A child of the 1980’s growing up near Detroit, my dad’s dusty record collection planted the seeds of my love for art and music. Even stranger danger would not deter me from sneaking off to buy my first album. This is how it starts…
Justice for Dolly
In my best Sophia Petrillo voice, “Picture it, Michigan 1988; 11 years old, “Satanic Panic” fully in effect in our house.”
For no apparent reason I could find, my mother started her very own, one-person chapter of the PMRC, and any music that sounded like a good time was deemed “devil’s music” and strictly forbidden. (You guys, not even Kenny & Dolly were safe – extra exclamation points!!)
Finally at an age where I was even interested in music, my friends were all enjoying the new wave of MTV hits while I was home listening to the saccharine (yet sarcastic?) vocal stylings of TV’s Blaire from “Facts of Life,” Lisa Whelchel. (RIP to your YouTube algorithm.)
Side bar: If you’ve never heard the 80’s all-star Christian “We are the World” knockoff called, “Do Something Now,” please consider yourself #blessed.
When Christian superstar Amy Grant crossed over to the mainstream with a “scandalous” duet with Peter Cetera (co-penned by Bobby “I didn’t know he was white” Caldwell) I held onto hope that freedom was near.
The Loophole
Until then, I had “the loophole;” my parents’ record collection. My dad once casually mentioned we had this cabinet of albums because he was once a DJ in the Navy, and I will forever regret not asking any follow-up questions before he passed. This was a man I’d only seen play the drums in a polka band at a family function. Who was he really? Who was I?
Anyway, the metal cabinet of albums sat in the darkest corner of the basement, untouched. The sleeves looked like they had some mild water damage and smelled like mildew, but the combination of album sleeve artwork and the promise of hearing something other than jaunty choral hymns proved to be utterly irresistible.
Dad’s collection was mostly 1960’s & 70’s rock and pop, with a splash of soul and some adult comedy. Some of my mom’s albums were peppered in there; easy listening like The Association and The Lettermen. HARD PASS. However, it did bring some small, twisted pleasure to change the speed to the 45 setting and make those dorks sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Sweet Salvation
Tucked between the likes of The Mamas & the Papas and Jefferson Airplane, I found the occasional salvation in a few gems; Smokey and The Miracles, The 5th Dimension, Rose Royce, The Hues Corporation, and The Sylvers.
These records sounded different, they had a rhythm – a groove, a swing. I didn’t really know what it was then, but I felt it.
If this was the music my parents listened to when they were younger, then it was absolutely fair game. My sister and I decided that our greasy child-fingers would give these discs of deliverance the love, attention, hip-hop scratching, and frisbee throwing they deserved. (Sorry, Johnny Mathis.)
A few gems from Dad’s collection
Hover over the covers, if you dare.
Gen X Survival Guide
Meanwhile, at my friend’s house (where I made it a point to be whenever I could), we soaked in hours of video games and MTV. Back then, I wasn’t aware of the struggle for airtime, but I knew that when folks like Michael, Janet, Prince, Run-D.M.C., or The Pointer Sisters finally came on, it was electric. I would tape those songs from the TV speaker to my dad’s Radio Shack portable tape recorder so could I hear them again later back home on our old basement stereo. I listened during stolen moments, while mother was distracted by the latest Reva Shayne drama on The Guiding Light, poised, ready with cat-like reflexes to switch on Shirley means Bassey, the second I heard anything remotely resembling footsteps at the top of the stairs.
“johnnycouldonlysingonenoteandthenotehesangwasthis… ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!” – Dame Shirley Bassey
Ride Like the Wind
With my mother glued to her daytime soaps and doing her best to pretend we didn’t exist, I seized the opportunity to sneak off and ride my dirt bike to the record store a few miles away. I think I only knew it existed because I saw it peeking out behind the Chatham’s where we would go for our weekly grocery shopping trip. My burning desire for new music had overtaken all common sense. I ignored all the lessons seared into my psyche from after-school specials, overheard news segments on the latest child abductions, and that terrifying made-for-TV movie, Fallen Angel.
My legs never pedaled so fast. The uneven concrete slabs and rows of gangly, tall, white birch trees whizzed by in a bumpy blur.
In my mind, no stranger would ever have the chance to danger me if I just kept moving.
Thankfully, I survived the initial journey without incident. After looking at all the latest hits, and then the change in my pockets, I spotted New Edition’s All For Love album in the discount bin. I proudly took Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky and Mike (and Ralph) up to the desk and paid the clerk with the confidence of an entire adult.
12 Inches of Trouble
Then, I tucked the album awkwardly under my arm and started the long ride home, bumping my new treasure with my knees each time my feet ferociously cycled the pedals. Halfway home I realized there was no way of getting this giant 12 inch, bright yellow album back into the house unscathed.
I’ll never forget the sting of getting caught trying to smuggle it inside.
“Count Me Out”? Worth it.
I’m still not sure why or how, but sometime after we rescued my sister’s copy of Prince’s LoveSexy from a “hidden” drawer, the music ban was miraculously lifted. Victory to the rebellion!
And this? This was only the beginning.
Listen to the audio version
The Origin Story Continues
This is a journey over 30 years in the making, you got here just in time!
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