I was in sixth grade, and my parents helped. I remember the experience vividly, and with a great deal of affection. And honestly, one of the things I’m looking forward to most as a parent is the day when I’ll watch as my kids take that same great, blind leap into young adulthood. Hell, I might even teach ’em a trick or two.
I’m speaking, of course, of music. (But you already knew that.) Specifically, the first time that I – as an independent, cognizant human being – made the independent, cognizant decision to begin exploring what music might have to offer me.
Before sixth grade… well, those were elementary school days. And in elementary school days, I was a mere puppet — a mannequin with a bowlcut, prey to the whims and preferences of my parents. Insofar as that my mother had assumed the primary caregiver role, my knowledge of music was largely limited to what I heard while she was driving me around.
And my mother – God help her – enjoyed what is now colloquially referred to as easy listening. Manilow, Diamond, Richie, Carpenters, Rogers… the craptastic cavalcade of mindless mellow gold that defined the musical seventies for millions across the country. For years, I absorbed it as a sponge absorbs spilled, soured milk: helplessly, unwillingly, powerless to stop its suffusion through every pore. I remember a period of my life when I became actively excited whenever the powerhouse final theme from Diamond’s remake of The Jazz Singer – “America” – came on the radio, if only because it clearly sucked so much less than everything else I heard every day. It wasn’t whiny. It had energy, and a sense of building momentum. It had, in its shiny, sparkly, Diamondesque way, a sense of drama.
My father offered no hope of escape. His music came to light only on weekends, when the stentorian tones of Robert J. Lurtsema would rumble through his stereo, illuminating the strange and often baroque musics with a slow… low… lumbering approach that was about as inviting to a young boy as a bear trap laced with brussel sprouts. Occasionally, my father would break up the weekend classical onslaught with a little opera, which only served to confuse me more. Carmen? The Magic Flute? The Ring Cycle? It was all fat women hollering at each other in German, and honestly it scared the bejeezus out of me.
I was ready for something more.
During my final year in elementary school, I’d slowly started to become aware that there was an entire world of music that I’d never known. I began paying more attention to commercials for K-Tel compendiums, and asking my parents questions like, “What were the Beatles?”
And then… sixth grade. Middle school. Suddenly, I was thrust into a brave new world where I encountered kids beyond those I’d known since kindergarten — kids from all over town, whose far-flung backgrounds and unique perspectives created a virtual tapestry of diversity encompassing all that whitebread suburbia had to offer in the early 80s.
Which was, uh, virtually none… but still, it was a completely different experience for me. My teacher that year was an embittered divorcee with an unholy red/orange dye-job that seemed to illuminate her face in a state of perpetual rage. Which pretty accurately reflected her demeanor. I’d never before had a teacher who actually threw things at her students — but Mrs. S broke through that fourth wall to redefine hands-on teaching in a really bold and unprecedented way. Not paying attention? Pay attention, because chances are an eraser is going to bounce off your head any second. Starting out the window daydreaming? How ’bout a heavy book, abruptly slammed on your desk without warning to get the adrenaline pumping and the learning started?
(Midway through the year, one of my friends went into her desk looking for something – a stapler? God only knows – and discovered not one, not two, but three bottles of wine safely packed away. Of course, we just presumed it was wine… it might’ve been bottles of Jim Beam or Wild Turkey. But it was a simpler time then, when whitebread suburbanite kids didn’t necessarily have the same familiarity with wines and/or liquor brands that they seem to today. In any case… she had booze in her desk. Which was kind of unusual by any standard.)
(She also had an unnerving habit of occasionally bursting into tears during the middle of the school day. It would happen once every month or two, and we’d all just sit there – stunned into uncomfortable silence – as she wept, snuffled, and eventually gathered herself together.)
In retrospect, it was kind of a strange year.
But one thing – a good thing, as Martha might say – about that class was the presence of a tape recorder in the back of the room. And early on, Mrs. S made it clear that during brief periods of free time – if we kept the volume low – we could use it.
One day, not too far into my year in sixth grade, my friend Courtney brought in a tape. And that day, Mrs. S gave us some free time, and I went to the back of the room with Courtney and a couple of the other guys. Courtney said, “this is really cool,” and slipped the tape in. And for the very first time, I heard “The Immigrant Song“…. and my mind was just blown.
From the unholy howl that kicks off the song to the relentless, pounding beat to the angry, strident guitars to the way the whole thing stops on a dime… and then kicks right back in, just as loud and vivid and alive as before… Jesus! Did other people know about this? Jesus! What the… Jesus!
I was excited, and scared, and thrilled, and energized, and unsure of how to react, and so, so, so very intrigued.
I had to hear more.
And the hook was set.
Over the next few months, I began consciously listening to the radio, like never before. I discovered Casey Kasem’s Top 40 Countdown, which each Sunday delineated a the forty songs that were moving the nation like nothing else — and through that, I discovered untold worlds of musical possibility. I listened to the Long-Distance Dedication, and imagined scenarios where I would dedicate songs to girls in my class. I learned to hate Toto. And, most importantly, I began to annoy my parents by trying to change the radio station every time we got in the car.
By the time my birthday rolled around in February, they were ready to get my hands off their stereos for good… by providing me with one of my own. And so, a few days before my birthday, my father and I hopped in the Malibu Classic 4-door, and took off — on a mission of love. First stop: Radio Shack.
After a careful review of the options, we made our choice. And soon enough, I emerged with my new “box” (as the hip kids called their stereos) — a shiny, silver radio with single cassette player, built-in microphone and a single big, round speaker. That’s right: my first stereo was not, in fact, a stereo. It was a mono.
Nevertheless, my father – to his eternal credit – knew that obtaining the equipment was only the first step. So we loaded up and headed out to complete the exercise. There was only one possible destination: Strawberries, the premier record store chain of suburban Boston in the early 80s.
We arrived and walked in. I gazed, starry-eyed, at the walls of cassettes, trapped in bulky, black protective shields, hidden behind plastic walls riddled with holes. I watched as people reached in, pulled out cassettes, and dropped them onto the conveyer belt below — whereupon they were delivered in speed, comfort and technological splendor to their final destination at the checkout counter.
Strange, undescribable sounds came from the speakers. The store smelled of plastic and magic. My father looked extremely uncomfortable with the entire scene. Then he turned to me and said, “You have 20 minutes, and $15 to spend. Get started.”
I had done my homework. I’d listened to the wisdom of Casey. I’d read carefully through the listings of albums available through the Columbia Record & Tape Club, as they appeared in pull-out ads in TV Guide. I knew what I wanted. And, finally, I knew how and where to get it.
Half an hour later, we came home. I expressed my thanks, then went directly to my room. I unpacked my shiny new box. I figured out how to connect the A/C adaptor. I tested it, to make sure it would work properly. And then I peeled the shrink wrap off the first two albums I ever bought – Men at Work’s Business as Usual and The Clash’s Combat Rock – and slipped a tape into its new home. Gently, I pressed play… and as I heard the first, familiar notes of “Who Can It Be Now” (thank you, Casey, for guiding me home), I knew that right then and there, my life was changing for good.
