Music – Page 4 – I Remember JFK: A Baby Boomer's Pleasant Reminiscing Spot

Flip Sides

Ready for a brain cell workout? How many flipsides can YOU recall?

While driving down the road the other day and listening to The Animals’ Animalisms, the song “Talkin’ Bout You” came on. I hadn’t heard that tune since I played it on a portable record player about 1970.

What I vividly remember is that “Talkin’ Bout You” was the flip side of my favorite song as a child: “House of the Rising Sun.”

A seven-year-old kid was likely to play both sides of a record that his older brother only heard on the hit side. Such is the nature of a seven-year-old. Curiosity is high, a sense of what song is hot has not yet developed.

Add that to a slightly-better-than-normal memory and you get factoids like the Beatles’ “Thank You Girl” was backed by “Do You Want to Know a Secret.”

Those records, that red-plaid colored record player, and I spent many a rainy afternoon in my room. Thus, I can state, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the flipside of Freddie and the Dreamers’ “I’m Telling You Now” is a forgettable (not to me, of course) ditty called “What Have I Done to You.”

Record companies have long put less-than-marketable-as-singles on the flipsides of 45’s. Once in a while, a release like Hey Jude, backed with Revolution would sneak out, but by and large, the flipsides are thrown in as a freebie that the consumer would never buy on its own merit.

Now, of course, the flipside is a thing of the past, as 45’s, while not extinct (thanks in large part to the jukebox industry), are certainly not available all over town like they once were.

Thus, today’s kids are growing up without knowledge of trivial facts like Sgt. Barry Sadler’s “Ballad of the Green Berets” was backed with something called “Letter from Vietnam.”

A kid would enjoy the lesser-renowned tunes. “Hungry”, by Paul Revere and the Raiders, was a great song, but then again so was “There She Goes.” Crispian St. Peters’ “Pied Piper” was a hit, but “Sweet Dawn, My true Love,” the flip, would have been one too, had seven-year-olds determined the charts.

In 1972, I made a very regrettable mistake. I bought my first 45. Such an occasion should be marked by joyous memories of walking out of the Gibson’s Discount Store with a classic. American Pie? Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress? Rick Nelson’s Garden Party?

I bought the Osmond’s “Down by the Lazy River.” Oh, the shame.

By the way, the flipside was called “He’s the Light of the World.”

So now, readers, it’s your turn. Dig deep in those memory banks and post your own flipside songs that you probably hadn’t thought about in thirty or more years.

AAARGH! I have forgotten one. For the life of me, the flipside of Mrs. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter by Herman’s Hermits has escaped from my memory banks. Can anyone help me out?

Dylan: Scratching the Surface

I just had an epiphany.

An epiphany is basically an awakening. My tiny little version was that I had been cranking out Boomer memories for what will be two years in a couple of months, and yet, I had never written about the poetic voice of our generation, who appeared on the national scene in 1962, just in time to explain the tumultuous events which were about to unfurl for the rest of the decade, and whose words and music would be followed with nearly religious devotion by the nation’s youth.

Thus, my tiny little epiphany was that I needed to bring up the much greater one given the world by one Robert Zimmerman, better known by his self-chosen name Bob Dylan.

This column is entitled “Scratching the Surface,” because much more will need to be written about Dylan here to present an acceptably whole picture of him and his effects on the Boomer generation.

Dylan got his start in the New York coffee-houses that were Beatnik hangouts in the early 60’s. He was an ardent fan of Woodie Guthrie, who was dying in a New York hospital. Dylan traveled all the way from his home state of Minnesota, and did manage to meet his idol, as well as Guthrie friend Ramblin’ Jack Elliot.

Dylan and Elliot would eventually perform live shows together, and still remain good friends.

Bob was soon noticed by newspaper reviewers who hung around the coffee-houses and caught local concerts. His fame grew among professional musicians, and he was asked by folksinger Carolyn Hester to play harmonica on her third album.

This caught the attention of John Hammond at Columbia Records, who signed Dylan up. His first album, Bob Dylan, was released in 1962. It sold a piddling 5,000 copies its first year, and Columbia pondered dropping him. But Hammond (who produced his first album), as well as a rocakabilly singer by the name of Johnny Cash, fought hard to give him a second album. Thus was released later that year The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, which was much more successful, and finally turned the public onto this amazing folksinger.

Dylan in the Subterranean Homesick Blues video

Freewheelin’ had, among other classics, Blowin’ in the Wind, Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right, and A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.

Indeed, Dylan’s reputation as a visionary largely came about because of the description of an apocalyptic world in the latter song. The album was released shortly before the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Among those taken up with the Minnesota poet were many who would eventually constitute 1960’s music. This group, all of whom have acknowledged their inspiration by Dylan, includes the Beatles, the Byrds, Joan Baez, Van Morrison, Neil Young, the aforementioned Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, the Animals, the Rolling Stones, Elvis Presley, and countless others. How many of them would have accomplished what they did without Dylan’s genius driving them?

Dylan’s lyrics were turned up several notches on his, and arguably, rock and roll’s, two greatest albums, 1965’s Highway 61 Revisited, and 1966’s Blonde on Blonde.

The words were often nonsensical collections of strange ideas that somehow made sense. Who was Ballad of a Thin Man about? What did it mean when Mr. Jones was called a cow by the one-eyed midget? Who were his contacts among the lumberjacks? Who is this geek that he purchases a ticket to go watch, who would call Jones the freak?

The song has been analyzed by many, with possible meanings ranging from Dylan’s distasteful view of Rolling Stones guitarist Brian Jones to a personal admission of homosexuality.

Such was Dylan’s songwriting at its greatest. The things he wrote about were very much open to interpretation. But all agreed that they were truly great songs.

Look for more on Dylan in future installments at I Remember JFK.

Dr. Demento

There has always been a group of musicians who were just a bit off-center. When my mom was waiting for my dad to get back from the war, it was Spike Jones. Jones, a gifted musician and bandleader, used guns, whistles, pots, pans, cowbells, hammers, bird calls, klaxon horns, bricks, gargling, breaking glass, and God knows what else to make some truly wonderful and unforgettable music.

Jones was quite the celebrity in his day. But when the Big Band sound died, his music slipped into obscurity. Sure, Big Band stations can still be found, but what are the odds that a serious deejay would dare play the William Tell Overture that segued into a truly bizarre horse race (…and Beetlebaum…)?

Well, Mr. Jones, who died too young at the age of 53 in 1965, would have been quite pleased with the emergence of a 1970 jock at KPPC in Los Angeles. His name was Barry Hansen, but the persona he created that year was Dr. Demento.

It all started when Hansen got a deejay gig while still in high school. He was in charge of serving up sock hop music at local dances. The young jock had discovered, in his childhood, a store that sold 78’s for a nickel apiece. The music was quite hit and miss, but some of the misses were hysterical.

Hansen was hooked on the deejay thing, and pursued a musical career. This included working as a roadie for Spirit and Canned Heat, both out of L.A. 1970 found him spinning records at KPPC. His specialty was oldies, and some of them were quite obscure and funky. One in particular attracted the attention of fellow DJ Steven Clean: Transfusion, by Nervous Norvus. “You have to be demented to play that!” he told Hansen.

An idea was born.

Spike Jones, right, and his City Slickers, who received a career revival via Dr. Demento

He changed his on-air name to Dr. Demento and began specializing in songs that were, well, nowadays we would describe them as the kinds of songs you’d hear on the Dr. Demento show. Viewers ate it up. Spike Jones was suddenly thrust onto the children of the parents who remembered him from the 40’s, and the kids loved him! The good Doctor relished digging up old gems from his massive collection of 78’s. Benny Bell’s 1940’s record Shaving Cream might have become forgotten without Dr. Demento’s help. The show’s closing theme was Cheerio, Cherry Lips, Cheerio, a 1929 Scrappy Lambert recording.

But there were a plethora of newer songs, too. Hello Mudda, Hello Faddah, Poisoning Pigeons in the Park, They’re Coming to Take Me Away (ha ha!), One Horned, One Eyed Flying Purple People Eater, Monster Mash, and my all-time favorite: Star Trekking. That last song makes me laugh out loud every time I hear it. “It’s worse than that, he’s dead, Jim! He’s dead, Jim! He’s dead, Jim!” Oh, by the way, on the very first Dr. Demento show, a ditty called The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins was sung by none other than Leonard Nimoy.

The show became syndicated in 1974, and is still around today, I’m happy to say. In 1976, an aspiring musician sent in some tapes, and Dr. Demento liked what he heard. So did the listeners. Thus was launched the career of Weird Al Yankovic.

The Doctor is going into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in a few days as of presstime, and it will be a better place for his presence. Unfortunately, no local station carries him in my area, but I do have some collections on mp3. They’re a hoot to listen to, and we should all be grateful that Barry Hansen was demented enough to dig them up for us.

Death of an Angel, Birth of a Cause

Not many knew what anorexia nervosa was back in 1970. However, everyone was aware of what an angel’s voice sounded like.

That was the year Carpenters released their second album, Close to You. Two gold record hits sprang from the release, the title track and We’ve Only Just Begun.

Indeed, things had only just begun for the brother-sister duo. Before the dark days of disco would change the public’s fickle tastes, Karen’s sweet voice would be a staple of both AM and FM airplay, and she would also be heard on frequent television appearances (including The Carpenter’s own variety show).

But sadly, Karen isn’t remembered so much for her golden pipes, but for her falling victim to a disease few were aware of before she thrust it into the limelight with lots of help from trashy tabloids in particular and the media in general.

Karen and Richard grew up listening to their father’s records, and thus learned as children to appreciate the music of Patti Page, Spike Jones, and Les Paul and Mary Ford. Older brother Richard began showing signs of musical talent, and in 1963, when Karen was thirteen, dad Harold moved the family to Downey, California, in part because he hated the cold winters of Connecticut, and also to give Richard a better chance at becoming a professional musician.

Tomboy Karen thrived in Southern California. She too enjoyed music, and soon was practicing the drums every chance that she had. Drumming came naturally to her, and she became an excellent musician in her own right.

In 1964, Richard formed the Richard Carpenter Trio, with his sister and a tuba and bass player friend named Wes Jacobs. They played local gigs for wedding and dances and found their love of music increasing daily. They also won a Battle of the Bands at the Hollywood Bowl.

As the 60’s wore on, Karen and Richard eventually parted ways with Jacobs and pressed on as a duo. They began using overdubbing in their makeshift studio to make the group sound bigger, and a demo tape made it all the way into Herb Alpert’s possession.

In April 1969, Herb’s A&M Records signed up “Carpenters” (no “the”) to a contract. Their first album, Ticket to Ride, was a modest success, but their smash second album placed them permanently into the history of popular music.

Karen and Richard both disliked their sugary-sweet reputations, but not so much as to go out and party till they puked. They also gave much creative control of their music to A&M in the contract that they signed, and while this did eventually result in sixteen consecutive Top Twenty hits, it also meant that they recorded a lot of what they considered dreck. Karen was also unhappy with being forced to sing standing up at public appearances, preventing her from playing her beloved drums.

Karen had once gone on a diet to lose nearly 25 pounds when she was seventeen, and continued to obsess about her weight throughout the rest of her life. As the popularity of the group began to wane in the mid 1970’s, she lost control of her obsession and began starving herself.

Her preferred method was crash dieting. She would gain some weight back, then starve herself again. Such a regimen is tough on one’s body, particularly the heart. When she died in 1983, it was shortly after gaining back thirty pounds. While good for her physique, it was more than her weakened heart could handle. She died of cardiac arrest at her parents’ home.

Sadly, Karen had planned to publicly share her victory over anorexia nervosa and become a spokesperson in making people more aware of the disease, but her untimely death prevented her from doing so. Yet, with her passing, she still accomplished part of her goal.

Karen’s name became synonymous with anorexia, and after her death, a lot more media attention was given the ailment. Today, signs of anorexia are often spotted early by people who are much more aware of the warning signs. When Karen first began her unhealthy dieting ritual, it took a long time for her condition to be diagnosed. Today, thanks to this sweet-voiced singer, untold numbers of anorexics who might otherwise succumb are being helped to recover from their illnesses.

Dark Side of the Moon

In 1965, a British guitarist named Syd Barrett formed a little band that eventually came to be called Pink Floyd. Barrett, who would become a poster child for the bad effects of LSD, eventually lost touch with reality itself and was dismissed from the group.

The remaining members used ponderous walls of sound and massive amounts of production to produce albums that nearly collapsed under the weight of their own self-importance. But the albums were great despite themselves. Animals, Wish You Were Here, The Wall, and The Final Cut are all four- or five-star Rolling Stone rated, the only critical ratings I pay any attention to.

But it was their 1973 release of their magnum opus that put Pink Floyd on the map as THE progressive rock group.

Dark Side of the Moon, commonly referred to as DSOTM, was an amazing release that set a new standard for what would afterward define a concept album.

Where do you begin in writing about such an amazing piece of work?

First of all, it was produced by the band itself, all four members being credited. Quite an accomplishment it was to produce an album that is among the most perfectly produced ever. Alan Parsons oversaw the engineering.

The album also payed tribute to Syd Barrett, as Brain Damage described his psychosis. Shine On You Crazy Diamond, from Wish You Were Here, likewise payed homage to the group’s founder.

The songs segued seamlessly throughout each side. Voices were interspliced among the music that were provided by roadies, road managers, a member of Paul McCartney’s band, and an Irish doorman, among others.

And the songs! Pink Floyd hit a creative peak here, although they had more great albums to come. But the soaring vocals of The Great Gig in the Sky still raise goosebumps on me after at least a thousand listenings. Time is one of those songs that must be played loudly, or not at all. Us and Them is a dreamy voyage punctuated by two sax solos that soar.

And, for better or worse, Money introduced a barnyard term to mainstream radio.

The album spent 741 consecutive weeks in Billboards Top 100. That’s 14 years. That record will likely never be broken.

And, shades of Paul McCartney’s death rumors, it even spawned a “connection” to The Wizard of Oz. It seems that if you begin playing the album after the MGM Lion’s third roar, the music meshes perfectly with the action of the film. The group denied any involvement in this coincidence.

DSOTM is one of those rare albums that sounds better with each playing. And if you remember JFK, you can remember when it began its 14-year ride on the charts.

Casey Kasem and the American Top 40 Countdown

Thanks to popular demand (and please, keep your requests coming!), today’s I Remember JFK memory is about a radio voice that is so familiar that it seems parodied, even when it’s not: that of Casey Kasem.

I wasn’t always a Kasem fan. That’s because his rise as the voice of America’s Top Forty coincided with the decline of my beloved AM rock and roll medium. It wasn’t Casey’s fault, but his packaged FM show hastened the death of WLS’s rock and roll 100,000 watt voice, as well as that of other AM powerhouses.

But Casey couldn’t be blamed for that, any more than airline magnate Howard Hughes could be blamed for the fact that you can no longer catch a passenger train to any town in the US with a population of 1,000 or more.

In fact, Mr. Kasem is an amazing story of just how ANYBODY can succeed in America. And he is also a nice part of the memories of Baby Boomers. And that makes him an essential cog in the I Remember JFK machinery. So Casey, this one’s for you.

The story begins in Detroit, on the day of April 27, 1932. That was the day that Kermal Amin Kasem was born to his Lebanese-descended parents.

Casey, as he preferred to be called, was proud of his Arab-American lineage. But he also knew that he was a minority, and would therefore have to work hard to be accepted in the less-than-enlightened years in which he grew up.

Casey Kasem in the 70’s, hosting America’s Top Forty

Kasem was blessed with a golden radio voice, and he went to work in the medium in short order. In 1952 he was drafted into the U.S. Army where he was a successful deejay for the Armed Forces Radio Korea Network.

When the “conflict” was over, he landed an on-air gig with Detroit station WJBK early in the 50’s. He liked radio, and, like many successful DJ’s, began moving to new locations across the nation as opportunities arose.

By the early 60’s, he was jocking for Oakland station KEWB, and he was becoming known as a trivia specialist.

This was basically what his syndicated show would be about, and his American Top Forty debuted in 1970 as a presentation of what was hot, along with a little-known-factoid here and there to spice things up.

The show was a hit, and fledgling FM stations all over the country began syndicating it in droves during the Blow Dryer Decade. Soon, Kasem’s perfect voice was heard coming out of wedge speakers in the rear decks of 60’s era vehicles all over this great nation of ours every Sunday afternoon.

By the 80’s, American Top Forty was huge business. Kasem cut his ties in 1988, only to give it another go in 1998. He continues to play a part with the show, even though he no longer does the talking.

Kasem also does extensive work promoting the importance of the work that Arab-Americans play in our society.

So here’s to a self-made man who is also a part of our Boomer memory banks: One Casey Kasem.

By the Time I Got to Woodstock . . .

The tensions of the 60’s erupted in various ways. The most unfortunate were the riots, notable ones occurring in Watts, California, Detroit, Newark, Chicago, and Washington D.C. More peaceful statements were made by sit-ins and marches.

But an amazing statement was made in the form of a three-day music festival on an upstate farm owned by dairy farmer Max Yasgur.

Yasgur no doubt never knew what he was getting into. It was planned for up to 200,000 to attend the Woodstock Festival. By the time non-paying stragglers wandered in from all over the country, there were 500,000. Yasgur’s farm was essentially destroyed. But he remained good-natured about it, and received a $50,000 check from the festival organizers to make things right.

The nation held its breath as young people, all of whom were angry about things like the Vietnam war, the Civil Rights movement, and Spiro Agnew’s condescending rants about their opinions, gathered in a VERY large group. This could be very, very ugly.

But, as it turned out, the biggest problem was finding a place to go to the bathroom.

My own depiction of Jimi closing out Woodstock

The rains fell more or less steadily over the weekend as an impressive group of musicians played sets that began in the afternoon and continued until well after sunrise. The performers included Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Who, The Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Canned Heat, Joe Cocker, Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, Arlo Guthrie, and curiously, Sha-Na-Na. That was one wild gig for an oldies act.

It was Jimi Hendrix who capped the wild weekend with his 9:00 AM Sunday morning two-hour set. It may have been the performance of his career. Ironically, it was also the least-attended event. The crowd was down to 80,000 by then. But Hendrix wowed ’em with his immortal playing of the Star Spangled Banner, complete with warlike sound effects. And of course, setting his guitar on fire on stage is one of the festival’s defining moments.

Life Magazine did a ten-page spread on the festival, and that’s what I remember most vividly. It was kind to the concept that a significant statement had been made peacefully. It just didn’t smell too good where the statement took place.

Perhaps the ultimate statement was made when the US Postal Service issued a stamp honoring Woodstock in 1999. What was once viewed in fear as the ultimate potential riot has been immortalized with a postage stamp.

Nothing like Woodstock has taken place since. And it will likely ever be repeated. It was the first time such a group came together, and nobody knew what to expect.

Elvis Makes a Triumphant Comeback

Elvis performing on his 1968 Comeback Special

Regular readers of I Remember JFK know where I stand on the subject of Elvis. He had as much performing talent as any one individual who was ever born, but unfortunately, he also had the naiveté to put his trust in a manipulative individual who saw nothing but dollar signs as far as his client was concerned. The result was that Colonel Tom Parker stifled the man’s talent to an extent that we may never know. During most of the 60’s, instead of recording more and more great rock and roll like he cranked out during the 50’s, he was in movie studios. Disposable, forgettable dreck was the overwhelming result. Each bad movie came out with a bad soundtrack. Lots of money was made, but untold quantities of God-given talent was tragically, permanently wasted.

But in late 1968, Elvis, backed by TV producer Steve Binder, dug in his heels against Parker and starred in a December NBC special that reminded the world of what all of the excitement was about ten years earlier.

Parker wanted Elvis singing Christmas tunes. Binder, who had previously stood up to Chrysler over Petula Clark touching Harry Belafonte’s arm during a duet on her own 1968 special (Chrysler didn’t feel the world was ready for a white woman to touch a black man on broadcast TV), was not intimidated by Elvis’s doltish manager. The result was one of television’s greatest moments, and a revitalization of the King’s career.

The special consisted of staged songs on a set intermixed with live recordings.

There was all sorts of controversy. For example, one song was to be performed in a bordello! The network squawked, Binder held, and the scene was included.

Surprisingly, one of the strongest voices against the live segments was that of Elvis himself. His last live appearance, thanks to his Hollywood-obsessed manager, was in 1961. The Tupelo, Mississippi-born kid had stage fright after years of performing in front of movie crews instead of screaming fans.

Again, Binder stuck to his guns, and Elvis was convinced to get behind a microphone before applauding fans.

Thus, that summer, the King sat down on a Burbank stage before four different audiences in four different sessions, and history was made. Live performances would comprise the bulk of the rest of his career, definitely a positive move for the man and (sigh) unfortunately, the manager, too.

Elvis quickly got over his stage fright. Only a small portion of the live scenes were used in the show, but they had an impact. Plus, bootlegs were leaked onto the market of the four sessions. The lucky ones who got their hands on the boots were blown away by this man who had captured the imaginations of their parents and older siblings.

And fortunately, for us old goats, you can now obtain the four-CD set of the Comeback Sessions on the legal market. You can feel the passion of this man who was born to put soul into music finally getting his wish after so many years.

The next year, Elvis released an album in keeping with his newfound spirit. From Elvis in Memphis put the wasteland of the 60’s far, far behind. The man who had been coerced into taping stuff like Girls! Girls! Girls! was now belting out an R&B classic (Any Day Now), country fare (I’m Movin’ On, a harbinger of his future career path), and bold social commentary (In the Ghetto).

From Elvis in Memphis was justifiably given a place as one of the 500 greatest rock and roll albums ever created in the opinion of Rolling Stone magazine. I strongly agree.

Elvis was taken from us at too young an age, but how wonderful that his later career received a shot in the arm thanks to him and gutsy TV producer Steve Binder standing up to Colonel Tom Parker in 1968, and turning what was supposed to be 90 minutes of Christmas songs into a public reminder of just how much talent the King possessed.

Portable Eight-Track Players

We had some great radio in the late 60’s-early 70’s. If you lived near the middle of the US, you got WLS at night, the greatest rock and roll station in history, IMHO. But daytime was another matter.

The FCC directed WLS to throttle its power way back in the daytime. In my small town, FM was in the future. AM was country music. An honorable genre loved by its fans, it was hated by me.

That left one alternative: the portable eight-track player.

In this day and age of hundreds of hours of music that fits in a player small enough to clip to your belt, eight-track tapes seem prehistoric. But they were cool to own circa 1971. Sure, they faded in and out between switching tracks (creating some unique memories of songs that now don’t quite sound right without it!) and were prone to breaking after many playings, but we still loved them.

Hundreds of thousands of portable players were sold so we could take our music with us wherever we went. Like the tapes themselves, they were of great mass. Big enough to run on four or more D-cell batteries, call them alpha-version iPods.

The coolest ever designed was the pictured Panasonic Plunger. Switching tracks was like blowing something up! Does that rock, or what?

Of course, portability meant not only toting a player. You also had a suitcase full of tapes to listen to. That meant somebody else had to carry the cooler and towels to the beach.

Eight-track tapes still have their fans, and some bands are even releasing new music in the venerable format! For everything you ever wanted to know about the plastic containers of music, visit http://www.8trackheaven.com/.

Stereos of the 70’s!

The 70’s was a decade known for lots of wild and crazy stuff that came and went in a flurry. I mean, what was hotter, then colder, than disco music? Other uniquely 70’s crazes that appeared for a bit, shined brightly, than vanished included fondue pots, macrame, and CB radios.

Another 70’s debut, but one that didn’t vanish as much as it evolved into smaller, lighter incarnations, was hi-fi stereo systems.

When we were kids of the 50’s and 60’s, we got along fine listening to transistor radios and portable record players. But as we became teenagers and young adults in the 70’s, why, it was time for some serious musical upgrading to take place! And manufacturers of huge wooden-encased components were more than happy to help us out.

One of the first things that I became aware of early in the 70’s was that sound could be heard in absolutely amazing stereo. My mom had a venerable record player console that sounded pretty darned good, with its 12″ woofer providing bass thump that was very impressive despite its its 50’s vintage. But even though it had the word “stereo” on a plastic label on its front panel, it was most assuredly a monophonic system.

I listened to Paul McCartney’s Band on the Run (still one of my favorite albums) on my oldest brother’s headphones about 1972. The stereo sound made me determined that I would have my own sweet sound system as soon as possible.

I began with a Radio Shack FM/cassette deck with satellite speakers in 1975, shortly after I landed my first job sacking groceries. It set me back $199, and a component turntable was another 50 or so bucks.

It sounded great, but lacked deep bass. So two years later, having graduated high school and begun working full time, I sent a check for $1200 to an outfit called Illinois Audio for a Pioneer system.

My dad thought I was nuts. He figured that check would be cashed and I would be ripped off. But within two weeks, a semi-trailer was in Bentonville, Arkansas with a bunch of big boxes inside that belonged to ME!

I’ll never forget the thrill I felt as I unpacked my 40 watt receiver, my Dolby cassette deck, my direct-drive turntable, my gorgeous HPM-40 speakers, and my high-end Koss Pro 4-AAA headphones that I had splurged for.

That stereo turned out to be a whale of an investment. It provided me with an amazing amount of pleasure and entertainment over the years, and a few years later, my brand-new wife was pleased that I had a decent sound system. Lord knows I didn’t have much else in the way of material things!

Nowadays, I do most of my listening to music in the car or on the computer (Carly Simon’s Spy sounds good through my Creative subwoofer system as I pen this piece). But I still have a bonzer home system, too. The last of my original Pioneer components to go were my HPM-40 speakers. They sold in a yard sale five years ago. My kids had managed to push both woofer cones in as they struggled to master the fine art of walking, but they still sounded good.

But as long as I live, I’ll never forget the ecstasy I felt as I unpacked my heavy, wooden-clad Pioneer stereo components and hooked them all together, then listening to that first rush of high-fidelity sound.