’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the dial,
The cluster was quiet, if only a while.
The studios were thinning, the margins were tight,
But the future of audio was already flickering with light.
Dereg was a rumor that danced in the air,
A whisper that ownership rules might repair.
For CEOs prayed to the FCC throne,
“Please let us buy more or unload what we own.”
On Cumulus, On Audacy, On Beasley, stay strong!
Shareholders asking, “How long… yes, how long?”
If caps start to change and limits unwind,
Whole markets could trade in a day if inclined.
The measurement wars left the industry worn,
With ratings contested and loyalties torn.
“Give us new metrics!” the programmers pled,
“Give us more data, we want that instead.”
And callout once ruled with a phone and a scale,
Hooks rated by panels that tired and grew stale.
Familiarity, passion, a web link in hand,
A moment in time few could truly command.
But fans now reveal what they love every day,
In skips and in saves, in what loops when they play.
They share it, they post it, they argue, they shout,
Leaving trails AI now reads better than any callout.
Meanwhile Super Hi-Fi kept rising in flight,
Its intelligent playlists sounding eerily right.
More stations signed on, looking under the hood—
“Wait… this sounds BETTER than humans? How is it so good?”
The smartest stations soon won’t just automate sound,
They’ll automate presence when no one’s around.
Each request line answered, each comment replied,
AI agents working both streams and the sides.
Not to fake connection, but scale what’s sincere,
To make every listener feel someone’s near.
Restoring the feeling of always being on the line,
Is how small teams grow without adding a dime.
And On The Sly, with sound that stirred every scene,
Turned audio to emotion in ways seldom seen.
From drone-lit skies for Blackpink, Coachella nights wide,
They scored moments so massive the silence replied.
Not chasing the spotlight, but shaping the air,
Where memories are formed the moment you’re there.
In a world chasing visuals, they proved this is why:
Sound moves us like nothing else — and that’s On The Sly.
Elsewhere stood Dave Bethel, a voice built to lead,
Turning jingling craft into brand-level need.
At TM Studios, sound carried weight,
Not just keys or notes, but how brands communicate.
From booth to the feed, his presence was clear:
He won’t just help brands, he’ll become one next year.
And Mix Group kept winning without much debate,
While others went quiet, still stuck in one state.
With market walls fading and borders all gone,
What Jason was building just kept marching on.
He works with the operators, big and the small,
Across every format that reaches them all.
When stations need sound that can travel and stick,
They know where to go. The answer is Mix.
And as budgets grew leaner in each radio zone,
More bosses announced, “You can voice-track from home.”
Studios went dark; the halls lost their sound,
As talent logged in with no need to be around—
No rent… no utilities… no parking rate,
Just send in your breaks, and please don’t be late.
And whispers grew louder in money-tight rooms,
Of barter expanding to stave off the gloom.
Not just prep or services stations once knew,
But systems and software and streaming costs too.
Automation, music, engineering on call,
Even freelancers paid not with cash, but with spots after all.
Electricity, offices, coffee on tap—
A short-term solution masking a long-term trap.
For more barter means more commercials to run,
And audiences scatter when the breaks still aren’t done.
When listeners leave, the inventory falls,
And barter collapses beneath its own walls.
Select stations were still selling for scraps in the snow,
As valuations continued their troubling low.
An FM in Tampa for less than your home,
AMs abandoned like forgotten chrome.
Some licenses were lingering, worth less than they cost,
A balance-sheet burden, a signal half-lost.
A dollar would do, or a handshake instead,
When silence made more sense than living in red.
Podcasting groaned with metrics askew,
“Downloads? Impressions? What counts as a view?”
Advertisers sighed, creators lost sleep—
One standard for all felt impossibly steep.
And podcasters began noticing what some in radio forgot:
Towers still matter, whether streamed or not.
So creators with followings started to buy,
Old signals reborn with a digital why.
Radio as amplifier, not center stage,
A megaphone married to a personal age.
The dial didn’t die, it just changed who was loud,
As podcasts walked in and claimed part of the crowd.
And whispers grew louder in meetings on high:
“How much more could EMF purchase… and why?”
Their checkbook still open, their appetite wide,
Snapping up signals to promote Jesus with pride.
And across the Atlantic came rumors that stirred—
“Will Global arrive here?”—a question inferred.
For if London’s big titan decided to try,
They’d buy up a company and make U.S. brands fly.
Their imaging, their promo, their world-building flair—
Some stations would soar just by having them there.
But nothing divided the halls of radio
Quite like the rise of the AI voice show.
Some stations embraced it for nights and for fills,
While others declared it the gravest of ills.
Some groups proclaimed with a chest-thumping grin:
“We promise you humans! No robots within!”
While others, less vocal and strapped for a shift,
Let synthetic announcers quietly drift.
And debt—oh the debt—kept circling the sleigh,
Restructures and swaps carried companies away.
Clusters went quiet, new owners stepped in,
Old logos came down with a hesitant grin.
Yet through all the chaos, one truth held its place:
Audio still thrives when it speaks with a face.
And talent kept shifting like snow in the breeze,
Bootleg Kev kept ascending with effortless ease.
From LA to worldwide, hip-hop took note,
A hungry new voice with a champion’s throat.
And Bru kept proving the mic wasn’t the end,
But the launchpad for worlds radio hadn’t yet planned.
On-air was the doorway, not all he could be,
With screens and spotlights waiting patiently.
Acting. Modeling. Game shows in view.
A face that connects before formats do.
The smart ones all see it, the rest will too late:
By 2026, there’s far more on Bru’s plate.
Greg Beharrell, once rock radio’s delight,
A master of pauses, of timing just right.
Steven Wright calm with a Hedberg-like bend,
A punchline that lands when you least can defend.
His humor ran quiet, then spread through the land,
From rock into formats no one had planned.
AC? Country? The labels all blur,
When the brand isn’t loud, but unmistakably pure.
And Woody kept proving, from LA to beyond,
That consistency builds what flash never bonds.
A show built on truth, not tricks or disguise,
That scaled without losing its soul in the rise.
Bobby Bones, ever busy, forever in flight,
Picked up more shows because the content is right.
From Nashville to network, his empire grew,
The BobbyCast landing on Netflix too.
And one reshuffle—oh, NYC beware—
Was happening quietly up in Times Square.
For HOT 97, stripped down to the bone,
Left legends realizing, “Let’s build what we own.”
For listeners seek stories, connection, insight—
A voice they can trust on a cold winter night.
So here’s to the dreamers, disruptors, and pros,
The stations, the streamers, the rivals, the flows.
May 2026 bring reinvention in sight—
Happy listening to all, and to all a good night.
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