Music, sweet sweet music, there was music everywhere! Growing up in the 1960s and 70s, I feel blessed to have been a part of an amazing time in music.  Moving from a simple record player in my room, which played at three speeds, 33, 45, and 78, to the Stereo System we purchased in pieces and brought with us to college, our prized possession.  The Turntable, The Receiver, The Speakers,  a tall stack of silver rectangular prisms kept securely in a black cabinet with glass doors that shut ever so quietly.  It was the turntable and its delicate needle getting the most use, as vinyl albums were where it was at!   Albums were and still are sort of an art/writing/music genre of their own.  Those of this generation would spend many a day in the local music store flipping through stacks of albums, admiring their outrageous covers, reading the backside list of songs, taking it all in, and after careful consideration, as there were always more than one that you wanted, deciding on the purchase. Upon getting home, you would tear off the plastic wrap or, in some cases, the brown paper, and really explore the beauty of this new investment.  Like the smell of a new book upon opening it, albums had their new smell as well.  Removing the shiny black, flat, circular vinyl object from deep inside created a sense of awe in the beholder. We would hold it in a special way, on the outside along the side rims, as you didn’t want to get your fingerprints on the sleek, shiny flat surfaces.  Some of these albums had the bonus of opening up like a book, revealing an incredible additional treasure trove of pictures, words to the songs, and stories of the making of the album or the story lying within the songs. These gatefold albums also served the very helpful purpose of being a wonderful accessory for cleaning your nickel bag and rolling the joint, which you would enjoy as you listened to this newly acquired but everlasting music.  Oh yes, and for some of us now having all types of “things” taken off our bodies by a dermatologist with a melon ball scooper, we would line these booklike albums with aluminum foil and place them under our chin, which we would use as a suntanning tool for that perfect sunburn we all sought to have.  Oh, those were the days! 

After closing the door to my bedroom, we would blast the sounds of our favorite bands, sometimes opening the windows as we felt the whole neighborhood deserved the serenade of the excellent music we listened to.  After all, we were doing them a favor; this music is great!  On the other side of that door was our family, brothers, sisters, parents, and in some cases grandparents, who we gave little thought to if they wanted to hear this music or not.  It was our room, our music, our turntable, and our teen attitudes that mattered most.  Many times, as we loved the album so much, we would play it over, and over, and over, and over again.  Slowly driving mom and dad to a state of mental frenzy.  “Will you shut that God damn music off!” they would yell from behind the door.  “How many times are you going to listen to that God damn song?” they would scream.  Didn’t matter, we just cranked up the volume to block their calls out, for we could, and intended on, listening to it a hundred more times and with each replaying gathering more and more meaning behind the words, music, and album cover.  

Every once in a while, an album would contain some curse words.  I remember sitting in my room with my friend Chris, as we played the 45 single of Free’s, All Right Now.  There’s the line, “Let’s move before they raise the f…. rent.”  We couldn’t believe our ears.  Did our parents hear this?  If so, how much fun is that?  Let’s play it a hundred times until they bust in the door screaming for us to stop.  It seems quite mean, but it was actually a fun little game.  “Let’s play it one more time, they’re bound to come this time!” They never came.  And who was not overly excited and filled with anxious enthusiasm to play Country Joe McDonald’s, The Fish Cheer, from behind your bedroom door.   I didn’t even like it, but we would play it loud and wait for someone on the other side to finally bust in and say, “enough!” I had a friend who would wait for her mother to get home and then begin playing Elton John’s “The Bitch Is Back” at nauseam.  As many of us were never allowed to curse in the house, we let the music do it for us.  

We all had our favorite albums, and if lucky enough, you saved them.  Vinyl’s making a comeback, haven’t you heard? Later on today, I plan to trek down to the darkest parts of my basement and see if I can find and dig out some of my treasured albums, artwork, and all.  I plan on playing them, looking over the album covers, revisiting these treasures, maybe even finding one covered with aluminum foil or another containing a remnant from a long night hanging out, playing backgammon, and listening to a great album.  Hey, I’m retired now, I got the time to do this shit. There’s nothing like, instead of moving forward, taking a trip backward, to a time when the music and the albums were great.