True
Confessions of a Music Nerd
In
the beginning, there was gospel music. Country gospel music.
Only Country gospel music. I mean gimme that ol’ time religion,
guitar and banjo type stuff here. I’m not kidding around.
By the time I had turned eleven or twelve, the family had progressed
to the more modern sounds of Jimmy Swaggart (yes, him), The Cathedrals,
and The Rambos. There remained though, only Gospel music allowed
in the house. Whether it was radio, or, eventually, the television,
it had to be gospel music, quickly be changed, or be hit. At
first, with such a wide array of other possibilities for getting
hit, I conformed. I may have learned to swallow my complaints
every time I had to turn down the television volume on one of
those “worldly music” K-tel commercials, but I could
not hide my keen interest and mounting curiosity. I mean what
kind of evil did Barry Manilow and The Captain and Tenille possess
that just hearing them could…could what? I wasn’t
sure. Dilute your mind? Damn your soul? Or send you into a tailspin
of temptation that would drill you right to China? I didn’t
know, but it sure seemed to scare the bejeezus out of Mom and
Dad. This fact alone meant it couldn’t be all bad and was
definitely worthy of further investigation.
To
this day, I’m unsure if dancing really does lead to sex,
or if it’s actually sex that leads to dancing. It would
explain the lack of rhythm in our church. It remains a fact,
however, that once I heard The Sylvers’ “Boogie
Fever” on the next-door neighbor’s radio – I
was infected. Yes. I caught “Boogie Fever”; and,
according to the church, S.T.D.’s were sure to follow.
As it turned out, S.T.D.’s and anything remotely possible
of transmitting one remained at bay for nearly a decade. In
the meantime, something far more sinister became a regular
part of my life. Every Sunday. Each and every Sunday at twelve
noon, Satan himself, in the form of Casey Kasem and American
Top 40 held me captive. I hadn’t the power, not the will
to resist. I quickly found myself completely devoted, a slave
to the rhythm, despite my rock of ages upbringing. If I was
disciplined in nothing else, I was religious about this weekly
ritual.
I
would sweat bullets to get home from church so I could secretly
and under risk of switch-welted legs catch the entire Top 40
show. When it became apparent that I could regularly lose as
many as eight or ten song rankings due to a long-winded evangelist,
something had to be done. I began to secretly tape record the
show until I could get home from church at whatever hour and
jettison to my room to ensure all had gone well. Every Sunday
I played “American Top 40: Mission Impossible.” Even
in my initiation to American Top 40, the amount of vital information
to remember was overwhelming. Memorizing the books of the Bible
proved small potatoes compared to the ever changing charts.
I mean, how many weeks had the song been on the charts? How
many spots had the song ascended or fallen since last week?
Where was the artist from? What was their story? Was there
a story behind the song? How many copies had it sold to date?
Was the song’s ranking about to tie or top a long standing
Top 40 record? This information had to be cataloged. And that’s
exactly what I began to do.
Every
Sunday, with the commitment of an aesthetic, I would studiously
record all the chart details on notebook paper. Under the heading
of “American Top 40” and that particular Sunday’s
date I neatly wrote out each ranking song and artist, number
of weeks on the chart, and chart movement (up 3 or down 8)
since last week, as well as any pertinent artist facts for
each song #40 down to #1. I devoured all of it: The Commodores, “Car
Wash,” The Little River Band, Loverboy, K.C. and the
Sunshine Band, or The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. It didn’t
matter, I devoured it all. Here was a whole world of sounds
and beats outside of Country gospel music I couldn’t
have ever even imagined. And, through the music, also, a whole
world of emotion outside of exclusively rage, fear, and praising
God. In the sincere, warm tones of Casey’s voice and,
more importantly, the music itself, I found connection and
drew conclusions.
While
the tenets of the “church in the dale” may have
maintained that sultry “Muskrat Love” could lead
to beaver, I failed to be convinced of eminent damnation. I
mean how evil could Casey be? He routinely sent out long distance
dedications to dying children or spouses separated by misunderstanding
or military tenure. If this was an introduction to hell, it
was certainly kinder and gentler than the introduction to heaven
I'd been given thus far.
It
turns out that Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 was a gateway
drug, much like marijuana would be later. It wasn’t long
before I was old enough to be left home alone during my folks’ trips
to the grocery. During these brief moments of unbridled freedom,
years of the reign being held too tight and feeling the stinging
last of the switch too often came to a rolling boil. In these
raucous moments, Casey’s dulcet tones were a distant
Sunday memory as I heeded the imperative of the local FM Rock
station DJ in that Monster Rig/Tractor Pull-commercial-voice
to “Tune it in and rip off the knob!” His tone
suggested, “Or else!” But I didn’t need further
encouragement. I tuned, I ripped, I seethed with rock rebellion;
all the while nervously peering from behind the drawn draped
and instantly switching to inspirational programming if I thought
I heard the grinding of the driveway gravel, my heart still
pounding from bringing to frightening full life all the passion
of Billy Squire’s “The Stroke” or AC/DC’s “TNT
Dynamite.” I strutted and pranced, pumped my fist and
popped my eyes in what I imagined to be true rock star style.
Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall” was
the perfect antithesis to every overwrought, sweaty, old spice
stinking evangelist that ever “laid hands” on me.
Loverboy’s “Turn me loose” became my secret
anthem and ammunition. Left home alone, radio blaring, I shouted
into my mother’s hairbrush, spittle flying and veins
pulsing: “I’ve had all I can take! I can’t
take it no more! I’m gonna pack my bags and fly!!” I
hurled each lyric as an assault and declaration as if my father
were tied and gagged in the kitchen chair positioned in front
of me. It would require some counseling and my eventual terrified
call to the police, but I did “pack my bags and fly!!” I
would find out much later that I was born with an inextinguishable
fire within me. Loverboy provided some kindling when the embers
burned low.
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