Music

When did early man first bang a stick against a rock in an aesthetically pleasing manner? Or did he just tap his foot to some imaginary beat? Whatever the case, music has been a very big part of my life.

My earliest memories are of listening to my mother's kitchen radio in the morning before elementary school, most notably the 1966 Statler Brothers hit "Counting Flowers on the Wall." But of course by then The Beatles had made their US debut on Ed Sullivan in 1964. I missed it, probably because The Ed Sullivan Show came on Channel 9, and due to poor reception we only got Channel 4 and 5. That next morning, though, all the girls were buzzing about The Beatles in my third grade class, so the next time my parents were shopping at the Hecht Company -- they had a good record department -- I got my dad to buy me my first Beatles album, "Meet The Beatles."

That night, I listened to it on my mom's old record player while I followed along the liner notes. I was so dismayed to see that Ringo only had one song I actually cried for him. I was such a sensitive young lad.

In 1966, I was working the summer at my aunt and uncles sightseeing company, which was across the street from the Hecht Company, so when I heard The Beatles were going to be playing Washington, I used some of my pay to buy two tickets to see them without worrying how I was going to get there or even if I was going to be allowed to go. I was only 11, mind you.

I guess my father thought it would be okay, so when the date came my cousin Charlie drove my younger brother and I to the Washington National Guard Armory where we walked across the street to DC Stadium and took our seats in the stands. The Beatles performed on a stage out on the field, and they were too far away to be recognizable as was the music. It was history being made, though little did I know it at the time.

By the age of 14, I probably had a half-dozen Beatles albums, and I'd seen Big Brother and the Holding Company, The Jeff Beck Group, Vanilla Fudge and The Steve Miller Group at the Alexandria Rolling Rink. That summer between eighth and ninth grades I worked yet another summer for my aunt and uncle, and I went to a two night concert at Laurel Raceway called The Laurel Pop Festival. The performers were a veritable who's who in rock and blues, and I can't remember hardly any of it except for seeing The Mothers of Invention, who spurred an interest in me.

The most memorable moment of those two nights was after the first show, which was on Friday night. I somehow got disoriented and didn't find my way back to where my parents were going to pick me up. At some point I realized that I was stuck for a ride home, and Laurel is a pretty good ways from Arlington, so I was a bit worried. As the crowd thinned I realized drastic action was needed. I kept wanting to ask someone for a ride, but I was much too shy.

Finally, there were only a few people left, so I summoned up my courage and asked a group of people who were getting into a van if they were going to Washington. They said they were either going to Washington or Baltimore. I figured 50% chance of getting home was better than none, so I piled in with them. I think I fell asleep, for I remember waking up and asking where we were. It was Baltimore, so I asked them to drop me at the bus station.

I had some cash with me from my job -- that was a blessing -- and I was not unfamiliar with the busing system, back then there was Greyhound and Trailways, so I bought a ticket to DC and got my first commercial bus ride (not counting the many trips I took on my uncle's sightseeing buses). By the time I got to Washington it was daylight, and I walked the six blocks down to 12 and Penn and caught a city bus back to Arlington. It was 6 AM or so when I got back home. My parents hadn't awakened yet, so I went to bed and got some much needed sleep. If that wasn't an adventure, what was coming up would surely fit the bill, for I had tickets to a three-day event of live music to be held in upstate New York.

There is so much I could write about going to Woodstock, and so much I have already written, that I want to strive for brevity here. Suffice it to say, my cousin and I had to walk something like 10 miles from where the bus left us off before we got to Woodstock, and then if that were not enough I got rained on as I slept that night. The next morning was freezing, and I remember watching the steam come off of my clothing as I stood by a communal campfire. That afternoon was ungodly hot, and there wasn't enough food, and I can't remember what we drank. Watching the music seemed to take a backseat to surviving. And then as if to add insult to injury I missed seeing Jimi Hendrix. If there was one person I would've wished to have seen, it would have been him. I would've given up seeing everyone else to have seen him.

It sure was fine getting back home. I'd been looking forward to indoor plumbing and my soft bed. The next weekend my dad took us all to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina where I was threatened by some redneck kids that they would kick my ass if I didn't cut my hair. It wasn't the first time. "Teenage Wasteland" had just come out by The Who. I remember hearing it on the radio. And then it was back to school.

Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix died when I was 15. Then The Beatles broke up. It seemed as if the end of an era was upon us rock 'n rollers. What was next?

Next: classical music snobbery, Frank Zappa and beyond