He put an album on the turntable he bought decades ago. It was part of the entertainment center, which also contained a television set and a small cabinet, usually used to keep alcohol of one flavor or another. There was a rack to store records, and with a touch, you could close it, leaving it to look like just another piece of furniture.
The television quit working years ago, but the turntable could still play, even though the sound quality wasn't all that good by today's standards. That was okay with him, as it was the sound, he grew to love, and nothing else could compare.
Led Zeppelin was playing "Stairway to Heaven " as he sat back in his recliner and drifted away to better days when peace was preached, and news was meant to inform you, not petrify you. He remembered when his friends would gather, bringing their own records to play on his turntable, since most of them had only a cheap player with little clarity.
He remembers standing in line, no matter the weather, at the record store on the first day of a new release by bands like Black Sabbath, Jethro Tull, Aerosmith, Deep Purple, and many more that, after all these years, still hold a place in the rack inside his council. Many records had the lyrics printed on the back or on a separate page, so that they could learn to sing along with the music.
A lot of so-called hard rock songs were thought to be the work of the devil, which you could barely make out by playing the record on a slower speed. It was a great marketing scheme to sell albums.
He remembers putting two big box speakers in his car, which he had to camouflage so no one would walk off with them. He and his friends would drive into the country listening to a rock radio station that played hit after hit as they passed around a joint, their ears ringing from the hidden speakers. He smiled, thinking he actually did lose some hearing in his left ear.
That era belongs to those who listened to hard rock and still do. He believed they should call themselves the hearing aid generation. There were times they'd sit on top of a country hill where speakers would be set on rocks a ways from the car. They'd lie down on the soft grass, looking to the stars and pass around a bottle of boons farm, like strawberry hill, goofy grape, and an apple something. Clouds of pot slowly danced around them as they waited for a song, they knew the lyrics to, then they'd all sing along as a couple of guys played the air guitar, trying to capture the moves of Jimmy Page or Hendrix.
As he sits, afraid to look in the mirror, he tugs at his memory book, taking him back to those carefree times when tickets to a live performance were like winning the lottery. They counted the days until the concert came to town and spent hours getting ready, dressed in worn-out jeans and some T-shirts with the band's picture on the front. Their hair was long and usually needed washing, but that didn't matter that night.
They arrived early to the Zepplin concert, scoring some weed and plowing their way to the front of the stage, packed in like sardines. They got in the mood as the warm-up band played cover tunes blasting through the tower speakers, some bigger than a refrigerator stacked high above the stage. And then, behind the curtain, a familiar song began to play. Softly at first, the lights flashing with color as the curtain rises, and there stand the boys of Led Zeppelin. And nothing in his life ever prepared him for what was happening. The sounds were amplified a thousand times over his home system, a bug in a trap, screaming to be set free.
Sixty years later, he still plays his records, some labeled with a ticket stub taped to the album cover, a total of ten. His ears are damaged, his lungs smoked out. And his recollections of those years have all but bid him goodbye. But somewhere inside, he's still a guy who lived for the music and the music lived for him.
Led Zeppelin was playing "Stairway to Heaven " as he sat back in his recliner and drifted away to better days when peace was preached, and news was meant to inform you, not petrify you. He remembered when his friends would gather, bringing their own records to play on his turntable, since most of them had only a cheap player with little clarity.
He remembers standing in line, no matter the weather, at the record store on the first day of a new release by bands like Black Sabbath, Jethro Tull, Aerosmith, Deep Purple, and many more that, after all these years, still hold a place in the rack inside his council. Many records had the lyrics printed on the back or on a separate page, so that they could learn to sing along with the music.
A lot of so-called hard rock songs were thought to be the work of the devil, which you could barely make out by playing the record on a slower speed. It was a great marketing scheme to sell albums.
He remembers putting two big box speakers in his car, which he had to camouflage so no one would walk off with them. He and his friends would drive into the country listening to a rock radio station that played hit after hit as they passed around a joint, their ears ringing from the hidden speakers. He smiled, thinking he actually did lose some hearing in his left ear.
That era belongs to those who listened to hard rock and still do. He believed they should call themselves the hearing aid generation. There were times they'd sit on top of a country hill where speakers would be set on rocks a ways from the car. They'd lie down on the soft grass, looking to the stars and pass around a bottle of boons farm, like strawberry hill, goofy grape, and an apple something. Clouds of pot slowly danced around them as they waited for a song, they knew the lyrics to, then they'd all sing along as a couple of guys played the air guitar, trying to capture the moves of Jimmy Page or Hendrix.
As he sits, afraid to look in the mirror, he tugs at his memory book, taking him back to those carefree times when tickets to a live performance were like winning the lottery. They counted the days until the concert came to town and spent hours getting ready, dressed in worn-out jeans and some T-shirts with the band's picture on the front. Their hair was long and usually needed washing, but that didn't matter that night.
They arrived early to the Zepplin concert, scoring some weed and plowing their way to the front of the stage, packed in like sardines. They got in the mood as the warm-up band played cover tunes blasting through the tower speakers, some bigger than a refrigerator stacked high above the stage. And then, behind the curtain, a familiar song began to play. Softly at first, the lights flashing with color as the curtain rises, and there stand the boys of Led Zeppelin. And nothing in his life ever prepared him for what was happening. The sounds were amplified a thousand times over his home system, a bug in a trap, screaming to be set free.
Sixty years later, he still plays his records, some labeled with a ticket stub taped to the album cover, a total of ten. His ears are damaged, his lungs smoked out. And his recollections of those years have all but bid him goodbye. But somewhere inside, he's still a guy who lived for the music and the music lived for him.
Mike 2026
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