In the BeginNing

Where to start? There are so many events and people of melodic note that I want to share with you, I’m not sure where to begin. I could start with my family’s lineage of musicians, but that might seem like a dull history lesson. Speaking of history, my high school World History class was taught in a room that used to be a performance stage. There were dividing walls to make the area smaller, but front and center of the classroom was a beautiful wood stage. I spent many days in class daydreaming of playing on that stage instead of listening to Mr. Briggs’ oratories on historical greatness. Perhaps here is a good place to start, high school.

But where in high school? Pep band? No… Marching band? No… Music Theory Class and the secret word… hmm, a funny story, but no.

Maybe I should start with my closest bandmates (in order of appearance) James, Chad, Nick, and a little later, Dustin. No last names, please. I haven’t asked anyone’s permission to publish last names, and unless you, as the reader, know who they are, their last names could all be Smith, and you wouldn’t be the wiser, or possibly care. Also, if you are reading this and you know who they are, well, then you already know their last names.

Instead of where to start with my journey into the forest of amplified guitars and thundering drums, maybe I should start with why I was interested in the sounds of music in the first place. Two reasons: my mother and my grandma. Both equally responsible for my desire to immerse myself in the frequencies of the soul, or as Dick Clark would say, “The soundtrack to our lives.” Don’t get me wrong; there were countless others who guided me or joined me on the journey, but it all began at a very young age with my mother.

I was negative one years old, still in the womb, living the dream. My mother would play records really loud and take me to concerts because she wanted to make sure I was immersed in culture when I arrived. Don’t ask? It was the ‘70s, and my mother knew what she was doing, as evident by these memoirs… or maybe she didn’t know what she was doing, as evident by the memoirs. My mother had told me over the years that when I was in the womb and she would play Credence, Johnny Cash, Doug Kershaw, or old Hank (that’s Hank Williams for you youngins), I would kick to the beat of the music. Cute at family gatherings or girls’ night out, I’m sure. Not so cute on the bladder.

This is the unabridged story of the album that permanently changed the trajectory of my musical journey, forever.

I was maybe five or six years old, playing downstairs in my mother’s basement. It was technically her future ex-husband’s basement. They weren’t married yet, which also means they weren’t divorced yet, so I would consider him a future ex-husband. It truly wasn’t even his basement; it was his mother’s basement. So really, I was downstairs in my mother’s, future ex-mother-in-law’s basement.

The floor was covered in a crimson-red, short-pile commercial carpet. It was short enough that myself and the other kids could roller-skate on it. (Oh yeah, the future ex-husband came with future ex-siblings. I hold no grudge or hate for them. I am sure they are fine and doing well for themselves.) To contrast the crimson carpet, a black, rounded-end bar had been installed, equipped with a sink and four tall black-cushioned barstools.

The wall paneling had a pattern of printed black ink-style old tavern signs, and at the far end of the bar room was a 1960s-style wooden credenza filled end to end with LP records. To the right of the credenza lay a large bankers’ box stacked with 45 rpm disks; everyone from Olivia Newton John to The Beach Boys, Buddy Holly, The Coasters, Eric Clapton, it was full of fun, top-of-the-pop, song singles. Crowning the veneered credenza vault of vinyl goodness was a silver-faced Kenwood turntable/receiver wrapped in gaudy, red autumn-blush-colored wood grain that grotesquely contrasted the beloved sleek credenza of love. Audio love. Eardrum amore.

My mother instructed me on how to use the record player and allowed me to listen to the 45s, but the LP vinyls were off-limits except for the Kooky Tunes and Goofy Greats albums. She showed me how to change the speed and spindle size accordingly for different-sized records. I would sit cross-legged in front of the turntable and, while listening to the 45 rpm singles, I would pull out and study all the album covers of the LPs that I was not allowed to listen to.

They weren’t off-limits because my mother feared that the content of these LP records would warp my brain; we listened to them quite regularly on the upstairs console in the summer while we cleaned the house together. I have fond memories of Ann Murray, Bob Seger, mixed with a spring waft of Pine-Sol. The albums were restricted because they were her vinyls, and she understood the value of music and wanted to preserve the medium that they were on at that time.

I recall Freddy Fender, Kenny Rodgers, Johnny Horton, The Beach Boys, The Ventures, Jan & Dean, and many more. It didn’t take long for my curiosity to get the best of me, and against my mother’s wishes, I began (very carefully) listening to the 33-1/3 rpm LPs that were off-limits.

The Ventures’ guitar sound really hit me. I couldn’t get enough of the cool surf guitar rock (and the girl on the cover was easy on the eyes!). Jan & Dean’s “Dead Man’s Curve” was dark and eerie, Freddy Fender was funny and light with his rendition of “Hound Doggy In The Window”.

The Disneyland “Chilling, Thrilling Sounds Of The Haunted House” album was terrifying and satisfying all at the same time. The album cover evoked quite the creepy vibe with its 1960s animation-style haunted house set back behind the graveyard, framed on the left side with an old, scary-looking leafless Halloween-esque tree. Sort of Scooby-Doo in a way, but with enough artistic realism to spark a small amount of reverent fear.

I stumbled on a second Halloween Sounds album. This one also had a haunted house on the front cover, but it was an actual photo, and the house was accompanied by a witch. My young mind began processing the levity of the situation. “This has to be real,” I thought. “This is an actual picture of a real haunted house; these are actual recordings of a witch, her cohorts, and their dastardly deeds.” I slowly pulled out the album from the sleeve, being careful not to awaken the witch and her disciples. I crept toward the turntable and positioned the gleaming black vinyl onto the center spindle. With some reluctance, I picked up the needle and began to drop it in the groove of the first track; I hesitated, I knew there was no going back. Once the stylus hit, I wouldn’t be able to stop the evil carnage that potentially lay ahead.

These were real witches after all, a real haunted house. I began to wonder how the photographer made it out alive… am I going to make it out alive? Well, here goes…

The sound of rain began to permeate the atmosphere. Slight rolls of thunder started to shake the tower speakers located at opposite sides of the room. The hair on my neck began to stand up just as the first church bell toll rang out across the soundscape. A deep primal fear washed over me. Any second the witch was surely going to crawl out of the speakers and snatch me away from this spiritual plane into another. Then it happened…

With a force so rooted at the core of my soul, it took my breath away, and I began to weep. A sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard or felt erupted from the wide stereo sound source in front of me. The first three notes of Black Sabbath ripped through my conscience and indelibly changed my musical DNA forever.