Nick Lowe "Christmas At The Airport"

When I was a kid, here's what we did on Christmas Eve and Day.

On December 24th at about 2pm, we loaded into the station wagon and drove 2 hours toward western Massachusetts, to get a 4pm "Christmas Pageant" Mass, hosted by Father Brian Flatley, a friend of my Dad's.

By 5:30, we were in Stow at Uncle Joe and Auntie Peg's house for an extravaganza with my Mom's extended family.

Back in the car by 10pm.

Nearing midnight, we had reached home in Newburyport, but I went right back out the door to my friend Brian's house, where their Christmas Eve party was just winding down.

Home by 2am.  Back up now later than 7am.

After presents and breakfast, we were in the wagon once again, this time to Burlington, MA, for a check in with my sister's Godparents.

Then on down the road to Natick, for a meal at my Dad's brother's house.

By nightfall, we were making an end-of-the-run stop at my mother's Aunt Clem's, where we had circled back to seeing a few of the relatives from Joe and Peg's.  And for a number of years, my Great Grandmother was in a nursing home across the street, so we popped in there too.

Then the long quiet ride home.

You can think about Santa and snow and pie and holly and pine needles and mistletoe and even office parties, when you think about Christmas.

But what the bulk of the holiday really involved, was traveling.  And I know this is true for many of you, who spend hours, if not days, in transit just so you can enjoy a little Holiday time with family.

Nick Lowe faces that reality of the holidays on his new Christmas record, with this typically jocular ditty about "Christmas At The Airport."


Hear the song on Youtube.

Robert Clary "Alouette"

I've mentioned before that I was a strangely adult-like small child.

In the past I've attributed it to things like being the oldest child in my family or the youngest child in the neighborhood, or being a very verbal child, or having parents that modeled an older-school behavior.

One thing that definitely played a role was TV, but I don't know if this is a cause or an effect.

Today, if my kids want to watch TV, there are endless choices.  Endless age-appropriate choices.  We have 4 PBS stations.  Plus DVDs.  Plus the internet and Netflix.  Our kids can watch kid shows.

When I was a kid, the choices were not so abundant.  And if there wasn't a kids show on TV, you watched something that wasn't a kids show.

Actually, most of my peers just went outside or to their rooms, and played.

But I loved TV of all kinds.

And thought I might have only been 7 or 8 or 9 years old, I spent hours and hours watching shows that were neither geared for my age-group, or even my decade.

The UHF channels in the afternoon would air series from the 60s that an elementary school kid in the 80s should have had no business watching.  But I loved shows like McHale's Navy and That Girl and Adam-12 and such.

I'm guessing a lot of the jokes and context and even plot sailed right over my head.  But I know I absorbed quite a bit, too.

Because when my 2nd grade teacher asked if anyone knew the song "Alouette," I said yes.

Here's why I know I was a "strangely adult-like child."

When my teacher seemed surprised that I knew the song and could sing it, she asked---pressed even---where I had heard it.

And I distinctly remember thinking that she had to think it was inappropriate and strange that suddenly the class discussion was about to be taken over by an 8 year old who was going to explain the plot-line of an episode of "Hogan's Heroes."  But explain I did, about how Lebeau (Robert Clary) was singing the song as part of a ruse to distract some Nazis during a prison camp talent show.

My teacher seemed unfazed (and now that I have a child in elementary school, I realize that teacher hear all kinds of embarrassing/inappropriate stuff from kids about things their parents do or say) by how the discussion had turned, and she went about teaching the class the song.

But I was keenly aware that most of my peers had no idea what I was talking about, and that once again, I was an 8-year old talking like---and to---an adult, not a kid.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Paul McCartney "Queenie Eye"

A few different folks on my Facebook feed posted pictures of their kid standing in front of a store, with a collection can, raising money for their junior sports teams.

I flashed back to being 8 and 9, when they'd make us dress in our full Pioneer League baseball uniform, and plunk us in front of Shaws or Kmart, and have us panhandle for change.

I looked at those pictures on my Facebook feed and thought, "That's when I started my complete hatred/fear of asking for money."

Which made me laugh.  Because I was looking at these pictures on Facebook as a way to procrastinate from preparing for the Fall Friends of mvyradio Drive.

So . . . Hey!  Would you like to donate some money to support a very important local organization?

Can I look at you with my pleading, 8 year old eyes?

Well, at least for the Friends Drive, if you make a donation of $100, we'll give you the new Paul McCartney record.

For the Pioneer League, I think they only gave you a ticket that said you donated.

So . . . WooHoo!  Paul McCartney CD!  Donate!

Yeah, it hasn't gotten any easier for me.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Alison Krauss "Paper Airplane" (live)

I was a pretty smart little kid.  Sometimes too smart for my own good.  And sometimes so smart, I was stupid.

Here's a little life lesson for the other youngsters out there . . .

When I was in 5th grade, I didn't much like school.  Not that I found it hard.  Actually, the opposite.  I found a lot of it stupid and unnecessary.

By 6th grade, my marks were slipping.  When questioned by my parents about this, I explained that the work wasn't very challenging.  In fact it was insultingly dull a lot of the time and I just didn't feel like doing it.

"I'm bored," I said.  Stupidly.

And that is how I found myself in a private, Catholic School for the start of 7th grade.

In my town, the kids that graduated from The Immaculate Conception had a reputation for being better educated, and better disciplined than their public school counterparts.

Kids, if your parents ask you how school is going, saying it's too easy and your bored is a one-way ticket to a whole new world.


She stood in front of our class, rocking back and forth on her heels.  Tongue in her cheek.  Staring us down.

I felt myself break a light sweat.

It was my first day in Catholic School.  And it was her first day as principal of that Catholic School.  She was trying to intimidate us.  She was doing a good job.

Now, I'd had plenty of interactions with nuns.  My dad's sister is a Sister and we're very close.  When my parents would go out of town, my Auntie the nun and some of her nun friends would come and spend the weekend with us.

Up to that point, my interactions with nuns consisted of them in pastel sport coats, watching episodes of Dallas while eating popcorn in my basement.

I hadn't had any run-ins with the nun stereotype, until now.

She gave a bit of a speech from the front of the class on that first day.  The gist of it was that she would tolerate no bullshit.

She didn't actually say the word bullshit.  And honestly, I was afraid to even think the word bullshit lest she read my thoughts.

Her taciturn manner set the tone for the school.  Even the lay teachers seemed a bit cowed by her presence.


But there were a lot of lighter things about the school.  One of my best friends from the neighborhood also went there.  And the I.C. had a basketball team---the funding for Public School 7th and 8th grade sports had just been cut.  I met a lot of great kids.  My 7th grade lay teacher was actually pretty attractive.  School wasn't fun, per se, but it wasn't boring anymore either.

In fact, it was pretty challenging.  Which was why the breaks throughout the day were such a relief.

After a morning of heads in a book, we'd get a bathroom break and 15 minutes or so to talk, finish up projects and prepare for the next stretch of learning.

Some kids would talk about what they watched on television the night before.  Some kids played that paper-triangle-football game.  Some studious kids kept studying.

I took advantage of the privacy of the bathroom.

Not to go the bathroom, of course.  No, I used my bathroom breaks to make paper airplanes.

I'm not exactly sure if I started this, but no doubt I was quick to become a driving force behind it.  Or rather, a flying force.

While we were released to go to the boys bathroom, a few friends and I would bring a piece of paper along.  And in the bathroom, we'd each quickly fold our paper airplanes.

Our classroom and the adjacent bathroom was on the 2nd floor of the school, and the little window in the bathroom overlooked a small stretch of courtyard, a brick wall, and beyond that Green Street.

We'd take turns throwing our creations out the window, to see whose plane could go the farthest.  If you could get it over the brick wall, you were psyched.  If the wind took it and carried it out to the street, well that was a day to remember.

Soon this activity became more elaborate, more competitive.  Kids experimented with different aerodynamic designs.  Sometimes the paper-airplane crafting would happen in the early morning, before class, allowing some time to decorate the plane with slogans or markers/colors.  Certain kids developed reputations for being "the best" due to their constant success at distance.

This continued day after day after day after day, until . . .


She stood at the front of the class.  She was trying to intimidate us.  She was doing a good job.

In her hands---as she silently eyeballed the classroom---was a brown paper shopping bag.

It overflowed with paper airplanes.

"These were picked up by the janitor, from the courtyard below this classroom.  Based on some of the writing written on them . . ."

I was frozen in place.  I did not move a muscle.

Sometimes we'd just draw pictures or write slogans on the planes.  But on more than one occasion, I had written my name on the wings.  "Finn Flyer."  "PJ Express."  Stuff like that.  I know that my cohorts had done the same, on occasion.  If she'd found one of these planes, we were toast.

". . . I believe I know who the culprits are."

I was toast.

"This ends today.  Not another single paper airplane in that courtyard."

She glared at us.

But she didn't say anymore.

She didn't call out my name.  Or anyone else's.

She glared for a moment more.  And then she sternly strode out of the classroom.

And that's when I realized that she had no idea who was involved.  Or at least she was uncertain enough, that she wasn't prepared to call anyone specific out.  She was going to make a general claim, and see if anyone cracked.

Before that day, it had never really occurred to me that an adult authority figure would stand in front of a class full of kids and say they knew the truth about something, when in fact it was . . .

. . . I knew I could say the word aloud in my head, and she couldn't hear it . . .

Bullshit. 


Hear the song on Youtube.

Baz Luhrmann "Everybody's Free To Wear Sunscreen"

There was one line in the song "Everybody's Free To Wear Sunscreen" that I didn't understand, and knew I wouldn't, for awhile.

"The older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young."

I was 30 when the song came out, and not so far removed from my youth that this line would have resonance.


At 44, I'm moving into a different phase of my life, for sure.

I took the day off on Friday, to go to my old hometown of Newburyport.

My Mom was having knee replacement surgery that day, and I thought she, and my Dad, would appreciate it if her kids were there.

Everything went fine and by all accounts, the surgery was routine.

But it's a pretty major operation, that requires a boatload of drugs.  And back in her room, Mom was pretty out of it.

She asked me if I could feed her some ice chips, because her throat was dry but she was too weak to do it herself.

The setting, the sound of the equipment, and her state . . . well, it wasn't too hard to see this as a vision of things to come.

Mom is in decent health.  And as a former nurse, she's pretty on top of all check-ups and medical history and prevention and such.

At age 67, she could certainly be with us for decades to come.

On the other hand, it's not lost on me that her own mother, my grandmother, passed away at this age.  And certainly so many others in our life, have passed on at even younger ages.

Undoubtedly, I was in this reflective mood because the 2nd reason I was in Newburyport, was to go to a memorial service for Dean, the man who lived on the other side of Jefferson Street from us, when I was growing up.

I had seen neither my neighbor, nor his kids, in many years.  In fact, other than a brief conversation with them during the memorial for my own sister, it may have been a full 20 years since seeing them.

But while my Mom was in surgery, my sister Julie, Dad and I went to the graveside memorial, and to a small reception after.

And that's where I, for the first time, really felt the line, "The older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young."

Dean's first wife had died way back in the 80s, when I was a teenager.  Our families had been close before, but with the loss of their mother, our connection became even more important and impactful.  My mom, in particular, was there for Dean, and for the kids who had just lost their mother, in a way that's meaningfulness I could not have understood as a teenager.

The last time I saw them was at my sister's memorial, a few years ago.  We talked for several minutes, retelling funny stories about my sister and her somewhat wild youth, when one of Dean's children got a little teary-eyed and said, "Talking about Amy reminds me of my mother."

That's why I wanted to be there Friday.

I realized that for them, to see me and speak to me was to draw a straight line to their youth.  No doubt that the many spouses and children and co-workers and friends who were in attendance are much closer to them than I am.  But none of those people knew their Mom.

And in reverse, there is no one I have ever been closer to, than my wife.  We have shared so much, on the deepest, most meaningful level.

But even she doesn't have direct access to the part of me that was swung like a statue around and around on a grassy lawn by the older brother.  Or the part of me who collected driftwood on the Plum Island reservation, for a 2-family cookout on an empty beach just before sunset.  Or the part of me who thrilled in making a haunted house with the neighborhood kids in a basement.

There are the people who were there in your formative years.  And there are times in your life---particularly when contemplating, or confronting, mortality---when you need them.

"The older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young."


Hear the song on Youtube.

Big Star "Thank You Friends"

When I was a kid, I worked at an ice cream stand.

People loved it.  For many, coming to get an ice cream was a highlight of the day.  Coming to OUR ice cream stand, was a part of their summer experience.  To this day, I'm sure that people who lived or summered in the Newburyport area have warm memories of Haley's Ice Cream.

Compliments at Haley's were easy to come by.  You weren't selling life insurance or bath fixtures.  When you gave them what they had ordered, there was a light in their eyes, and a grateful thank you on their lips.  They might even tell you that they love the ice cream you make.

But that was nothing.

It's been a pretty amazing two months, and so much of it has gone by so fast that it was hard to take in, process and respond to, as it was happening.

Two months ago, mvyradio told its listeners we needed $600,000 to survive.  And the listeners responded.

Now, I didn't have a lot of doubt that we could raise that much money.  I knew people loved our station and were willing to donate $25 or $100 or more, to keep it alive.

But I just can't get over the number of messages that we got from people who didn't just say, "I love your station," or "I want to support you," but went on to tell very personal stories about how much a part of their lives the station had become.

People wrote us about collectively listening to "Alice's Restaurant" as a family, singing while all on the phone together because the family was apart of Thanksgiving.

More than a few folks told us of hitting mental health low points, but being able to turn to the station, hearing a song that lifted them up, or even picking up the phone and having a DJ who wanted to talk to them.

We heard from an ICU nurse who would bring a radio to a patient if the unit was having a particularly loud or chaotic night.  The music was a distraction and a comfort.

And I got a very personal letter from a woman who had discovered the station via her husband and listening became something they shared.  Even years after his death, she would hear a song on MVY and think "That's a tune he would have loved."  She needed the station, because the music was her way of staying connected to her love. "Don't die," she wrote.

We got donations from 3800 listeners.

And among those, we got donations from many musicians.  Not necessarily big names.  But folks we have supported.  Local and regional.

We got donations from Record Label people, Radio promotions people, and even DJs from other stations.  They recognize that MVY is unique, valuable and worth saving.

And, special in our hearts, were the donations we got from our own families.  The Moms and Dads and Brothers and Sisters of the station staff pitched in too, and it was great to see a familiar last name (Dacey, Redington, Phaneuf, Hammond and many more) land in the donation box.

Saturday was the mvyradio Big Chili Contest, and that's where the hugging began.  People we've known from around, or people we've never met before in our lives, gave us hugs, told us that they love us and congratulated us.

It was much more love than I ever got serving ice cream.

The song in my head (and there's always a song in my head) was this Big Star tune.  I'll put the lyrics below, because it really speaks to our story and success.  I love that he sings about things being "so probable."

Thank you, Friends.  Personally, and professionally.

You saved mvyradio.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Thank you, friends
Wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you
I'm so grateful for all the things you helped me do

All the ladies and gentlemen
Who made this all so probable

Thank you, friends
I rejoice to the skies
Dear ones like you do the best I do
As far as can see my eyes

Without my friends I got chaos
I'm off in a bead of light
Without my friends I'd be swept up high by the wind

All the ladies and gentlemen (I said all)
Who made this all so probable

Thank you friends (thank you, again)
Dear, dear friends (thank you, again)
And again, and again
Never too late to start

Robin Sparkles "Let Go To The Mall"

It being Black Friday, I thought I should write about a shopping memory . . . 

When we were kids, we had an extended-family tradition.

My cousins and I would meet at the Burlington Mall and do Christmas shopping together.

Now, I don’t know if this was a big deal for my many cousins who lived in Burlington.  I’d wager that they spent a fair amount of time at the Mall, as a rule.

But living out in the sticks (as it felt like we did, in Newburyport), going to the Mall was an event.

We were young teens, and we got to go shopping, without our parents.

I must say, we felt pretty damn cool.  And I’m sure we were.

Yes, in fact I’m certain that going to the Mall without your parents, in 1985, was as cool as cool can be.

As cool as Robin Sparkles makes it out to be . . .


Hear the song on Youtube.

Otis Redding "Trick Or Treat"

Perhaps not surprisingly, hearing this song (even though it's really a "do you love me?" song) makes me think of Halloween.

A series of images flash through my head, about how much I enjoyed Halloween as a kid---making my costume (okay, Mom making it, with me directing), running around the neighborhood knocking on doors and dividing up and trading candy spread out on the living room floor with my sisters.

One image that really struck me funny, was thinking about my elementary school.  Holidays at Belleville Elementary were great, because somebody's mom made cupcakes and you got to push the desks into a big circle and the whole day was pretty loosey-goosey.

And on Halloween, everyone came in their costumes.

At a certain point in the day, they lined us all up for a "parade of costumes"---the whole school, kindergarten through 4th grade.  And they marched us down to the gym, where we were lead across the stage.

What makes me laugh is that we all did this.  The whole school.  Meaning, we were all parading across the stage, we were all in the show and no one was really settled in the audience.

Everyone's in the show and no one's in the audience.  I guess that's about right, for Halloween.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Everything But The Girl "Missing"

I had the strangest sensation as I drove by my old girlfriend's house.

My friend Tip had let me know that he would be visiting the East Coast with his kids and new wife, so I made plans to trek up to Rockport earlier this week for a visit with his family and my two small kids.

Tip had sent me directions, but I didn't give them too much thought until I pulled crossed the bridge into Gloucester, which I'd have to pass through on the way to Rockport.  I'd crossed that bridge many times in my early 20s, going to visit the girl from Gloucester that I dated through the end of college and into the first couple years of real life.

Mom always said, "Everybody gets one heartbreak," and this girl was it for me.  We had a deep relationship, and when it ended (and, to put the blame squarely in the right place, the end of things was largely my doing and fault), I was rudderless for a pretty long time.  Years, even.

It took me years just suss out where I had gone wrong, and more years to figure out how I was going to be a better person.  Years before the thought of her wasn't painful.  And years before every little damn thing---book, tv show, song, catchphrase, landmark, coffee cup, article of clothing, et cetera ad finitum---didn't remind me of her.

In my rudderless period, in the years I was living in Virginia, I had a roommate, who had the gone through the same kind of experience.  And for him, there was a house that he'd go by where all the good times had happened.  He'd drive by there and know that someone else lived there now and life had moved on.

When "Missing" came out, it struck a chord with him, and he'd play it when we was down.

I step off the train
I'm walkin' down your street again
And pass your door
But you don't live there anymore
It's years since you've been there
And now you've disappeared somewhere
Like outer space
You've found some better place

And because he played it often, whenever I heard it (mvy used to play it) I'd think of him and then think of me in my rudderless years.

So there I was, following Tip's directions to the beach house he had rented, realizing that I knew these streets, thinking that certainly the map would tell me to turn left at some point where I used to turn right.

But it didn't.  And soon I could see the hill that her house was on, off in the distance, coming closer.

This wouldn't be the first time I had gone by her house since our break-up.  At some point in the rudderless period, when I was home from Virginia visiting my folks, I was restless, unable to sleep.  I took the car and drove from my folks place in Newburyport, along the long and winding Route 1A until I reached the house where her parents lived, where I'd gone to visit her when we were on college break.  I knew she didn't live there, so I don't know what I was looking for, but I felt so sad inside.

She lived within walking distance of the beach, so I parked my car and stood on the sand.  It was late, but there was a woman off in the moonlit distance.  I knew there was no way it could possibly be my old girlfriend, but my mind kept telling me that, yeah, maybe it could be.  Then another voice from inside said, what if it is?  That thought terrified me.  I got back in my car and drove to Newburyport, far worse off, mentally, than when I'd just been restless in bed.

I wasn't thinking about this as I turned off my route to meet Tip, to get a look at the house.

I looked into the back seat and smiled at my kids.  "Daddy used to have a friend that lived in this neighborhood."

The house, on the whole, looked the same as it ever did, with a well-kept yard and a pretty set of bushes and a sloping driveway that tucked behind the house.

On the porch was a gigantic Red Sox banner.  And I knew right away that her parents must not live there anymore---that really wasn't their style.

I kept driving past, and got back on the route to see Tip.

I had the strangest sensation, as I drove away.

Nothing.

I didn't feel sadness.  Or pain.  Or regret.  Or hurt.

I had some warm memories of fun times we had, but it felt so far in the fuzzy past, that I couldn't help but notice that the feeling I was feeling, was missing.


Hear the song on Youtube.

The Kinks "Come Dancing"

When I first envisioned this blog, and settled on the theme of writing about single songs and the things they remind me of, the absolute first thing that came to mind was . . .

David's Fish Market and my sister Julie.

I feel like there are large parts of my childhood that involve being in the car with my mother and my siblings, and my mother pulling into the parking lot of a store and saying, "Can you guys just stay in the car, while I do this quick errand?"

Being a parent now, I totally get it---taking your kids into a store it is a total hassle, when you're just trying to get something done.

So when we were old enough, Mom would just leave us in the car.  And when we were old enough to be trusted, Mom would leave us in the car and let us keep the keys so we could listen to the radio.

It was on one such occasion, when Mom wanted fish for dinner, that she left me and my sister Julie in the Dodge Caravan while she went into David's Fish Market in Salisbury. 

The Kinks "Come Dancing" came on the radio and we sang along.

Honestly, I can't recall that there was anything too special about the moment.  We just sang along and enjoyed the tune, and the parent-free 5 minutes.

But for years after that, whenever we'd be someplace and "Come Dancing" would come on, Julie and I would look at each other and say, "David's Fish Market!"

Every Day, I write about what a song reminds me of, and usually it has some deeper meaning or context or metaphor.  But sometimes, the song is just a simple reminder of the pleasure of singing a song with your sister, on an otherwise mundane trip to pick up some fish.


It's Julie's birthday today.  Happy Birthday, Sister!


Hear the song on Youtube.

Lou Reed "Walk On The Wild Side" (Live)

Last week's Record Store Day got me thinking about my early record store experiences, back in the day where, if you wanted a record, you had to go to a record store.

I mean, I think Sears had some cassettes, but that was the only place other than a record store that I can remember finding music.

I can remember being of late-Middle School age when I started to discover music beyond the world of what my parents listened to.  WBCN and such.

I remember knowing, and liking, Lou Reed's "Walk On The Wild Side."

I'm SURE I had no real understanding of what Lou was talking about.  But damn that little bassline was catchy.

I know that I knew the song well enough from the radio, that hearing this live version was a part of a whole weird experience.

There was a record store in my town called Gilmore East, and, on all levels, it felt very mysterious to me.

First of all, it was in one of the newly renovated buildings on Inn Street, but it was one of those below ground stores.

I know those of you who lived in the City are accustomed to walking from the sidewalk, down an outside set of stairs, into a store.  But for Newburyport in the early 80s, this was kind of novel.  I mean, we lived at sea level.  You didn't put anything in a basement that you wouldn't want to get wet.  Certainly not your records.

Because it was below ground, I remember it being dark, poorly lit.  I don't think it was actually smoky, but that's how I see it in my memory.

The stacks of records were built for, you know, adult height.  I was a very small kid in Middle School, so just to see the records, I had to be on tip-toes.

I remember a section of rock and roll photography in one corner.  Black and white framed photos of Jim Carroll and Lou Reed and Bruce Springsteen in action/in concert, with the same tiny, handwritten price tags that my Mom used on the stained glass she used at craft fairs.

And I remember they always had music on the stereo.

I say that and you think, of course they did, but you forget, that back in those days it was pretty uncommon to walk into a store and find them with a soundtrack blaring overhead.  This was in the days where the only music feeds were MUZAK, and stores in the mall didn't yet have their own crafted personal market-researched soundtracks.

There wasn't just music on.  It was foreign music.  Not foreign, as in from another country.  Foreign, as if from some distant planet.  There was never anything playing that I might have previously heard on the radio.  It was always some alien rock and roll, yet to be discovered by me.

I'd love to tell you that it was an exciting world that opened up for me.  But truthfully, it was all a little scary at the time.

It was dark and smoky and underground and felt a little dangerous against my otherwise tepid sense of adventure.

I can remember hearing this live version on Lou Reed's "Walk On The Wild Side" in Gilmore East.

As I said, I knew the song well enough to sing along to the album version.  And when the familiar baseline kicked in, I felt some kind of sense of comfort that there was something familiar in the room.

At this point in my life, I'd never been to a concert, and it never occurred to me that live songs could sound significantly different than their album counterparts.  Or worse, that the artist could intentionally fuck with the tune.

On this track Lou keeps talking and talking and occasionally throwing in some actual lyrics.

But mostly, it felt like I was listening to an unhinged lunatic with a microphone and an audience.

I don't think Gilmore East lasted too many years.  But eventually, I got taller, braver, more curious and developed an appreciation for unhinged lunatics with microphones.

Strangely, I don't think record stores ever lost their sense of mystery for me.

I still like to go, and to look.  It's a little late for a "Record Store Day" plug/post, but I just wanted to say, I'm glad you're still around, actual-brick-and-mortar-dark-and-mysterious-Record-Stores.


Hear the song on Youtube.  Note that it contains quite a bit of profanity.

Frankie Avalon "Beauty School Dropout"

When I was middle school age, late 70s/early 80s, was there a bigger phenomenon that the movie "Grease" and its attendant Soundtrack?

I can remember being really into it, along with probably most every other 5th and 6th grader in my life.

But were we really aware how age-inappropriate it all was? The pregnancy/abortion issue, the sleazy TV show host hitting on the young girl, the drag racing, smoking, slutty leather pants outfit, the Italian swear word in "Sandra Dee," etc, etc?

No, we were not aware that this movie was not made for our age group.

At least I wasn't. Until the day our music teacher was sick.

I can't exactly remember why she was out, but it must have been something fairly sudden, because there was not a substitute teacher. Instead, one of the school administrators was the Sub for our music class that day.

I'm sure he thought he was doing a nice, "cool" thing, when, for lack of anything else to kill 45 minutes of class time, he acquiesced to the students insistent requests, to let us sit quietly, and play the "Grease" Soundtrack on the classroom record player.

Did I know the lyrics to "Beauty School Dropout"? Probably. Well, phonetically anyway. I'm sure I could sing along, but did I know what I was singing about?

I remember our sinking Sub's face getting a little redder and a little redder, as this song progressed.

But it was when Frankie Avalon really sticks the line "unless she was a hooker!" that his eyes just totally bugged out of his head.

Like a ballet dancer whose pants have just fallen off*, you could see him frozen, struggling to make a choice: Freak out and stop everything cold, making a scene? Or just keep going, as if nothing is wrong, and don't draw attention to it.

Maybe it was inertia or maybe it was his nature as an administrator, but he chose the latter, and did nothing except glower a little.

For many years, the thought of it made me laugh.

But now, I'm on the other side of the equation. I'm a Dad, with kids who are going to listen to things that will horrify me.

Am I really going to be the Dad that doesn't let his kid listen to the Soundtrack of a 40 year old beloved American Institution/Musical?

Or worse, am I really going to be the Dad that listens to the "Grease" Soundtrack with his daughter, and then "raps" about the issues it raises of female objectification, peer pressure, chastity and the importance of completing high school?

Can't I just go back to Middle School?


See the movie scene on Youtube.

* I know, I know, ballet dancers don't wear pants. But that's the line that popped into my head, and it made me laugh, so I kept it.