Our Team

Mary Jo takes over your afternoons Monday through Friday, 3pm to 7pm — and if you ask her to describe herself in three words, she’ll tell you she’s “Short” and a “Smart Ass,” which technically counts as three words, so the math checks out.

She never actually bought her first album… because LimeWire existed. If your parents’ computer contracted 47 viruses in 2006, she apologizes (kind of). These days, she’s redeemed herself with a respectable vinyl collection, so the universe is balanced.

Her first concert was N’SYNC at age 12, and she’s convinced Joey Fatone winked at her — and honestly? We believe her. But it was Green Day that officially hooked her on rock. Billie Joe Armstrong remains her eternal “hear me out,” and she’s not taking questions at this time.

Right now she’s deep into 3Teeth, the industrial rock band she insists everyone should be obsessed with. And when it comes to timeless rock anthems, she’ll never turn down Crazy Train. Call her basic if you want—she’ll take the insult and raise you a hair flip.

If she could interview anyone, she’s picking Ozzy, because no one has survived more chaos, weirdness, and story material than the Prince of Darkness. She’s not saying the interview would go off the rails… but she’s also not saying it wouldn’t.

On-air, Mary Jo survives solely on Taco Bell and Baja Blast, which at this point might actually be her blood type. Off-air? She quite literally joins the circus — aerial arts and fire spinning, because walking the line between “cool” and “mildly dangerous” is her brand.

Her guilty pleasure? Taylor Swift. Not even guilty about it. She’ll defend Dr. Taylor Allison Swift’s genius with the same energy she walks down the hallway — which, despite her height, is apparently very loud and very purposeful.

If she weren’t in radio, she’d still be doing something cool, chaotic, or creative. Radio taught her skills she can use anywhere, and she actually means that — despite also joking about it 97% of the time.

Her favorite local hangout? Downtown Music Hall, supporting local artists… or her couch, supporting absolutely nothing except her and her sweatpants.

She lives by one simple motto — straight from Yoda himself:
“Do or do not. There is no try.”

Ski holds down the midday airwaves Monday through Saturday, 10am to 3pm — blonde, buff, and proudly bizwazzled (a word no scientist can define, yet somehow describes him perfectly). His rock journey kicked off with ZZ Top’s Eliminator— because nothing says “welcome to music” like fuzzy guitars and a car that looks faster than your GPA.

His first concert was Duran Duran in 1984, which explains why he still has a soft spot for synths, style, and men who owned more mousse than sense. But the band that officially dragged him into the world of rock? Def Leppard. Once “Photograph” hit his ears, it was over for him.

As for underrated bands, Ski insists it’s Van Halen, which is a fascinating take considering they’re basically on the Mount Rushmore of Rock — but hey, Ski said what he said. And his favorite rock anthem? Also Van Halen: “Humans Being.”If it’s got Eddie on guitar, Ski’s heart rate goes up.

If he could interview anyone, Ski is choosing James Hetfield, because the man has taken Metallica from garage rippers to symphony collaborators to global charity powerhouses. In Ski’s eyes, that’s what a real rock legend looks like.

When he’s on-air, Ski refuels with Publix popcorn chicken, the official snack of people who absolutely will burn their mouths and do it again. Off-air, you’ll find him building things, woodworking, chopping logs like an off-duty lumberjack, and hanging out with June Bug — who we can only assume is either a beloved pet, a small child, or a woodland creature he’s befriended.

His guilty pleasure? Duran Duran. Which tracks, considering they were also his first live show. (Once the “Hungry Like the Wolf” imprint hits your DNA, there’s no going back.)

If he weren’t on the radio, Ski knows exactly where he’d be: pier fishing. Every. Single. Day. Rain, shine, hurricane warning… who knows?

He’s not a big venue-hopper, but if he has to choose, he’s picking AJ’s on the Bayou for its Florida vibes, local music, and probably strong drinks.

And his personal motto? Simple, powerful, and something more people should try:
“It’s so much easier to just tell the truth.”

Short. Stoned. Hairy.
That’s not an insult — that’s how he describes himself.

Matt Stone is the kind of guy who’s been behind a mic since he was sixteen and still hasn’t had what most people would call a “real job.” He’s been living the radio life so long it’s basically burned into his DNA — the sarcasm, the chaos, and the soundtrack of pure rock and roll that fuels it all.

The moment Nirvana’s “Nevermind” hit his ears, it flipped a switch. The clean-cut world didn’t stand a chance. From there, it was all distortion pedals, flannel, and an addiction to sound that actually meant something. He’ll still tell you that the live version of “Comfortably Numb” from Pulse gives him chills — and he’s not wrong.

His first album? The Jerky Boys (1993). Totally inappropriate. Totally brilliant.
First concert? A punk band called Weston, who wrote songs about “new shirts” and not giving a damn.

Favorite underrated band? The Marvelous 3. Go listen. Thank him later.

Off the air, Matt’s usually out on a paddle board somewhere on the Emerald Coast — occasionally with his dog riding shotgun. They even made the front page of The Destin Log in a “SUP with your pup” feature. Yeah, he’s that guy.

He’s the voice of The Bone mornings — part rocker, part smartass, part philosopher. His snack of choice? Chocolate-covered macadamias, because he’s got refined taste… just not refined habits. His guilty pleasure? Bill Withers. (“Don’t judge me,” he says. “You try not to sing along to ‘Lovely Day.’”)

Listeners love him, his co-hosts roast him, and he takes it all in stride — probably because he’s “a wee little fella who gets toked up” and laughs harder than anyone else in the room.

When asked for his life motto, Matt doesn’t preach or pose — he just grins and says:
“Spread some aloha and take it easy.”

Roxy rules the overnight airwaves Monday through Friday from midnight to 6am (aka “the witching hours for rock degenerates”), plus Saturdays 5am–10am — before anyone respectable is awake. Fueled by adventure, mischief, and a healthy amount of sarcasm… sometimes she skips the sarcasm and just causes problems on purpose.

Her first album? Presidents of the United States of America — which tells you she was always destined for a slightly chaotic life soundtrack. First concert? Marilyn Manson, because nothing says “I’m built different” like starting your concert career with eyeliner smears, shock value, and mild emotional scarring. Just ask about Manson spitting on her, traumatizing. 

The band that dragged her straight into rock? Guns N’ Freakin’ Roses. specifically Appetite for Destruction. “Welcome to the Jungle” didn’t just open the door — it kicked it off the hinges and invited her inside.

Ask her for one underrated rock band and she’ll laugh in your face. She refuses to choose — because picking only one is how you end up with a mutiny. She’ll champion  Nothing More, Dirty Honey, Blacktop Mojo, Sleep Theory, Melrose Avenue, Ashes to Eden, Ashes to New, Point North, and whoever else she can list before someone forces her to stop. Picking a single favorite? That’s how you get cursed.

Her favorite rock anthem? She declines the question entirely. Some choices are too sacred, too vast, too playlist-shattering to pick just one.

If she could interview any legend, she’s choosing Sister Rosetta Tharpe, the original guitar goddess and criminally underrated queen of rock & roll, the original trailblazer shredding her Gibson Les Paul before it was cool (or legal in some circles). Roxy would happily spend hours talking about riffs, roots, religion, rebellion, and everything in between.

Snack time is sacred, and Roxy does it right: swirled cherry-blue raspberry slushees and warm salted pretzel bites dipped in cheese. If you hear her in a strangely good mood at 4am, assume carbs are involved. Like any true mischief maker, she runs on sugar, salt, carbs, and questionable decisions.

Off the mic, Roxy entertains herself by driving the Boss Man crazy — a full-time hobby — and moonlighting as a photographer… which conveniently gives her access to secret corners, late-night events, and blackmail-grade candids.

Her guilty pleasure artists (that aren’t even guilty): Barns Courtney, Marc Broussard, and John Moreland, because sometimes a girl needs feelings, falsettos, and soulful vocals.

If she weren’t in radio, she knows exactly what she’d be doing: being spoiled. No hesitation. No explanation needed.

Listeners love teasing her about her obsession with terrible dad jokes — the more groan-worthy, the more she loves them. Eye rolls are her love language. If you hear groaning down the hallway, Roxy is near.

Her favorite local venue is Vinyl Music Hall, where great bands, good crowds, and loud nights all collide.

And her life philosophy? Straight from Willy Wonka — the patron saint of whimsical chaos:
“We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.”

RBG hits the airwaves Monday through Saturday, 7pm to midnight — fueled by resilience, love, evolution, and at least one dangerously large mug of black coffee. His rock awakening began when a classmate handed him a sketchy-looking Black Sabbath cassette like it was contraband and whispered, “You gotta hear this.” He listened, fell in love, and then bought it for five bucks of hard-earned lunch money. Peak childhood hustle.

Long before radio, RBG got himself into a Skid Row show with Pantera opening — something his mother absolutely, positively would’ve grounded him for until retirement age. But hey, rock calls, and sometimes you gotta answer it with mild deception.

He’ll go to bat any day for Silent Theory being wildly underrated, and his top rock anthem is “In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3.” Why? Because chanting WOAH-OH-OHs with 3,500 strangers is basically group therapy, only louder and with more hair.

If he could interview anyone, he’s picking Hendrix — but forget the formal Q&A. RBG wants a documentary slash psychedelic odyssey featuring him, Hendrix, a camera crew, and enough LSD to make a lava lamp self-conscious.

Off the mic, one hobby rises above the rest: listening to music while doing literally anything else. Cooking? Music. Cleaning? Music. Overthinking life choices? Music. Sleeping? Probably still music.

And he firmly believes nobody should feel guilty about their musical tastes — especially since he is fully prepared to admit he loves Joshua Kadison, piano ballads and all. Judge away; he’ll be vibing.

If radio ever lets him down, he’ll go right back to his runner-up dream job: Teppanyaki Hibachi Chef. Yes, he’s one of those chefs who flips shrimp, knives, and occasionally his own dignity with equal enthusiasm.

Listeners love teasing him about his mildly excessive list of medical adventures — two double-lung transplants, rejection episodes, pneumonias, collapsed lungs, dialysis… basically the bonus-level DLC of human survival. Yet here he is, still rocking harder than his lungs ever did.

When he isn’t on-air, you’ll probably find him at Club L.A., which has become less of a venue and more of a sitcom-style found family.

And if you need his life philosophy in one line?
Live life with love, love living life… and if you can’t fix it, turn it up louder.