Immigration, Jobs, and Sports

I didn’t think I could get into too much trouble, or cause anyone severe brain damage by writing about something I know a considerable amount about. As a matter of fact, more than most people according to sports scholars and several noted historians. So, if what I write here pisses someone off, and they feel it necessary to share their infinite wisdom with me, and tell me how far off base (get it) I am, save it for someone who gives a shit. I could write this like a scholarly article with footnotes and citations to appease all of you who doubt my expertise, but what would be the fun in that? My writing bores most of you to death anyway. If you just take my word for it, that I’ve done the research, and this is what I’ve come up with, it’ll be more entertaining for everyone, and maybe you’ll learn something (what a concept) in the process.
Donald Trump has enacted a policy which has set the world, not just the U.S. on its collective ear. I will not venture into the whole brouhaha, but I will broach one argument that has been made as to why the flow of immigrants must be quelled. The argument has been around longer than many of you may realize. This was a contention many made about what would happen if slavery was abolished. Former slaves would take jobs from the “white folk.” Bullshit. As with every immigrant wave since, the former slaves were going to do the work no one else wanted to do. Forget “40 acres and a mule” as Gen. Sherman proposed. Sharecropping was not anything anyone aspired to. It was the rare occasion indeed that most slaves had the funds to leave the South to be gainfully employed as an artisan during the Industrial Revolution. Those former slaves that did become artisans, frequently came from urban hubs close to the Mason-Dixon line. Jim Crow and northern marginalization took care of things for future generations. Blacks for the most part, remained relegated to work many whites felt was beneath them. Not the Germans, Irish, Chinese, or Eastern Europeans.
There was a line from the movie Gangs of New York that sums it up rather accurately; Nativist Bill Cutting, Daniel Day-Lewis’ character states, “What the white man will do for a quarter, the N----- will do for a dime, the Irish will do for a nickel. This mentality exists to this day. Please take note of who mows lawns or works at your local quicky mart. Often it’s an immigrant.
Eastern Europeans, Germans, Irish all worked in the dangerous mines. Chinese were the cheap labor that built the railroads. Members of all immigrant groups became domestic help. Whites nativists wanted none of it. They were farmers who’d work than land and starve, rather than do work they felt demeaning. Later, Italians became a cheap labor resource. Some fought back. They were labeled anarchists.
Today, the argument that immigrants will be taking jobs away from “Americans,” is as much bullshit as it was over 150 years ago. If jobs are “taken away” it could be because an immigrant was more qualified. Wernher Von Braun, a German immigrant (it does not matter how he got here), was an aerospace engineer that aided in the development of the U.S. space program. I bet some other native born aerospace engineer was cursing under his breath about his missed opportunity, and how all the other foreign-born geniuses should be deported. This is just one example, but you get the point I hope.
So the next time you hear that the current immigrant wave should be stopped because of all the jobs “real Americans” are losing, think of my friend from Iraq. He came here for a better life. He has his master’s degree in Civil Engineering. He has been working at The Easy Shop convenience store just up the street from my home for the past 20 years. He worked from 7am to 11pm until his kids were old enough to help out. Then his wife helped when the kids no longer needed her at home. He has 2 kids who have already graduated from college. One, is getting an advanced degree. Another is in her 3rd year of college. The last is a sophomore in high school. My friend has never taken a real vacation as I recall. He has gone on Hajj. He did return to Iraq when his father’s days were ending. That’s it. I have done his taxes. Ugh. He has a job I know many Americans clamor for; not.
Sports has followed a similar employment timeline. Baseball in the 19th century was deemed as a lowly occupation, not honorable work. Parents deterred their children from ever becoming ballplayers. So who became baseball players once winning became paramount, and baseball was no longer just a leisure activity for the aristocracy? Immigrants. A New York shipbuilder once paid the $300 fee for an Irish laborer employee to avoid the draft for the Civil War because he was a great ballplayer. See, concessions are made if you are good at what you do. No one complained that the Irish and Germans were arguably the best ballplayers. Lou Gehrig, Honus Wagner, Ed Delahanty to name a couple. Later the DiMaggio brothers well represented the first Italian wave. No one was in an uproar that they took “natural born” spots on rosters. That animosity was left for the African-Americans. Baseball remained segregated until Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in 1947 (There were exceptions, but this blog is for the general public, and to explain here would take up too much space). Then the cry went out that black ballplayers would take roster spots from white players. No mention of ethnicity.
Today, in all 4 of the major professional sports (soccer is another matter altogether), rosters are multi-ethnic, multi-racial. No one is crying out that native born only players should participate in these professional sports. You can play all 4 of these sports in different countries albeit at arguably lesser levels. Being the best at what you do is all that matters. America’s professional sports scene is the showcase for the best players. No one seems to care where someone is from, or what ethnic group these athletes belong to. The rest of us should learn a lesson from this, and apply it accordingly.

Words and Music to Live By-Conclusion?

While none of you were sitting on the edge of your seat for the conclusion of this cliffhanger, splitting this last excerpt into two installments was a ridiculous proposition. Especially after post a fourteen-hundred word installment last week. I promise to will come up with something brandinew. However, maybe this was the start of something bigger. Perhaps I will refine this piece to ready for submission somewhere. Maybe this is the beginning of . . .

My friend used her ninth choice to select Electric Ladyland, by Jimi Hendrix, a fantastic choice. I was influenced by Hendrix. I would have selected his Are You Experienced album since it was the most symbolic during that period of my life. However, my brain, along with my list, was now at a different time in my life. I picked Bruce Springsteen. The Boss, which, at the time Born to Run came out, had not yet become anointed that title. I had heard Bruce and the E Street Band’s previous works, Greetings from Asbury Park, and, The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle. Both albums were good, but they weren’t Born to Run. I had seen Bruce before Born to Run made him a huge celebrity. Born to Run catapulted Bruce into the stratosphere. Not long after the release of Born to Run, Bruce appeared on the covers of Time and Newsweek in the same week. No small feat. I told my friends that they really needed to hear this album. Not everyone embraced the album to the extent I did. No matter, I seemed to be the first of my friends to spread the gospel of Bruce. I was entering into my punk phase, and the music on Born to Run was so raw, so edgy, and full of energy (for the time), I didn’t feel I had strayed so far from the punk movement I was becoming entrenched. To confirm this, my tenth slot is filled by Road to Ruin, by The Ramones. Now I could have listed Born in the U.S.A. as my Bruce entry, since that album made a direct contribution to the break-up of my marriage. That’s qualifies as life changing you could say. But, I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer and mark my life in tragedy. Particular for this exercise.
My friend opted for Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, by Elton John for her tenth entry. Don’t get me wrong, Elton John got a lot of airplay on my 8-track, and later my cassettes during this phase of my existence, I just didn’t identify with Elton John. None of the songs told my story, or resonated with what was going on in my life. As a matter of fact, “Tiny Dancer” became more meaningful to me after the song provided context in Cameron Crowe’s biopic, Almost Famous. The Ramones however, most certainly resonated. I had seen them at CBGB’s (OMFUG) before they rose in the national consciousness. Like Bruce Springsteen, The Ramones were local. Kiki Ramone ironically, even worked at the clothier owned by my friend with the 1963 Chevy. I could have picked other albums, but “I Wanna Be Sedated” was a cut off Road to Ruin. This song spoke to me. For good and bad, I behaved like the one described in the song. I tried to see The Ramones whenever I could. Road to Ruin represented my life then, and I was okay with that.
At this point in my list compiling, by selecting the Ramones, I was able to slip The Clash into my two slot. While a couple of Clash albums qualified, London Calling, was my choice. London Calling was a double album containing nineteen songs. Yet, the album sold for single album price. This was The Clash’s way of thumbing their nose at the record business. It wasn’t about the money for punk bands. It was about what the songs said, and the anti-progressive rock approach. Talk about raw . . . wow. I saw The Clash several times. I dressed punk sometimes as daily wear. I identified. That’s pretty influential as well as life changing. Punk was also something my first wife and I had in common, not that I’d recommend this criteria as a cornerstone for a lifelong relationship, which it most certainly wasn’t. Now let’s get to number eleven.
Speaking of my ex-wife, my friend selected Bonnie Raitt, Give it Up, a favorite artist of my ex-wife. I had never heard of Bonnie Raitt, much less listened to her music, until I started dating my ex-wife. That was 1980. Bonnie Raitt had been making music for a decade. My friend’s list was no help. Besides, I couldn’t be stopped. My mind at this point in the list, was focused on albums that have made an indelible impression on my brain during a concentrated period. Based on this benchmarks, Hotel California, by The Eagles, was a logical choice.
The day the album came out, there was a release party at the home of a friend of mine. Between twenty and thirty people showed up. We did lots-o-drugs. During the playing of the song “Hotel California,” there was total silence, and no, everyone did not simultaneously OD. We were enraptured. No one danced. We all stood motionless, and felt frozen in time, like the moment would never end. When the song concluded, we all cheered and applauded. Just like as if you were attending a concert. We played the album in its entirety several times. Each time, noticing something new that we missed during previous playings. No one minded we played just the Hotel California album. We didn’t want to hear anything else. This album required our full attention and understanding. It was a night for the ages. The Eagles have other albums that could be on this list, but not the story to go along with it.
My friend concluded her list with an admirable choice, Déjà vu, by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. I owned this album, and listened to it quite frequently, but it didn’t fit with the ongoing theme of my list. Joan Jett and The Blackhearts did. Bad Reputation could have filled this spot just as easily as I Love Rock n’ Roll based on the music alone. But the list is not favorite albums, or albums with the most hit songs, these were albums that influenced or changed my life. Joan Jett was another artist my ex-wife and I both enjoyed, even prior to dating. One of our first dates was going to see Joan Jett and the Blackhearts in Hempstead, L.I. The drive took nearly three hours due to the large amount of snow that had fallen. We ignored the snow, and the subsequent traffic it had spawned, we were young, we were falling in love, and we loved Joan Jett. This night was ours.
Fast forward a couple of years. While rehabilitating from a near fatal motorcycle accident, Joan Jett, and her new release The Glorious Results of a Misspent Youth, joined Lou Reed as my inspiration music. So much had Joan Jett influenced my life that that album title became the title of my memoir. Yes, I Love Rock n’ Roll earned a place on my list. And I do love rock n’ roll. So much so, as soon as I posted my list on my friend’s page where this saga began, I immediately thought: “Oh shit, I left off Tom Petty. How could I leave off Tom Petty? “American Girl” kept me from a longer jail sentence. And the concert with Cory . . . and the first event I attended after I got out of the hospital. Those stories will have to wait. And The Band. Geez, Stage Fright evokes so many memories. And The Stray Cats. And Dave Edmunds . . .”
It was similar to when I lecture or speak to groups. I rarely use or refer to notes. So, there is the speech I’m going to give, the speech I give, and the speech I should have given. This list is like that. Once I posted my results, after some commentary and other lists were posted by friends, it was suggested, how about twelve albums after 1990 that changed or influenced your life. I’m afraid I must beg off on that one for a while. This was such an ordeal. I don’t think my friend intended this exercise to suck out our life force.

Words, and Music to Live By-III

It didn't take long to forget Wednesday was blog day. I guess in all the excitement this short story has generated, it completely slipped my mind someone, anyone may want to read the rest. I think the choice of accompanying picture was sly on my part. Probably the only part of the blog you may agree with. Here is the third excerpt. This one is as long as the other two combined, yet only covers two album choices. Both were quite life changing/influencing.
Her seven is “The Beatles First Album.” I use quotations because The Beatles first studio album was Please, Please Me. The Beatles first album to most casual fans of the era was Meet The Beatles. Both are equally good. Both are equally influential. But, if The Beatles were to be included on my list, The White Album, probably influenced me the most, except while I was operating under the time-thought-given constraints, it dawned on me that no Beatles album made its way into the top twelve most influential/life-changing. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved The Beatles. I had a dozen of their 45s. 45s were cheap, albums were expensive. Besides, my sister loved The Beatles. This alone served to influence my seventh slot choice. When The Beatles began their meteoric rise into the stratosphere after coming to the U.S., another band from the British Invasion piqued my interest, The Dave Clark Five.
The Dave Clark Five was the bugaboo to my sister’s Beatles. I loved that the band had a sax and keyboards, instruments The Beatles lacked, like they needed it, chyeah. Every time my sister wanted an album, she asked my parents to buy it for her. If they did not oblige, she had a tantrum until they relented. I was not so fortunate. When I approached my parents about purchasing The Dave Clark Five, Glad All Over album, I was told I got an allowance. This is 1964 mind you. I was six or seven when this incident took place. I received 10 cents a week allowance. The dog crap in the backyard needed to be removed in order for my father to mow the lawn. This was my chore if I wanted to collect this kingly sum. The shovels I used were easily twice as tall as I was. Or it at least felt that way. It was a special treat if it rained beforehand, or I had missed a discharge from the week before. Like this duty, not to be confused with doodie, wasn’t unpleasant enough. My sister got twenty-five cents a week for doing absolutely nothing. I don’t know what lesson I was learning from this arrangement, but it certainly wasn’t save for a rainy day.
Glad All Over cost $3.89 at Harmony Hut down on Route 22 just outside Springfield, New Jersey. There wasn’t sales tax at the time. So I saved my lousy ten cents a week for the next thirty-nine weeks, and bought Glad All Over. I never let my sister play it. Ha! Take that! Talk about influencing my life . . . the circumstances alone certainly qualify.
My friend’s number eight wouldn’t make my number eighty. She had The Doors. She can keep them. Never a devotee of The Doors or The Dead. Make all the protestations you want. Tell me all the arguments for both bands genius. The words will fall on deaf ears. Sure, I like a song or two from each bands’ careers. But an entire album? That would be a “no.” My eight pick blew apart my chronology format. It was hard enough to pick the one album I did because the band represented three I so closely identified with. I had worn out two albums, two 8-tracks, and two cassettes of Dark Side of the Moon. If you need me to tell you the band, you’ve probably been living on the moon for the past fifty years. Wish You Were Here, which at the time, seemed like it was written just for me. Can you tell I had reached new heights in my drug choices at this point in my life? But when the smoke in my brain cleared, I decided The Wall should be the Pink Floyd album that had the most influence.
WNEW, a popular New York City rock station was running a contest. The rules were the station would play twenty Pink Floyd songs over the course of a week. You had to name the song, as well as the day and time it was played. You were required to compile this list and submit it on a postcard by the contest postmark deadline, which was forty-eight hours after the week of songs had concluded. If one of the songs was wrong, it disqualified the entire entry. If one of the days was wrong. It disqualified the entire entry. If one of the times was wrong, it disqualified the entire entry. Not a lot of margin for error. The prize at stake? An all-expenses paid trip for two, with first-class airfare, to London to see Pink Floyd perform the touring production of The Wall at Royal Albert Hall.
I submitted one-hundred correct entries. How do I know they were correct? The playlist was read back to the listening audience prior to announcing the winner. Why would I submit one-hundred entries you may ask, then again maybe you won’t, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Pink Floyd had already announced plans to do only twelve productions of The Wall in the United States. Seven were to be in Los Angeles, five at Nassau Coliseum, in New York, out on Long Island. Why would a band come all the way across the pond to do only twelve shows? I did not know why at the time, hence the one-hundred entries. I was intrigued. The show had to be so extraordinary, and such a grand production, it would have been nearly impossible to duplicate stopping in dozens of major cities. Not to mention the cost of such an extravaganza. At least that was what I was guessing. What did I know at the time? I was on drugs.
I did not win the contest. I was not the first entry picked with all of the correct answers, there were my one-hundred, and forty-eight other individuals who submitted multiple correct entries. I did receive a nice card congratulating me, a cool “Wall” t-shirt. I made sure to wear it the night I intended to see The Wall out on the island.
Tickets sold out rapidly, particularly by pre-internet standards. I was going to the show come hell or high water. It happened to be one of the coldest days of the winter that year. I don’t recall the exact date, but I do remember it was February. I owned a Corvette at the time. As was my rule, I never drove a Corvette I owned if the temperature dropped below fifty degrees. Normally, I owned a junker car for foul weather driving. I happened to be between junkers at this point in time. A friend of mine was kind enough to lend me his 1963 Chevy Bel Air. My friend said the only drawbacks of the car were no heat, and the front passenger side window only went half way up. The drive to Uniondale was a nightmare. My pre-concert adrenaline provided all the necessary heat I needed, for my date, not so much.
My date bitched and cried about the cold most of the drive. When we arrived, I still had to scalp tickets. Immediately after getting out of the car, we were approached by a scalper offering us seats somewhere on a mountaintop in Iceland for the tidy sum of $80 . . . a piece. I inquired as to his current mental state of instability. There must have been one-hundred people looking for tickets, and two selling tickets. Our odds were not good. I remained undaunted. My date cursed me, she was on the verge of hypothermia. I got us out of the wind by walking in between buses as we made our way to the arena. Suddenly, a man appeared from behind one of the buses. “You need tickets?” he asked. “Yes,” I apprehensively replied. The scalper told me he had two tickets . . . fifth row . . . $100 a piece. I had $250 on me. My date shrieked, “Buy them for god’s sake you asshole. I’m freezing.” I couldn’t disappoint my date by giving this substantial purchase some thought. Sold. Fifth row.
We witnessed, in my opinion, the greatest artistic performance I had ever attended. I still feel that way to this day. It was a truly epic production. A small plane crashed behind the wall that was constructed on stage block by block. When the plane burst into flames, the Uniondale fire department extinguished the fire. The guy in front of us, obviously in an altered state of consciousness, claimed to have seen god at several times throughout the show. At one point in the concert, an entire section of the wall dropped out to reveal Roger Waters sitting in a recliner, in a small scale living room, watching the ten o’clock news on channel five, all the while singing “Nobody Home.” David Gilmour played the guitar solo from “Comfortably Numb” atop a hydraulic platform above the wall. There was more, but you get the idea. Yes, The Wall is my eight. I'll post the final excerpt next week regardless of length. I can here the "thank goodness" utterances from here.

Words and Music to Live By- Part II

This is the continuation, or second supplement if you will, from the short story I composed at a friend's request. If you recall, an exercise posted on Facebook asking to list the 12 albums that changed or influenced my life. If you don't recall, or did not read last week's blog, means you probably aren't reading this one. So, big, icy, elephants, cake, I-beams using migraine Elmer's glue. So there. Let's move on.
Number four on my friend’s list was Bad Company, by, strangely enough, Bad Company. A nice choice, but not for me. Bad Company was purchased by one of my dearest friends from my youth just prior to his move to Ohio. We’d get a little teary-eyed listening to the cut Movin’ On. His move changed my life, the album did not. Motivated by a precise definition of the “influence/change” criteria, my number four was Rock and Roll Animal, by Lou Reed, an album I listened to with this same neighborhood friend. As I recall, he was not as smitten as I with Lou Reed. My friend’s father worked for RCA, in what capacity, I do not know. I do know my friend’s father brought home awesome music before the albums hit the stores. This was how my affection for David Bowie started. Hunky Dory showed up at my friend’s house, and I was a fan, same for Lou Reed. Rock and Roll Animal took on much more meaning three years after its release date.
I was completely in the throes of my first bout with cocaine addiction. A friend of mine enjoyed partaking as well, just not to the level of excess as I. Every Friday, for a couple of months in 1977, he and I would cook up some steaks, some squash and garlic concoction he called vegetable surprise, and some sort of potato side. He began cleaning up by putting on the live version of Sweet Jane, with, in my opinion, one of the great guitar intros of all time. The Heroin cut off Rock and Roll Animal would follow. I would prepare the dry goods version of aperitifs, if you will, and we’d be off to the races, our pulse rate went first. Yes, Rock and Roll Animal directly influenced my life. Number four had earned its spot. Now, the Lou Reed impact doesn’t end there. Sadly, an artist can only appear on the list once. If allowed, Lou’s, New Sensations was equally life changing, but on a much more positive note. I had met Lou Reed in Andover, New Jersey while out on a motorcycle ride. He was too. We chatted at the local general store. I gushed about the times I had seen him perform live. He talked about our respective bikes. I wasn’t star-struck until I bid him adieu. My hands shook for miles. I crashed that bike not too far in the future. I Love You Suzanne became one of my rehabilitation anthems as I recuperated. This was an either/or choice. Again, I stuck with chronology.
My social media tormentor posted Eat a Peach, by The Allman Brothers, as her fifth selection. I almost agreed. My sister owned a copy of Eat a Peach, I had my own. Eat a Peach was a staple at KOK, (a high school fraternity of sorts), parties if I was fortunate enough to be invited. One Way Out served as the warm-up song for the high school varsity basketball team my first year on the squad. Yes, Eat a Peach would fit nicely. So it too, takes the five slot on my list. Again, a band only being allowed to appear on the list once created a quandary. If The Allman Brothers were to be on my list, Live at Fillmore East exerted just as much influence. Fillmore East had been the venue my sister had taken me to see them. I owned the album. It could have been six to one, a half-dozen of another for The Allman Brothers. However, many of the good friends I made in high school held Eat a Peach in high regard. My list should reflect that as well.
Number six, my list creating friend posted was Ziggy. There is no need to list the album’s title in its entirety. There is no need to list the artist. The only thought I need to give to this choice is, is this the album I want representing David Bowie? Hearing Bowie expanded my musical tastes. I recall a time when every tape in my 8-track case was by David Bowie. However, Suffragette City off the Ziggy album, had, at my suggestion, replaced One Way Out as the basketball team’s warm-up song. Later, friends of mine formed a band. They would practice in my basement. I think as a gesture of kindness, they included Suffragette City in their playlist, with me singing, or shall I say performing the song. My singing skills left much to be desired. Yes, Ziggy would be a grand selection indeed.

Words, and Music to Live By-Part I

Last week I posted my first blog in quite some time. While living for five years in an ashram in India with no internet access, writing a blog on papyrus seemed too much work. Only kidding. While pursuing my doctorate for those five lost years, my creative writing was shelved in lieu of academic writing. Creative writing did not serve as an escape; it would have been an extension of the drudgery of scholarly work. At least that was the excuse my brain came up with. So I’m writing a blog again.
The impetus for writing again as I said, fell on a Facebook friend. She had posted one of those time wasting exercises that fill the mundane void of the day. Her post suggested we list 12 albums that changed or influenced our life. I did so, and mentioned the story I could write about the selection process. She said she’d love to read it. Well, that never happened. Or, it was so bad, she, an editor by trade, didn’t want to hurt my feeling. That wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t have known how many submissions had been rejected to this point. It takes a lot to hurt my feeling where my writing is concerned. Good thing too, based on the amount of people who took the time last week to check in. The infamous attention span ebb has infiltrated every generation . . . Oh look a puppy! . . .what was I saying?
In the interest of the dwindling attention, I’ve shave my blogs down to 1000 words. About the amount of time it takes to take a dump. Ironically, where you probably should read this. This is the first excerpt of that story my Facebook friend wanted to read. I’m betting she still won’t read it.

Words, and Music to Live By

It started as most social media queries do, fun and frivolous. The brain teaser wasn’t complicated. A harmless posting by a friend asked, without wracking my brain or becoming too time consuming, to name twelve albums that changed or influenced my life. The only caveat was artists could be listed only once. “Well, that seems simple enough,” or so I thought.
The person who had originally posted the task had included their list. Needless to say, her list influenced mine. So I guess you could say regardless of my list, the albums on her list still wielded influence in my life. Oh, the paradox of paradigms. Normally, I don’t buy into the various time wasters posted by friends encouraging me to join in on the aimless “fun.” However, the individual whose post begat what you are reading, happens to post many things I find intriguing, thought provoking, humorous, or just in agreement with my world view. I am quite sure she is as surprised as I am as to the things we have in common. This was not the case when we attended the same high school. She was an open-minded, free thinker, non-conformist; though she did conform within her circle of friends. At least that’s how this under-achieving, outgoing, jock, with a penchant for the odd or unusual saw things forty years ago. I’m curious if this fits her long ago obscured assessment of me. Doesn’t matter a shite today huh?
She started her list with Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs, by Derek and The Dominos. Released in November of 1970, any Baby Boomer worth their salt rooted in Rock n’ Roll should include this classic album as one that influenced their life. My vested interest exists on several levels.
I had an almost unhealthy obsession with “oldies,” 45’s from the ‘50s and early ‘60s. I dutifully saved my tips from my Morris County Daily Record delivery route. My sister, whom I loathed, would take me to Lowell’s Music in West Orange as I recollect, so I could get my fix. My sister, 6 ½ years my senior, on the other hand, would listen to Jimi Hendrix, Big Brother and The Holding Company, and Cream. I’d strain to listen through the wall that separated our bedrooms to these groundbreaking artists. So close yet so far.
In order to get a better listening experience, I “borrowed” several of these albums one day to share this heavy stuff with my bubble gum listening friends at school. Unbeknownst to me, my sister had cut school that day. When I tried to stealthily return what I had procured without consent, I found my sister in a compromising position, literally, with a friend of hers from high school. The beating I got was not worth the pleasure I derived from the music. However, I immediately heard the connections between my quickly waning music interests and those selections of my sister’s. Layla was the amalgamation of this period of my musical life. Layla would also head my list.
The second album on my friend’s list was Pearl, a solo effort by Janis Joplin. “That’s perfect,” I said to myself. I had purchased my own copy of Cheap Thrills, by Big Brother and The Holding Company, to avoid any more unpleasant confrontations with my sister. My mother had purchased Pearl for me as a belated Christmas present. The only record any of my parents, step, or birth, had ever bought for me. The symbolism was enough to be included on my list as well . . . except . . . the music from the album didn’t change or influence my life. Choice number two would be replaced . . . later . . . after I gave more thought, and reviewed the rest of my friend’s list to save time.
The instigator’s third album was Todd Rundgren’s work, Something/Anything. Never a fan. Slot three, not two, was replaced with Electric Warrior, by T-Rex. My choice was a chronological one. Again, my heinous sister, oddly played a positive roll. Go figure. She had taken me to my first two concerts; T-Rex, and The Allman Brothers. She wound up taking me by default, when my grandparents, nor a babysitter could watch me. She was none too thrilled to say the least. My sister was unfamiliar with the music of T-Rex. She was duly impressed I knew who they were. We attended this concert with a boyfriend of my sisters who my mother did not approve of, which was pretty much the standard. Electric Warrior, to me, was when my musical tastes had arrived. I was ahead of my sister’s curve. Take that, you bitch. I am now officially cooler than you. “Oh man, I need TV when I got T-Rex.”
Next week Part Two, if you’re into that kind of torture.