Somewhere between “scattered” and “shattered”, by Lily Prillinger
[Left to right: Frank Shepard ’96, Sarah Teasley ’95, Lily Prillinger ’97]
Back in the 90’s, I arrived at Princeton with a fistful of dubious ambitions. I actively brooded.
While svelte coeds were friskily tossing lacrosse sticks and sporting diamond stud earrings, I lumbered around campus draped in a long coat and self-loathing. While the Prep-zillas were having ragingly banal keg parties and blasting bland yet thoroughly emetic sonic sludge like ‘Dave Matthews’ and ‘The Spin Doctors’ — I listened valiantly (and alone) to a gargantuan beast of a Walkman which furiously chewed up my ‘exotically-acquired’ yet terminally fragile mixed tapes. It was a lonely existence.
One day while skulking around campus, I met this cool-blooded, long-haired guy who was wearing an “Eraserhead” t-shirt. His name was Frank and he was the Clyde to my self-styled Bonnie. I suppose it was inevitable that I would eventually follow the proverbial flannel-cloaked Pied Piper, down into to the subterranean universe of WPRB.
I still remember the warm fustiness of the basement air — a strange blend of dustiness and dampness which emanated from the ubiquitous and crumbling orange acoustical foam. I remember the heavy walls of dense vinyl, each album meticulously reviewed by ardent loyalists who penned their critiques. At WPRB I was a fairly inept deejay: neither particularly erudite nor technically proficient. My style was fast and loose and my artistic sensibilities hovered between “scattered” and “shattered.” I remember playing long, apoplectic interspersions of Edgar Allen Poe and David Allen Coe, which likely yielded no sonic value other than pure irritation of my long-suffering friend, Frank.
And then of course, there were the many serious discoveries — songs and albums which become the sonic armature for my own thought process, shaping the way I though about life and art. When I was a hack deejay at WPRB, I was probably more entrenched in the rhapsodic cacophony of young adulthood than than the finer nuances of music…but even so, how very sweet…LONG LIVE WPRB!
-Lily Prillinger ’97
What would Freud say about the meaning of this 14,000 watt protrusion? And how did such a thing come to be a roommate of the Holder gargoyles? I am told some subterfuge was involved. It is said that when the students showed the University what the proposed antenna would look like atop Holder Hall, they neglected to mention that the two drawings used a different scale. Final erection was scheduled for a holiday weekend and the real appearance was unknown to the Trustees until the last guy wire had been tightened. Perhaps you can cajole some of my predecessors into telling you the whole story. 
Welcome to wprbhistory.org! This site gathers stories, photographs, archival recordings, and other ephemera pertaining to