by Salvatore A. Barcia Jr. (posted July 25, 2019)

Riding the Staten Island Ferry, I bubbled with anticipation.  I was on a pilgrimage to a revered musical altar:  Tower Records.

Tower boasted a fantastical supply of material in a time when it could only be obtained in physical form.  One could find tapes, albums, posters, CDs, and knick-knacks for every style imaginable. There was also a highly regarded section of singles.  Known as 45s, singles required oddly shaped yellow adapters to be played on a typical turntable.  They were essential for gathering songs, finding lesser-known B-sides, and building the forerunner of today’s playlist: the mix tape.

My first tapes were recorded directly from the radio or television . . . with static, DJ talk, and background noise.  Once I had a proper system, I was able to create usable recordings.  It was an arduous process – poor timing, a bad recording, or mistakenly hitting play caused a redo.  A 90-minute cassette took hours, however it provided a stronger connection to the music.  Having played them incessantly, I still hear the song orders in my head.

Musical Youth

A half-century ago I was born into a modern Renaissance of music, however few one-month-olds were able to embrace Woodstock.  It would be a long time before I could enjoy the classics of the 1960s and 1970s.  The brilliance of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Doors, The Whoand Led Zeppelin(among many others) was lost on me.

As a child, listening was generally limited to the radio’s top 40 (still, The Beatlesand Elvis were omnipresent).  The transistor atop the fridge was set to a generic hit station (1970s hits transport me to childhood summer afternoons).  Occasionally I experienced edgier listening with my friend Charlene, although we didn’t understand their defiant nature.  We laughed at lyrics from The Ramones, knelt when Cheap Tricksang, “I’m beggin’ you to beg me”, and felt mischievous hearing Debra Harry curse in Heart of Glass.

My first album, a life milestone for Generation X, is a subject of internal debate.  Yellow Submarineis the classic, eclectic choice.  Glass Housespresents a solid entry into popular rock.  Deep down I know the reality: Chipmunk Punk.  Sigh.

Eventually I discovered “10 Albums for a Penny,” creating an instant collection.  One favorite was Queen Live Killers.  We turned off the lights and pretended to be at the show.  It was illegal to record performances (just ask Rerun about The Doobie Brothers), so live albums were coveted (especially for those too young to attend concerts).

Required to purchase overpriced albums (or ill-advised 8-tracks), I began exploring music.  Shout at the Deviland Stay Hungrywere passports to 80s metal.  Springsteen’s genius was discovered.  Beauty and the Beat, B-52s, and Freedom of Choiceopened new boundaries.  The Carsmixed genres, Van Halenand AC/DCgenerated raw power, and The Blues Brothers honored rock’s origins.  As my collection developed I must shyly confess to numerous days honing air guitar skills.

The music video age created another new outlet.  A favorite pastime was recording Friday Night Videos, the network alternative to MTV.

Revolution

Then one rainy day, alone in the house, I inspected my parent’s record collection.  My mother’s was Elvis, plus another Elvis record, plus a little more Elvis.  More varied, my father’s included Here’s Little Richard, which demanded a trip to the turntable.  As the needle ravaged the album, a surge of love for oldies blossomed.  I played it again, and again, and again.  While never dancing around in my underwear, it was a mild recreation of Risky Business.  Oldies had instantly become my “thing.”

It was time to explore the roots of rock and roll.  My car’s FM converter was glued to CBS-FM.  Sunday’s Doo-wop Shopwas regular listening, and I had a new desire for oldies mix tapes.  I needed 45s, lots of them.

Wall of Sound

After extensive browsing, I headed for the singles section.  Tower’s wall of 45s graced a large expanse with current hits, oldies, and diverse genres. It was the iTunesof its time.

On my list were maybes and necessities (for a teenager, coveted songs rank with food and shelter).  Sometimes there was one seemingly impossible to find, a Holy Grail.  It wasn’t on my parents’ albums (except old 78s), friends were uninterested (an oldies obsession for a teenager brought requisite mockery), and no compilations carried it.  Tower was my only hope.

Evolution

As the 90s scene took hold, I expanded my horizons.  The enormity of Smells Like Teen Spiritwas unmistakable.  Grunge, the punk revival, alternative, and other styles hypnotized me.  Lollapaloozaand the Warped Tourintroduced numerous artists, as did music-savvy friends and Jersey Shore cover bands (tipping my hat to Bums in the Parkand The Willies).  Early punk forced its way into my library, I finally appreciated classic rock from the 1960s and 1970s, and I warmly embraced the blues.  It was a wonderful music scene and a soundtrack for my young adulthood.

Entering the new millennium, I had crossed into my 30s.  Perhaps because of age, less palatable trends, or a connection to older music, my bond with popular music was lost.  Previously able to claim extensive contemporary knowledge, today I’m lucky knowing a single artist.  As a result, “new” music for me is the library of older songs never given their due.

On nights out these days, I seek venues playing today’s version of oldies.  Unfortunately, I often suffer through repetitive dance beats.  When an older song surfaces, I feel satisfaction watching lazily dancing 20-somethings energized by Livin’ on a Prayeror Don’t Stop Believin’.

Completion

Scanning the 45s, I desperately sought my fugitive single.  It had to be here!  The quest was fruitful – I gathered songs: some new; some old; some to try.  One record, though, evaded capture.  Tower was my only opportunity.  Despite being wonderfully eclectic, other stores in The Village were unlikely to carry an obscure 50s classic.

Keeping my hopes up, I stubbornly made one last appeal.  Then it occurred to me.  I mentally reviewed the track and realized the title was incorrect.  Unlike an online search, no list of suggestions surfaced. At last, there it was!  The mix tape would be complete!

So open up the Victrola, lay down a record, queue up the 8-track, pop in a cassette, load a CD, set your download playlist, fine-tune your music stream, or do whatever it is you do to play your music . . . and don’t let anyone tell you what song should (or shouldn’t) be played.  It’s a soundtrack for your life and you’re free to enjoy it.

Let it play, let it flow, and never have the heart to give it up.