Category: musical memories

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Stuff I Like: Ode to the Cassette Tape

This week in Showing My Age, I want to pay homage to a lost treasure of my youth: the cassette tape. In the modern world of MP3s and streaming, there are paradoxically both more and fewer ways to interact with music, especially as professionally (and probably simultaneously commercially) curated playlists and the ubiquitous “Shuffle” function come to dominate music consumption. But in my day – cue wagging wrinkled finger and old lady sneer – you had to really want to have that music on demand. And the cassette tape was really the only way to go about it.

For those who are unaware (dear god I am feeling older by the second), cassette tapes were seemingly insubstantial rectangles of plastic containing magical magnetic tape that was able to play back music on fabulous devices variously known as boomboxes, Walkmen, or, less creatively, tape players. In the same way that albums are sold in MP3 format on Amazon or iTunes today, which is itself becoming borderline anachronistic in the age of Spotify and Apple Music, or that CDs were sold a couple decades ago, back in the 80s and early 90s they were packaged for the public on cassette tape. But these were no mere passive devices through which to listen to music – oh no. They were much more than that. Continue reading “Stuff I Like: Ode to the Cassette Tape”

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All Falls Down

My first real job was at the Wherehouse. Most people today aren’t familiar with this store, but when I was growing up it was the main place where I bought my music. I remember going there on Tuesdays to get the newest albums as soon as they came out. When I needed a job in college, it was close to home and an obvious choice for me given my love for music and the amount of time I spent in the store anyway. I once locked myself out of my apartment, and I decided to wait – all afternoon – at the Wherehouse for my fiancé to get out of class. I must have been asked if I needed help fifteen times before I finally explained the situation and was left alone, albeit amidst some strange looks.

I did my undergraduate studies at UC Santa Barbara, which had at the time (and perhaps still does; I haven’t checked) the whitest and most affluent student body of all the UCs. It was also adjacent to Isla Vista (or “IV” as it was known by those same super hip kids), where the vast majority of students lived and parties were so insane that they literally closed off the city to outsiders on Halloween. Because shit had gotten so out of hand on these major holidays that they simply couldn’t handle any more madness. Continue reading “All Falls Down”

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Let Me See That Tootsie Roll

the faces have been hidden to protect the innocent

I went to the best middle school, like, ever. It was a GATE (gifted and talented education) school named Computech, and all the students there had to be accepted based on academic merit. I suspect there was a cultural/racial component to the admissions process as well, because it was a pretty diverse school located in a predominantly black part of town. This seeming duality – because in America “good school” and “black neighborhood” are not seen as naturally coexisting – gave the school an awesome character and a not-so-awesome reputation.

The perception of the school within the community was abundantly clear when I was asked, on more than one occasion, whether or not I had been “in a drive-by” while on campus. The people who asked this – because they weren’t just kids, either – always professed to have heard some story or other about kids in PE class having to “hit the ground” because of passing gunfire. This was patently ridiculous, as even the security guards who worked at the school were adamant that it was one of the safest in the city, but this impression of the school as a dangerous one persisted nonetheless. Continue reading “Let Me See That Tootsie Roll”

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My Brother’s Keeper

I didn’t want my brother. That sounds kinda harsh, but it’s the truth. I was almost ten when he was born, my sister was almost five, and I felt like our family had plenty of people in it already. I’m not sure why I felt that way, but I was none too enthusiastic about his imminent arrival.

I was invested enough in the idea of him that I tortured my mom in her search for a name for him. She knew his middle name would be Michael, after her youngest brother, but we battled for months over whether his first name would be John (her choice) or David (mine). John was a fine name in the abstract, but I was adamant that “John Michael” sounded like a male model and that was simply unacceptable. In the end, she gave in and I got to pick his name. We all agree now that it was the right call. (You’re welcome.) Continue reading “My Brother’s Keeper”

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Memories of Miseducation

The twentieth anniversary of The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill is quite an occasion for a number of important cultural reasons. For me, it’s mostly a reminder of just how old I am, as 1998 still feels like a decade ago at most. I now regularly ultrasound pregnant patients who were born after Tupac died, and each time I sprout a new gray hair. But back to 1998, I was fifteen years old and offered up Ms. Hill’s debut album as a gift idea for my grandma, who wanted to buy me a present for some random reason. She was (and is) generally clueless about such things as popular music, so she walked into the store and asked one of the employees to help her find the album. They searched the entire store for a good fifteen minutes before the poor guy finally discovered it on a separate display in a corner of the store. Because of this, my grandma thought this was some unknown artist whose rise I had predicted. When Lauryn Hill took home all those damn Grammy’s the next year, my grandma was convinced that I was some kind of musical clairvoyant who could pluck future talent out of thin air. Which would be great if it were true, as A&R of Def Jam sounds infinitely sexier than OB/GYN radiologist. But I digress.

I devoured that album from the moment I got it. My friends and I were just learning to drive at the time, and we listened to it in the car on the way to study sessions. I played it in my headphones while I set the table for dinner. I bumped it in the bathroom while I took showers, and I sat with the liner notes, reading the lyrics until I knew them all by heart. I discussed its awesomeness and debated over the best songs with my best bus friend as we delved into Ms. Hill’s controversial interviews and political stances. I had acquired a decent music collection by this point and had plenty of favorites, but this was one of the first albums I truly engaged with to such an extent, because it virtually demanded such attention. From the beats to the lyrics to the level of discourse, this was a piece of art to be reckoned with. Continue reading “Memories of Miseducation”

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Welcome to Paradise

I was a lucky kid in many ways, but I was especially fortunate in terms of family vacations. My brother and sister and I were able to make yearly trips to Disneyland and Carmel, one-off trips to places like Chicago and Las Vegas for my mom’s medical conferences, and a number of trips over the years with our grandma and cousins (and without our parents). These were always interesting vacations, as my grandma did the grandma thing and let us make most of the decisions while we were with her. This resulted in quite a few interesting moments, like the time my brother insisted he didn’t need sunscreen at the beach and then ended up with such a horrible sun burn that she considered taking him to the hospital.

One of the earliest of these trips with Grandma Hook (which she was always called despite absolutely detesting this name) was when I was in 9th grade and she took my sister and me to Hawaii. My grandma had an old friend who owned a condo on the island of Kauai, and she agreed to let us stay there for about a week over spring break. For some reason, Grandma Hook was under the impression that we would be doing some form of “roughing it,” so she brought a number of interesting items, like alarm clocks, in case we were without basic necessities. Exactly how alarm clocks would have helped if we had indeed been in some sort of primitive shack I have no idea, but, at least in her mind, she had come prepared. Continue reading “Welcome to Paradise”

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Wu Tang Is For The Children

Nobody in my family can sleep. Between OCD, depression, anxiety, bipolar, etc., falling – and staying – asleep requires a gargantuan effort. We differ in how we approach this problem – meds? supplements? willful denial? – but we all struggle with it in one way or another.

My oldest daughter has dealt with sleep issues off and on since she was about 8 years old. There would be nights where she would go to sleep around 9:00 only to wake up at midnight and not be able to go back to sleep at all. Cold medicine, though, can knock her on her ass. So when she has the sniffles or a cough, a little Dimetapp goes a long way. My only concern was that I never wanted her to get to the point of needing it to fall asleep, so one time, after a week-long bout with mocos, I told her it was going to be her last night with the medicine. When she asked why it mattered, I explained my desire for her not to become dependent on it. Her response? “Why? Would I have to go to rehab?” This immediately activated my Amy Winehouse synapses, so of course I began to sing, “They tried to make me go to rehab, I said – “ Continue reading “Wu Tang Is For The Children”

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Take ‘Em To Church

I was raised in the Christian church. Not just any Christian church, but a Baptist church. Not just any Baptist church, but a conservative-ass Baptist church in the heart of the deep red Central Valley of California. I know California is generally viewed as some kind of haven for liberal thought, but the valley is decidedly NOT a part of that vision. This is a region that, despite being less than 50% white (or perhaps because of it), believes itself to be made up largely of “cowboys” and other such symbols of white identity. A classmate of mine once rode to the bus stop on a horse – a friggin horse. I don’t remember what happened to the horse after that; I just know she was on the back of a horse when she arrived at the bus stop. That was the end of my involvement in that situation.

I hesitate to sound anti-religious… Just kidding. I have no hesitation in that stance whatsoever. I understand that many people – some of whom I consider my closest friends – genuinely find comfort in religion and use it to become better people. While I am of the opinion that they are good people to begin with and their concept of religion robs them of the credit for their best qualities, I do not have any problem with this kind of religion. As long as they aren’t using antiquated notions of morality to judge people or trying to convert me, we’re cool. Continue reading “Take ‘Em To Church”

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Straight From Da Streets

A kid’s first boombox is a beautiful thing. Mine was a bit of the divine made by Panasonic which has survived to this day. (Side note: they don’t make shit like they used to. I’m not one to opine for the “good old days,” but I can’t think of any piece of technology made this millennium that has lasted even half as long.) It was, of course, unnecessarily large, considering it had but one CD and one cassette player, along with a few knobs for audio settings. These knobs were no small things, though, as I marveled over them as if they were indicative of the caliber of machine I had just acquired. Treble? Bass?? Good god, I could do ANYTHING with these controls!

I got this boombox at the age of ten after lusting after a friend’s stereo and begging my mom for my own. Yes, I had had a puny cassette player and even a Walkman (that will be a story for another time), but this was another matter altogether. This was the kind of the thing that made other kids ooh and aah over my luck at receiving such a marvel of modern technology. Looking back, I’m sure it was a below average music system, but at the time, the fact that my friends were in awe of it was enough for me. Continue reading “Straight From Da Streets”

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The Piano Has Been Drinking

me and my og super 80s radio

Picture the scene: an angelic looking three year old with golden ringlets and baby blue eyes tears her mother a new asshole for failing to properly position the sock on her tiny foot. The line is irritating her baby toe. Why do these socks have no ruffles? This outfit is unsatisfactory. The underlying meaning is clear: the three year old is in charge, and no one is happy.

I am that three year old, or at least I was, years before I learned what “obsessive compulsive” or “pain in the ass” meant, and even further removed from the psychiatric treatment that would make me slightly more tolerable as a human being. My mother, bless her heart, was always willing to be there for me as I worked through my ridiculousness, but our personalities were too similar when it came to such sensitive matters as getting dressed in the morning. Continue reading “The Piano Has Been Drinking”