WCXX

Last Sunday, he gave us music by Fats Waller, Julie London, Domenico Modugno and Doris Day. I am somehow happier for knowing that the real name of the singer and actress Linda Lawson was Linda Spaziani, and that Toots Mondello was "the growling sax man" on Doris Day's 1947 recording of No Moon at All. Davies is surely the only man on radio who knows and cares enough to share that.

The music he specialises in is drawn largely from what is known as the Great American Songbook – that body of work mostly written between the Thirties and Fifties by such composers as Cole Porter, George and Ira Gershwin and Hoagy Carmichael. It is called "great" for a reason. This was the period when the craft of popular songwriting, in its combination of melody, wit and universal sentiment, was at its height. These songs are genuinely timeless, as artists in need of a fillip for their career frequently discover. Rod Stewart's was heading down an artistic cul-de-sac until he recorded an album of standards such as The Very Thought of You and They Can't Take That Away From Me. His series of "Great American Songbook" recordings has gone on to sell more than 20 million copies.

Music – particularly popular music – is the repository of memory. It is a part of the cultural language through which we come to discover, recognise and articulate our feelings. It is also a part of the way we uncover the past. It is undoubtedly true that there is a greater variety of music from across the years instantly available now than at any time in history. Thirties dance band music, prison work songs, Jewish klezmer, Portugese fado, vintage rockabilly and Delta blues – it's all there with a click of the mouse. The catch is, you have to know what you're looking for.

The first records I remember playing as a child were shellac 78s of rag-time music. These were heirlooms, gathering dust in a cupboard under the stairs, which I was able to play on the family radiogram – a piece of equipment the size of a sideboard. Strange and beguiling, the music seemed like an echo from some distant and utterly foreign past. I was transfixed.

Similarly, any number of artists will vouch that their love of music, and their inspiration, was initially fired by their parents' – or grandparents' – record collections. As vinyl and CDs disappear, so too does the opportunity for the inquisitive child to stumble upon something unexpected and enthralling.

Radio – and more particularly the expert broadcaster – is our conduit to this treasure trove, providing a unique opportunity to find things you would never dream of looking for. Bob Dylan's hugely popular Theme Time Radio Hour was based on this premise; its pleasure lay not only in Dylan's idiosyncratic drawling between songs but in finding the Rolling Stones snuggling up to Ella Fitzgerald, and Judy Garland cohabiting with Elmore James.

Too often, more music radio simply means more of the same music. But it's variety that makes the heart sing. As Noël Coward put it: "You'd be so nice to come home to/You'd be so nice by the fire/While the breeze on high sang a lullaby/You'd be all that I could desire." Not much on the page, it's true, but put it to music and it's astonishing just how potent it is.