His promise is simple, “songs the stations forgot.” But when Sonny Flamingo spins, it’s more than forgotten. It’s music that feels like it washed ashore. Soft grooves, Carolina beach music, yacht rock smoothness, a little Caribbean breeze drifting in from nowhere. Between tracks, Sonny doesn’t just cue records, he talks to you, like an old friend sliding across the barstool beside you.
Before drifting onto our frequency, Sonny Flamingo spent seasons spinning records up and down the coast in Ocean City, Maryland, and even slipped south of the border to Tijuana, where his voice carried through cantinas and midnight airwaves alike.
Sonny Flamingo keeps his hours loose, but you’ll find him some afternoons, letting daylight drip into golden sound. No set show time, no promises. Just a feeling waiting on the frequency.
After all, our existence is known only to the observant or initiated.