everybody that had anything to do with Bar-B-Q Records, our record label, was enlisted to play for the benefit.” said Hood.
“Mark Bingham, Caroline Peyton and Bob Lucas. They were all on Bar-B-Q Records and put out early on.” said Morris
“The last band on the bill was MX-80, and it was their first public performance. I’m pretty sure. Reports seem to imply that and I’ve talked to Dale the bass player about this, and he’s pretty sure that was it, too. And so there is actually a cut from MX-80 playing at the 1975 benefit that we put out on an LP on the Bloomington sampler, Bloomington one, which came out in ’76 the MX-80 playing spoon fight. So instead of sword fight, It’s a spoon fight.” said Hood.
On that night in 1975 it became clear Bloomington believed in community radio.
“We really had no idea how many people would come, or how much we would raise. We didn’t budget anything. We didn’t pay anybody. My favorite part, a weird one was that Jeffrey, Sundog, somehow went to the Peoples State Bank, and I still think it’s on the corner of college and 17th, and they were one of the few banks in town that had like the flashing light sign, where it had time and temperature and some sort of announcement, you know, CD rates or whatever. And somehow he convinced them that they should advertise for us. So there was, we had a flashing, you know, sign coming into town says, you know, community radio project benefit, Bluebird, July 9. And there were, there was an semi underground cultural publication, primo times in town. So we got lots of press coverage in that and we had a beautiful poster. There was a graphic artist named Greg Coffey in town that did a lot of our record covers and work and very intricate pen and ink drawings and stuff. Really a fabulous artist. So he made us the original poster, and we really deliberated, like, what could we possibly charge? We had no idea, we’re not good at this. And it was, you know, this is a 1975 so we didn’t know what people would pay. So we decided to charge $1 we took a big risk, and thought, okay, $1 this will work out and stuff. And by the end of the night, we had raised over $700 was like 710, or 15 from people that actually paid the $1 right? And Lord knows how many people snuck in. The bluebird was sort of a sieve at that point in terms of security.” said Hood.
That first benefit at the Bluebird drew a crowd of people who lined up around the block to get in. It also drew at least a few underage attendees, including a certain future WFHB music director.
“Back then, it was really easy, because if you had an older friend who got a new driver’s license, they would just give you their old one. I think it was this friend who actually moved out of state, so he gave me his Indiana license, and it said I was 27 and and so that’s what I used to get in the Bluebird. Actually, I started going to bluebird when they started having music in. It was January 74 when I was like 19, and I was there a lot, especially on weekends. And back then, on the weekends, they would book the same band for three nights in a row, and I would just go for all three. But back then, Indiana driver’s license were paper. There was no picture on it and you could even do things like if you were really crafty. So my friends, instead of high school, you could take a pencil eraser and just erase the date of your birth and put it in a typewriter and be real, real careful, and just like what kids used to do with report cards, yeah, yeah. So I was 10 days from being 21 because it was July 9, and then July 19 was my birthday, and I actually went in there, you know, on my birthday. And I remember going up to this old guy who was a longtime bartender at the Bluebird, and I was like, hey, Jerry, is it true, you get a free drink on your 21st birthday? And he was like, yeah. I was like, Well, it’s my 21st birthday. Son of a bitch, you’ve been coming here for a year and a half.” said Manion.
“But did he give you a free drink?” said Noorozi.
“No, absolutely not. He was mad at me.” said Manion.
It was a pivotal night, a night that showed there was a community ready to rally around the idea of a community radio station.
“That was the first event that brought together hundreds of people that we recognize would be our core audience and supporters. And I wasn’t the only one that came forward that night and said, I want to help out this way. I want to help out that way. We got a lot of volunteerism, and that’s the night that I sort of pledged my life to community radio.” said Manion.
As the years rolled on and the station remained a dream on the horizon, the group held other fundraisers to keep the momentum going.
“So we did have some other benefits. We had some pancake breakfast type things.” said Hood.
“The first one was at the Gables, actually Gables Restaurant, which is now Buffalouies and myself and Nick Brubaker, who was a QAX person that was involved and was one of my best friends at the time, we both worked there, so we convinced strats and Pete, the owners to do that. And it was, I think it was on a Sunday when they weren’t open, and we just kind of took over and we brought in, you know, we didn’t use their food supplies. We we, we bought those, got them donated, and we always had pancakes and fruit salad, and we make a big fruit salad with with yogurt and pancakes and boy arms would just be tired after making all those pancakes. But it was a great place to bring that core community of supporters together on a Sunday morning, a lot of pancakes and coffee and fruit, and then we talk about the radio station. There was always, like, 50-75 people. And we maybe did, maybe did six of those all together over the years, for a while there, you know, we did more pancake breakfast and we did music benefits.” said Manion
“But then there were music benefits. I remember doing other things at the Bluebird too. I remember doing maybe even a two night thing there, like in 78 or 79 and then, of course, when Second Story opened, we did a number of things there, and sometimes we did them as mutual benefits with WQAX where we would just split the money. And probably the most significant thing that we did in that regard, it was before Second Story was called Second Story, because, see, the history of the building that is now Serendipity goes back to there was a a gay disco called the Omni, where Crazy Horse is now. And when, when that was closed down in I remember going there a couple of times in ’78 and I was like, wow, this is just like New York City, you know, disco music and just a real diverse crowd and but some of that was being morphed into whatever became before there was a more of a regular bar before Crazy Horse. I can’t remember the name of it, but the gay community had to find another spot. And some of the people involved with the Omni realized that the the old Moose Lodge, that was what that was. It was a Moose Lodge, you know, the fraternal organization building was for sale, and they called it, they put in the disco club downstairs, and they called it Bullwinkles, because it was, you know, moose. And then they had the upstairs that they didn’t do much with very often, but I remember hearing about that, and maybe somebody, I think, like the gizmos played there once, there were a couple of one off independent things. But so it was 1980 and I was like, because I remember walking up to that room and going, Whoa, this is a spot. This would be the place, because it was when the whole 70s into early 80s music scene was developing. And, you know, I love the idea of having events. I was already, you know, plugged into reading magazines about what was happening in New York and whatever, and and so I was like, and none of the local, you know, weirder side of Bloomington bands could get a gig be on a street dance, you know, they couldn’t play at the Bluebird. And then so we had this event. And, you know, I was a, I was kind of a mystical hippie back then. And so it was called the full moon trance dance. And it was March. 1 of 1980 we had six bands, including the dancing cigarettes and other bands. And it was basically the same thing as the and it’s funny, because in 1980 1975 seemed so long ago in 1980 but it was only five years later, but we had the same experience that night. And that night wasn’t the summer, it was March 1, and by the end of the night, it was 20. It was 10 to 20 below zero. It was a really, really cold night, yet, you know, five or six hundred people showed up over the period of the night. The it was $1 at the door, the same kind of thing. We made a ton of money and, and, but I always look at that night is like, you know, just, setting the bomb off. The owners of the Bluebird came over that night, they were like, Whoa, this music draws a crowd all of a sudden. So they wouldn’t get weekend gigs at the Bluebird. But, you know, Tuesday nights at the Bluebird suddenly became like Dancing Cigarettes night. And then we continued to do events every month or two in the same way, kind of have theme nights and and, I mean, we had like, surf party. There was a weekend where it was little 500 weekends. So we did this music and performance art weekend, and we cut because it was, you know, they called Little 500 the world’s greatest college weekend. We called it the world’s greatest collage weekend. And they were always benefits for community radio, or community radio, and WQAX.” said Manion.
“And then we got got full of ourselves, and we booked Jethro Burns. So he was half of a bluegrass, sort of good music, but comedy team, sort of like the Smothers Brothers or kings or the limelighters or something. They were like folk singers, but fun, they had a shtick and but these guys were bluegrass. They were so and they were Jethro. Burns was actually really pretty renowned as a great bluegrass mandolin player, but he was a total nut ball at the same time. So he was on his own at that point. So we booked that. And we thought, this is totally unnatural. There’s Bill Monroe. This is bluegrass land. And we went across the street from the bluebird over to time out, was what it was called at that point, which is a bar. I think it’s a pizza place now, but it’s a couple blocks north, on the same street on the other side. And Jethro was expensive. You know, this was a big we are actually paying somebody this time to be the talent. And we advertised to the best of our ability. And he also, like, he had big needs. So he needed, like, sort of like a writer now on a contract where the artist. Needs Evian water and, like, scented soap in the dressing room and stuff. Jethro needed alcohol, basically, so, but still, it was expensive, yeah, to get him on stage. And, like, nobody came, so we lost all the money we had on that one. Yeah, that’s the first time the fates of the world turned against us. Yeah, maybe you don’t think this is going to be as easy as you think it is,” said Hood.
Little did they know, it would take another 18 years of meetings, forms, setbacks and triumphs before WFHB finally went on the air.
“We really had no idea how much trouble it would be, yeah, put a noncom channel on in the Grade B area of channel six TV, Channel six. Now all the channels are digital, and they’re not actually on the channels they are anyway. But then channel six TV, their audio, which was an FM signal too, was just a little bit below the non combat, which was 88 one to 91 nine on 20 channels was reserved for non commercial So, and channel six was right below it. So if you were in their fringe area, you could potentially interfere, and they could block your application. And channel sixes around the country did that. We were pretty naive about it. We thought, well, you know, one thought we had was, cable TV is coming on now, and it was, everybody’s starting to get cable. Yeah, and the FM channels were on cable, so we had this thought that maybe that would make a difference. You’d have to look up a frequency, you’d have to look up all the stations that broadcast on that frequency, and then you’d have to, like, prove to the FCC that this would work. And you so it took drawing on topographic maps and and sun dog was doing all this by hand. And there are some documents back in the back that is this fold out topographic map that’s huge, and it’s all pasted together Xeroxes and stuff. And it says, you know, number 13 of 28 so they’re like, 28 of those maps, one for like, each direction away from where the tower might be. And so he was doing all that work. But it turns out, you actually really have to just hire a consultant. Consulting engineer and a lawyer. Yeah, communications lawyer, yeah, so at some point far down that so he kept running into brick walls. Yeah, I’d hear about those.” said Hood.
“And then it all fell apart in early 81 and that’s when the first thing was rejected by the FCC for technical reasons that you know, we would have known about if it if there was an internet right? But we had to do all this stuff on paper, and you had to, you had to look up every station and see their power and you know, and you know, it was nobody’s fault. It was just a hard time to do that. But that happened in, I think, August of ’81.” said Manion.
“I got a letter that told me that a station in Louisville upped its power from 10,000 watts to 50,000 watts, and that wasn’t in my otter date. So that was rejected. Oh, without, of course, it wouldn’t have worked anyway, yeah, but at that point, Jim Manion gave up and left town. Everybody quit. So through the early 80s, I just kept, we had $300 in the savings account that I kept the post office box since 1973 and, you know, filed the corporate reports, and did all that. Then one day, I think it was maybe 82 I was sitting in front of the principal spoon. A few of us used to have kind of a happy hour in front of the spoon. They’re like four, between four and five o’clock we that’s get together there most almost Well, several days a week we’d show up. And I was talking to my friend, Don, and I was rattling on about what the radio station would be like. And he looked at me, and he said, you know, you may be the only one in LinkedIn who believes this is going to happen. Wow. And at that moment, he was probably right,” said Morris.
“I mean, we couldn’t help ourselves. We were of the counterculture, hippie generation. And there’s a lot of naiveté when you’re young. It’s like everything is possible. And of course, we thought it was going to happen faster. And of course we thought it was only going to cost $4,000 to put it on the air right?” said Manion.
“But if you had known, you may have not done it.” said Noroozi.
“No, we would have kept doing it. You know, I think that 17 years, 18 years it took to get on the air is testament to the commitment. And Herman B Wells, when he gave his little speech at our Firehouse opening, and he could, he was in a wheelchair and he could hardly speak, but he called us the most tenacious group of you know, community organizers ever. I mean, it was that word tenacious. I even had to go look it up. I was like, I like the sound of that word, but what does it mean? And then I looked it up, and I was like, hell Yeah, that would be us.” said Manion.
Today on WFHB Rewind, we’re joined by Mark Hood, Jim Manion and Jeffrey “Sundog” Morris to share the story of WFHB from the first wildly successful benefit in 1975 to going on air in 1993 but we aren’t there yet. In 1982 Brian Kearney moved to Bloomington and joined the effort.
“Brian Kearney was somebody who’s a fundraiser, and actually that’s what we ended up doing professionally, among other things. He first made appointments with people. I went to someone with them, including the one with Herman wells, and I were talking to Herman, right? And Herman looks this thing says, what about you know, FIU, and we pointed out to him that the radio TV school, I. At that time. I don’t know what the story is now, because now it’s a whole different game entirely. The only actual on air experience in four years of undergraduate work in Radio TV is you produced 110 minute newscast with a couple other people. You’ve seen you here. That was very much, yeah, so we put that to Herman, that you had his attention, and said, educational, yeah, thing that always been the heart Yeah, of it, and that’s why I really like Youth Radio. Yeah, Youth Radio was automatic. We were, yeah, you know, but there’s, I mean, we didn’t have it together right away, but you knew being an educational thing, yeah, Herman, wells, it connected us to Cecil Waldron, who is granddaughter, oh, okay, she was an older woman and retired at The time, but she had funds, and so we went to get her, and she gave us some initial money to start and and Herman wells gave us money right out of his funds, amazing. And then eventually, Cecil gave us $100,000 to get into this building. So that was the biggie. At that point, Brian Kearney was working. He knew he was working it. He’d go to Cecil, she was living in, you know, assisted living at the time, and he’d bring her treats. And, yeah, yeah, so that, that went on for a few years, yeah, and, you know, and I think her money, that was the initial money for the was then the Bloomington Area Arts Council, the AAC, who started the wallet.” said Morris.
“And right about that time, finally, the new NFCB and whatever, a couple organizations for non commercial radio had worked out a compromise within with the FCC and the channel six TV people that it was a formula that defined an area within which you would possibly interfere, and there had to be less than 2000 people that area. So now we had a way to do it, so then we can divine, and that’s why we’re 11 miles south of town, because we’re right at the very end of the protected con, the last protected contour of channel six TV, which, that’s not true anymore, right? But we were right there. And if you take our primary listening, half of it is outside of their area, and there’s nowhere near 2000 people in Yeah. So Ken Devine found that and got us our construction permit, which we got in December 91.” said Morris.
With the instruction permit in hand and funding from Herman B Wells and Cecil Waldron, WFHB was becoming a reality. But before hitting the airwaves, a group gathered on the summer solstice of 1992 to celebrate.
“On the summer solstice of ’92 before we went on air, or put the tower up or anything, a group of us went out there and right in the middle of the field, we built a little fire, and we had a bunch of some old radio junk, a cart machine, couple cart machines, where the old what we would play an announcement center That kind of looked like an eight track or something. We threw them in the fire and couple of old pieces of gear and read from sex and broadcasting Lorenzo Milan’s book.” said Morris.
And finally, 18 years after the benefit concert at the Bluebird, WFHB was on the air broadcasting from a small concrete building nicknamed the Blockhouse.
Brian Kearney and Jeffrey Morris outside of the transmitter building, photo from the WFHB Archive
“And of course, we went on the air from the transmitter building. It’s just a concrete block building that’s like 1512 or something. We went on there from there, the first time we were on the first thing that was on there, from there was me, is, think, December 20, okay, I played some Gypsy Kings and Tuliman Zai. I don’t know if he’s still around, but family from Bloomington that was part of the university there, Afghani, and he’s a classical guitar player. I just happened to have a CD from him. Oh, wow. Had one of the Gypsy Kings that had we’d gotten out of the library. So that was, that was the first music on the stage played a little bit. And amazingly enough, Jim Manion heard it. A few people heard it. And that was like mid December, and we officially went on third of January.” said Morris.
“But, how long were you at the transmitter site before you got into the station?” said Noroozi.
“A year and a month, and we did periodic broadcasts through that December, I think Jim was on Christmas day or something. And somebody brought him out of pizza.” said Morris.
“There’s a country guy named Junior Brown who has a couple of CDs. Actually, there’s another one that I was looking for, and I couldn’t find it the other day. Was called Semi Crazy, but along Rockport road, right before we get to our house and then miles further, the transmitter is Kirksville. Junior Brown was a kid in Kirksville, and he was in town playing, and we had him on the air at the blockhouse.” said Morris.
“Oh, wow, that’s cool. So that was your first live session?” said Noroozi.
“I sure he may have been the first like outside of town person to come in. It was within the first few weeks. Nobody took any pictures there. There are a few pictures of our first going on the air. Oh, there are Herman’s gone because we rang Herman’s gong and played “Turn Your Radio On.” And there is a recording of that. But when we first went on the air from the Blockhouse in that first few months, we weren’t on the air all the time. So I walked up one day, I walked over to CD player at home when we weren’t on the air, and realized, I don’t want to play a CD. I want somebody to mix it up for me. There’s something to that,” said Morris.
And that’s the story of how an idea between friends 50 years ago in a small garage became what we know as WFHB. This year, we are celebrating the milestone with another event at the Bluebird: WFHB Past and Present. On Thursday, July 10, WFHB will be hosting a commemorative concert featuring interactive activities, archival material and footage and of course, great music performances by local Honky Tonk band Leroy McQueen and thee Vatos Supreme, Bloomington bedroom-pop project Amy O, and Indianapolis shoegaze indie-pop band Wishy. Doors open at six and the show starts at 7pm. Tickets are on sale on the Bluebird website.
Poster design by Aaron Denton
Thanks for listening to WFHB Rewind, produced by WFHB News, music and Youth Radio departments.
Interviews with Mark Hood, Jim Manion, and Jeffrey “Sundog” Morris were conducted by Abby Noroozi and Jessie Grubb.
This episode of Rewind was edited by Jessie Grubb.
Music in this episode is from the 1975 benefit at the Bluebird featuring performers MX-80, Mark Bingham, Peter Gold, Bob Lucas, Bill Schwartz, Kathy Canada, Hoosier Whole Tones, and Caroline Peyton.
