How FM radio faded into obscurity

The year is 2008. Mahiyan is on her way to school, listening to a song of a new band 'Shunno' on the radio. Their debut album 'Notun Srot' had premiered on Radio Foorti, and like many teenagers in Dhaka at the time, Mahiyan was hooked. She could not wait for the school day to end so she could stop by 'Fahim Music' and pick up their album on CD. 

That feeling of discovering something new, of being part of a musical moment was at the heart of early 2000s FM radio culture in Bangladesh.

Back then, FM radio was more than just background noise. It was the country's pulse, reaching living rooms, rickshaws and roadside tea stalls alike. At a time when people still rented DVDs and spent evenings gathered around the television, radio offered an intimate alternative, something you could take with you, something that spoke to you.

Shows like 'Love Guru' and 'Bhoot FM' on Radio Aamar and Radio Foorti were not just popular, they were cultural phenomena. Friends and cousins would have stayovers to listen to the radio together, schoolyards buzzed the next day with reactions to the previous night's episode, and listeners often found themselves waiting eagerly to hear their SMS read out or their favourite song played.

Unlike the one-way communication of TV, radio felt personal. You could text in your feelings, hear your message on-air, or even chat live with the RJ. Through this closeness, radio brought new artists, unheard songs, and stories from strangers into listeners' lives.

Before YouTube algorithms and Spotify playlists, it was the FM waves that shaped pop culture. It was where you first heard the name of a band, fell in love with a voice, or laughed with a stranger at midnight. 

"Covid-19 changed everything. That was the moment to evolve. Worldwide, radio began to blend with podcasting. But in Bangladesh, we didn't adapt… We missed the boat. The audience and platforms had changed, but FM radio stayed the same. We didn't even try to create a revenue structure or support the industry properly."

Zahidul Haque Apu, RJ and Content Lead, Chorki

Zahidul Haque Apu, better known as RJ Apu, was one of the first voices behind that companionship. A pioneer of private FM radio in Bangladesh, he remembers the formative years clearly.

"It all began around 2005. There weren't many of us, but the idea of FM radio was exciting and brand new. Before that, people mostly listened to BTV or bought CDs if they wanted music. But FM was different, it was portable, it was personal," he reflected.

Apu joined Radio Foorti in its early days, first as a producer and eventually as an RJ and station head.

"We were all heavily inspired by international radio, especially from the West and India. But we didn't want to copy them. We wanted to create something that fit our audience. Foorti had this warm, friendly tone, unlike other stations that were more formal. That's what connected us to people," he shared.

For the next few years, roughly between 2006 and 2010, FM radio in Bangladesh reached its peak. Young people tuned in religiously. Radio Jockeys became voices you could trust. You did not always know what they looked like, but somehow, they felt like friends.

"Those first three years were magical. The energy was unmatched. We were discovering new musicians, promoting underground artists, and giving a stage to unheard voices. Musicians loved us. It was a win-win: they had a platform, and we had fresh content."

But then came the inevitable shift. As social media platforms grew in popularity, so did the visibility of the once-anonymous RJs.

"There was a certain mystery before you'd hear a voice and wonder about the person behind it. That mystery disappeared with social media. Suddenly you could see the RJ while they were doing their shows. It changed the dynamic entirely."

The connection once built on imagination now had a face and with it, came scrutiny.

"When we started going live on Facebook, we noticed something new — hate comments. They became more open, more brutal. And that made a lot of RJs uncomfortable. Before, you were protected by your voice. Now, you were being judged live on camera."

RJs then moved on from radio and used their media talent on other platforms, such as television drama, music, and blogging.

But not everyone who joined radio in its second wave was chasing celebrity status or nostalgia. For Kaisar Kabir, former RJ at Radio Dhol, stepping into a radio booth for the first time in September 2015 was about curiosity.

"I had zero experience. I got in through a friend who introduced me to the station head. I just wanted to see what the inside of a radio station looked like," he joked.

What started as curiosity quickly turned into passion. Assigned to a weekday show called 'Limited Edition', Kaisar found a way to make his niche interests — movies, comic books, action figures, and anime — relatable to a radio audience. That in itself was groundbreaking.

"I was the only person on national radio doing anime content. And somehow, it clicked. People tuned in. Cosplayers came to the show. Cover bands performed anime songs live. At one point, every comic convention wanted us as their radio partner," he shared.

But Kaisar was not just an RJ. Between 2015 and 2017, he also worked as an associate producer and briefly served as a music manager. His show became a cult favourite, blending pop culture commentary with contests that involved editing speech bubbles from comic panels or renaming popular films with ridiculous titles.

"It wasn't just about playing music. It was community-building. I was engaging a group of people who never really had a space in Bangladeshi media before."

Then came 2020.

"Covid-19 changed everything. That was the moment to evolve. Worldwide, radio began to blend with podcasting. But in Bangladesh, we didn't adapt. We didn't invest in storytelling, we didn't shift the format. We kept doing the same shows while the audience moved on," said Apu.

He believes this failure to change marked the beginning of the end.

"We missed the boat. The audience and platforms had changed, but FM radio stayed the same. Podcasts were booming, but radio in Bangladesh couldn't keep up. We didn't even try to create a revenue structure or support the industry properly," he continued.

By 2022, FM radio had faded into the background, replaced by streaming services, YouTube channels, and podcasts. 

For Apu, it is bittersweet. "I'm proud of what we did. I was part of something that felt revolutionary at the time."

But perhaps what makes this history compelling is not just its rise or fall but what it gave to a generation.

"I worked there till March 2021. When the station shut down during the pandemic, I was devastated. It wasn't just a job, it was my creative outlet. I kept some of that spirit alive through a podcast, but it was never quite the same," reflected Kaisar..

The former RJ never saw the industry as dead but admits something essential was lost. 

"We didn't archive enough. We didn't adapt fast enough. If we had embraced the podcast model early on, built on that community feel, maybe it would've survived," he added.

And yet, in his voice, there's no bitterness, just the wistful clarity of someone who knew he was part of something special.

"I still believe radio doesn't ever really die. It just needs to find its new form. I got what I needed from it. A place to belong, to express, and to connect. That's more than most platforms offer these days," he concluded.