Bob Parlocha

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Christy and I worried about how our kids would discover new music. Back in our day, if you were awake late enough, somewhere after midnight when the roads emptied out, and the house finally got quiet, there was a good chance you’d hear the voice of Bob Parlocha drifting through the speakers. Calm. Unhurried. Deep enough to sound like your grandfather telling you bedtime stories. Jazz with Bob Parlocha became part of life in a way that is hard to explain to people who grew up with streaming services and playlists. You didn’t choose the music. You followed someone else’s ear for a while. He had a way of making jazz feel welcoming without watering it down. He could move from something familiar into something strange and beautiful without ever sounding like he was lecturing you. He sounded like someone sitting across the room flipping through records he loved and saying, “Listen to this.”

The show reached people during hours when the radio felt most personal. Overnight workers. Musicians coming home from gigs. Students trying to stay awake. Young couples sitting together on a couch after everyone else had gone to sleep. He knew how to let a song breathe. He knew not to interrupt the mood just to remind listeners he was there. Sometimes the space between his voice and the next tune felt just as important as the music itself. The way Miles would leave space between ideas in his playing to let the listener sit with that thought for a moment.

What I remember most isn’t necessarily one specific song or interview. It's the feeling that somewhere out there, another person was awake, holding open this little doorway into music for me. That kind of companionship is rare. Radio used to create it all the time, and Bob Parlocha was one of the last people who truly mastered it.

He also carried none of the self-importance that sometimes surrounds jazz culture. The show never felt like homework. It never felt like a museum tour where you were expected to already understand everything. He approached the music with reverence and also warmth. You could hear Duke Ellington, Dexter Gordon, Bill Evans, or some younger player you had never encountered before, and it all felt connected. I discovered so much through his playlists.

Today, everything is personalized and on demand. Algorithms try to predict what you want before you even know it yourself. His show worked because it came from one human being with deep taste and patience. You surrendered to somebody else’s sensibility for a few hours. That surrender became part of the experience.

After his death in 2015, stations continued replaying old episodes because listeners were not ready to lose that voice. People don’t keep returning to archived radio broadcasts just for information. They return because certain voices become tied to memory itself. A certain song comes on, and suddenly you are back on a dark highway, or sitting in a college apartment at one in the morning, or driving home after a gig with the windows cracked just enough to let the night air in.

Bob Parlocha wasn't just a radio host. He was a huge part of my musical discovery.