There’s a term that epitomizes what we radio producers aspire to create: the “driveway moment.” It’s when a story is so good that you can’t leave your car. Inside of a driveway moment, time becomes elastic–you could be staring straight at a clock for the entire duration of the story, but for that length of time, the clock has no power over you.

But ironically,  inside the machinery of public radio–the industry that creates driveway moments–the clock rules all.

At NPR’s studios in Washington, DC, there are clocks everywhere. Big red digital clocks, huge round analog clocks. There’s even special software and time calculators, where 60 + 60 = 2’00.

(All Things Considered director Monika Evstatieva during a live broadcast in NPR’s Studio 2A. Credit: Julia Barton)

Each show has a ‘clock’, a set template, from which the show almost never varies. Every show that broadcasts—or aspires to broadcast—in the public radio system has a clock. This is the All Things Considered broadcast clock, which NPR and stations across the country refer to on a daily basis:

It’s actually a pretty cool piece of visual design, but one which functions best when it is never seen. This template is used twice every weekday: ATC Hour 1, from 4:00:00pm through 4:59:59pm ET; and then for ATC Hour 2, from 5:00:00 through 5:59:59pm ET.

Here’s how it works: at the ‘top’ of the hour, there is a 59 second “billboard,” which announces what’s going up in the program. Then there’s five minutes for the newscast, which is itself divided into two segments (“Newscast I” and “Newscast II”). Then there are the “blocks”–A, B, C, and D–which is where the stories and interviews (or “two-ways”) live.

Segments can’t run long by even a second, because most of the local stations are automated to cut off the national program where the clock says they can. These times–the dividers between the sections on the clock–are called posts. You have to hit the post. Nothing can go wrong.

Though, of course, things go wrong every day.

(When Julia visited ATC, a live interview segment accidentally got wrapped up 35 seconds early. Then it was on Monika, the director, to figure out what to do. Credit: Julia Barton)

Taking care of the clock is so ingrained in the director’s psyche that a common side effect of the job is waking up in the middle of the night fearing that you’ve blown the post–these are called “director’s dreams.” To cope with the anxiety, ATC directors make their own cheat sheets to help them memorize every queue of every hour of broadcast.Visit any studio that does a regular live feed with a broadcast clock and you’ll likely find a cheat sheet one somewhere in the studio.

The director’s cheat sheets at ATC  have been used so much that they’re in tatters. They have since been laminated.

(Note the correction in the “Top Cast” in the upper right. It’s not “1:00″, it’s “:59″)

When NPR began in the early 1970s, show clocks were much less regimented–or they didn’t have clocks at all.

One of the early champions against the fixed clock was Bill Siemering, a founder of NPR who helped design the network’s overall sound. He came up with the name All Things

Considered (original title: A Daily Identifiable Product). Siemering wrote the mission statement of NPR, which is enshrined in the halls of NPR (note the text on the walls).

(Credit: Interior Design)

Siemering liked a clock that was more free-form, because it allowed for spontaneity and unpredictability. But spontaneous and unpredictable does not always make for compelling radio. Done wrong, and you wind up with laughably bad “Schweddy Balls”-grade public radio.

When Siemering left NPR in the early 1970s, NPR chose to have more subdivided clocks. The constraints forced the shows to get tighter, which some say makes NPR stronger. One person is Neal Conan, former host of Talk of the Nation, who maintains that the earlier, freer days of NPR were not as halcyon as some may remember them.

 These days, podcasting allows for shows such as this one to be free of a post, and go on for as long or short as is fitting for any given story.

Reporter-producer-editor (triple threat!) Julia Barton visited NPR’s old headquarters at Washington, DC, where she spoke with ATC directors Monika Evstatieva and Greg Dixon, and former Talk of the Nation host Neal Conan. Julia also spoke with public radio’s patron saint, Bill Siemering.

Many thanks to All Things Considered Executive Producer Chris Turpin and the other powers-that-be at NPR who gave us unfettered access to the shop during Julia’s visit.

(Note: Julia visited NPR while they were still at 635 Massachusetts Ave, NW. They have since moved to 1111 N. Capitol St.)

More network clocks! And more! And more!

Music: ”Io, Apollo, And The Veil”- Metavari, ”The Wind Up Bird”- Tunng, ”Standard Error”- Orcas, ”Paintchart”- ISAN, ”Snow Tip Cap Mountain”- The Octopus Project, ”Black Blizzard/Red Umbrella”- The Octopus Project

Americans have always had an uneasy relationship with gambling. To circumvent anti-gambling laws in the US, early slot machines masqueraded as vending machines. They gave out chewing gum as prizes, and those prizes could be redeemed for cash.  

That's where the fruit logos come from. In fact, in the UK, slot machines are called "fruit machines."

Despite outward appearances, slot machines have evolved dramatically since they first appeared in 1895.

To play the first slot machines, you slipped in a coin and pulled the lever to set the machine's wheels in motion. The slot machine's crank-action operation (and the way it took your money) earned it the nickname of the "one-armed bandit." 

But today, those hand-crank levers are uncommon, and where they do exist they are known as "legacy levers," because they have zero relation to how the machine actually works. Everything inside a slot machine has been computerized and automated--from how you enter money, to how you bet, to how you play, to how you win and lose, and even to how you feel when leave.

Where does our sense of right and wrong come from? We watch chimps at a primate research center sharing blackberries, observe 3-year-olds fighting over toys, and tour Eastern State Penitentiary -- the country's first penitentiary. Plus, a story of land grabbing, indentured servitude, and slumlording in the fourth grade.

Cruelty, violence, badness...this episode of Radiolab wrestles with the dark side of human nature, and asks whether it's something we can ever really understand, or fully escape. We reconsider what Stanley Milgrim's famous experiment really revealed about human nature, meet a chemist who scrambles our notions of good and evil, and talk to a man who chased one of the most prolific serial killers in US history.

Look around your daily life.  There's a little piece of Thomas Edison almost everywhere. Your desk lamp. That x-ray you got when you broke your arm.  The battery in your car. ...The movie you saw last night. The recording of this story that you're about to hear.  

Thomas Edison,  the near-deaf inventor of the phonograph, was the first to capture what he called "fugitive sound waves. "  From the day Edison invented his tinfoil talking machine in 1877 the competition was breathing down his neck. Edison may have invented the talking machine, but in order to hear the music coming out of it he had to bite on the edge his phonograph so the music would vibrate through his jawbone.   When you go to visit his house in New Jersey look for the teeth marks on the edge of his piano.  

Welcome to Fugitive Waves.  Lost recordings and shards of sound, along with new tales of remarkable people from around the world.  Stories from the flip side of history.  We're the Kitchen Sisters.  Davia Nelson & Nikki Silva. Today we're digging into our archive and pulling up a story from our Lost & Found Sound series -- an epic collaboration we produced with Jay Allison, NPR and thousands of listeners around the nation -- stories of people possessed by sound, vanishing voices, and sound on the verge of extinction. We call this one The Rise and Fall and Rise and Fall and Rise of Thomas Alva Edison.