The Old Crusty Punk Who Saved Radio

Steve Jones belches melodically and then, for balance, cocks a buttock and breaks wind. While warm man-gas fills the small studio, he apologizes to his audience for his indiscretions. “God just made me this way, I guess,” he says with a shrug. “Better out than in, as they say. Anyway, are we ready to go? Let’s rock & roll. Here’s some Status Quo. Take it away, sunshine…”

As introductions to radio shows go, it’s irreverent and possibly a little unhygienic, but this is Jonesy’s Jukebox, the jewel in Indie 103.1’s crown, and for a couple of anarchic hours every weekday afternoon, anything goes.

Between noon and 2 P.M., a quarter of a million listeners in “L.A., Orange County and a bit of the Valley” (with an increasing legion joining online) are treated to the former Sex Pistol’s exotic musical tastes, his endearing personal philosophy and the unhinged ramblings of a mind pulverized by punk-rock power chords.

It’s no secret that FM radio is currently plumbing new depths of gutlessness. Advertisers are dictating terms, top talent is defecting to satellite radio and the music is a mere afterthought. Upstart Indie 103.1, which signed on over Christmas 2003, gleefully thumbs its nose at the stifling orthodoxies that have rendered commercial radio so lifeless through the years: Its progressive alt-rock playlist makes plenty of room for newbies like Tegan and Sara and for cult heroes like the Buzzcocks; and its DJs are allowed, even encouraged, to act, think and talk like real human beings. Jonesy’s Jukebox, the emotional anchor of 103.1, comes as a welcome blast of fetid wind in the face of corporate conservatism.

“I can’t stand all these DJs telling me everything is great every two minutes,” says Jones, 49. “I know everything isn’t great. And they’re terrified of dead air. Me, I love it.” He leaves a lengthy pause to illustrate his point. “See? Lovely that, wasn’t it? Radio needs to breathe a bit, like a guitar solo.”

Jones speaks in a clotted London accent, wholly unmodified by his 22 years of living in L.A. This and his quaint use of Cockney slang make for an unusually soothing and engaging radio voice.

His producer, Mark Sovel, who doubles as the station’s music director, bemusedly looks on as, on-air, Jones discusses “birds” (women), “gingers” (homosexuals: ginger beer = queer) and obscure side streets in his birthplace, Shepherd’s Bush, West London.

“It’s true I don’t always know exactly what Steve is talking about,” Sovel acknowledges. “But sometimes I think it’s better that way.”

Blender suspects that the producer may be right: As Jones cues up his next tune — having just played 12-year-old Ricky Wilde’s chipper ’70s novelty “I Wanna Go to a Disco” and glam-rock nobody Brett Smiley’s “Va Va Va Voom” — he wonders whether or not the show suffers from “nonce syndrome” (a predilection for underage boys).

Sovel’s role in the studio is to ensure Jones maintains a steady flow of music and chat. He must also prevent the presenter from swearing — not an easy feat, as Jones proved during the Sex Pistols’ legendary teatime slot on London’s Today TV show in December 1976, when the 21-year-old guitarist sensationally called host Bill Grundy a “fucking rotter.”

In recent weeks — Jonesy’s Jukebox has been running for nine months — Jones has insisted on telling the listeners that he and Sovel are lovers, addressing him as “my honey.” The producer tolerates this good-natured abuse simply “because the show is so good.”

The playlist, which Jones physically lays out in a grid before him, is a daily revelation. Dependably there will be a healthy dose of vintage Brit punk and some solid slabs of ’70s junk shop glam, but after that, all bets are off. “The only things I won’t play,” he muses, “are Led Zeppelin and any of them nü-metal boy bands.”

He does, however, play obscure old English comedians, aspiring local bands, ’50s crooners, ’60s teen idols, ’80s goths, prewar music-hall acts, weird friends of Morrissey, skinhead reggae and hair metal. The list is as eccentric as it is eclectic.

This extraordinary stew is peppered with sound bites from Jones’s favorite movies and his own surreal interjections: “That song just makes me wanna hold my breasts”; “all politicians are tossers, even Paris Hilton”; and, alarmingly, “Mmm, sing to me, Mummy.”

Regular items include “Whistling for Winners” (the DJ puckers up and performs a song that listeners must recognize for a prize) and “Fun with a Face on Friday,” where Jones dips into his impressive black book and invites a celeb chum onto the show. Guests have included Brian Wilson, Nancy Sinatra, Courtney Love and actor Gary Oldman. “But I don’t interview them as such,” Jones insists. “We just have a chat. I’m much more interested in what they had for lunch than the inspiration behind their latest masterpiece.”

Michael Steele, the station’s program director, took a gamble and offered Jones (DJ-ing experience: none) a job in February. “I was totally won over by his enthusiasm,” says Steele. “And he was an absolute natural. The listenership has built steadily from day one. ”

While the station labors in the shadow of longstanding alt-rock powerhouse KROQ, business is in good shape. The advertising for Indie 103.1 is sold by Clear Channel, the San Antonio-based radio conglomerate. But Clear Channel has no say in the programming: That is done by the multimedia company Entravision, which is financed by Spanish language TV and radio stations. Besides Jones, Henry Rollins presents an authoritative weekly show, Harmony in My Head, as do Dave Navarro’s side project Camp Freddy.

Steele credits the station’s success to “speaking to people like human beings and playing music that you’d buy yourself.” The feeling is of belonging to a club whose unofficial president is Steve Jones.

Jonesy’s Jukebox has become, Steele says, “appointment radio.” “People make a particular point of tuning in,” he explains. “Like they did with Friends. Whether Steve’s telling you about his colonic exploratory or the problems he’s had with a girl, there’s this ongoing saga that’s kind of unmissable. The listeners feel part of his life, and when they call in you can hear the love.”

As if to back up Steele’s theory, a loyal listener calls that afternoon.

“All you posers out there think you’re changing the face of music,” he says. “But this guy actually did it.”

This much is true. Jones’s sonic onslaughts and cheeky, Joe Sixpack demeanor changed the sound, stance and sneer of just about every aspiring guitar-slinger this side of 1977. Without Jones, Green Day would have stayed in their bedrooms and Slash would wear his Les Paul like a ukulele.

Soft-middled, bespectacled and wearing loose-fit jeans more for comfort than fashion statement, Jones is a much cuddlier proposition these days than the spiky rebel-brat of yesteryear. Only the self-designed “Anarchy” T-shirt suggests anything other than a nodding acquaintance with punk.

“This is the first real job I’ve ever had,” he announces proudly. “First time I’ve ever really had to turn up on time and do my bit. And, do you know what? I fucking love it.”

He is talking over lunch in the unlikely environs of a vegetarian restaurant in West Hollywood. “The grub’s good here,” he says. “But look at all the yoga birds that come in. Beautiful.”

It would be fair to say that Jones has an eye for the ladies. Clean and sober for 14 years and off cigarettes for almost three, women are his last vice. “That and food,” he sighs. “And now they’re telling me I’ve got to cut the fucking carbs out.”

Listeners to his show will be familiar with his deceptively offhand delivery, which can divert without warning into deeply personal territory. He will break off from lusting after a “gorgeous bubble-butt” to recall that “my stepdad was a cunt. And I don’t speak to my mum.”

Jones’s life has never been altogether happy. Even though his musical résumé reads impressively enough (sessions with Iggy Pop, Bob Dylan, Johnny Depp and Johnny Thunders plus the many “supergroups” he has joined in the past 25 years: the Greedy Bastards, the Professionals, Chequered Past, Neurotic Outsiders), he acknowledges that his peak came during the 18 months when the Sex Pistols ruled the world.

“I wish we’d made more albums though,” he says, shunting aside his tofu. “Only really done one, didn’t we? If we’d made a few more, like the Clash did, there’d be a lot more dough coming in now.”

The various Pistols reunions have helped him keep a house in Beverly Hills, and relations with his band mates are cordial enough — he remains closest to drummer Paul Cook — not to discount future performances, although “playing the same fucking 12 songs can be a drag.”

Outside the restaurant, Jones bumps into an actress he knows. “Nice legs,” he says, winking. “What time do they open?” He gives her his number on the condition that she enter it into her phone under “Steve Jones: Rock & Roll God.”

In the radio station’s compact control room the following day, Elvis Costello strides in full of bonhomie and praise for Jones’s show. “It’s fantastic,” he bellows. “You just play whatever you want.” He raves about a song Jones played earlier. “That was a band called Spoon,” Jones says with no little pride. “Good, isn’t it? Here, I’m going to play this one for you, son. It’s called ‘Dodgy Lookin’ Bird,’ by Mike Sarne.”

Entering into the relaxed spirit of the show, Costello sings two songs from his new CD, The Delivery Man, live into the studio mic and then, at Jones’s request, a blistering rendition of “(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding?”

“That was brilliant,” Jones says, eyeing Costello’s guitar as Elvis hits the final chord. “Gave me the shivers, that did. Thanks ever so much, mate. Ooh. Lovely. Anyway, this is ‘Welcome Home’ by Peters and Lee… ” And with that he cues up a string-drenched, 30-year-old ballad by a blind man and his blond wife. “Such an obvious segue!” laughs Costello, slapping his own forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that? Genius!”

Jones winds up by moaning about the wet weather, speculating over what to eat tonight and telling a strange story about pounding a streetlight in London when he was 11. “Good one, today,” he says, easing his car up into the Hollywood Hills. “Be great if it really took off, wouldn’t it? I could become the Ozzy of the airwaves. Millions of people tuning in to hear the innermost workings of a nutcase drug addict from Shepherd’s Bush. I’d buy a massive place in Malibu and all.” He slows down, the better to observe a strolling L.A. lovely.

“And imagine the birds,” he moans. “Just imagine the birds.”