1977

When my dad and mom divorced, my dad moved in to this "singles-only" apartment community called "The Treehouse" apartments. It was newly-built, with clean walls and bitchin' green shag carpet. I remember that apartment so clearly. It was right by the pool (which I thought was awesome) and had one bedroom that was almost entirely taken up with his king sized brass bed. There was a small-ish bathroom, a dinette set with swivel chairs that had smokey gray plastic backs and white vinyl seats, and a small, galley kitchen. The living area featured a black vinyl couch and recliner, with metal studs as decorative accents, and a black and white modular plastic coffee table with matching end tables. He had a top-of-the-line television and stereo equipment, lots of plastic plants and on almost every wall: large, yarn "Eyes of God," handmade by someone he knew. Looking back, the place was tiny--maybe 750 square feet. It was so "seventies," that it's almost comical. It was his bachelor pad, and it was tacky as hell, but always spotless.

I was eight, and I'd come over to visit every other weekend. My dad was 32, and in full-on "free and single" mode. Although he had a girlfriend (my mom's ex best friend, dontcha know), there was a different woman there every weekend I came to visit. He had no idea what to do with me, so he'd usually hire a babysitter and go get fucking wasted at the Elks Lodge with his slut-of-the-week. To give me something to do, he showed me how to use his stereo so that I could entertain myself. He taught me to respect the records, being careful to clean them with a special cleaner, and to never, ever scratch them. He also showed me how to use the reel-to-reel tape player--considered state of the art at the time. I would put on the ENORMOUS headphones, and lie in front of the stereo for hours listening to records and tapes. One of my favorites was Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon." I knew every word by heart, and really liked "Money" because it said the word "bullshit."

He had a bizarre, eclectic record collection: Neil Diamond, Kid Creole and the Coconuts, Willie Nelson, Barry Manilow, Olivia Newton-John, Waylon Jennings, Jesse Colter, The Rolling Stones, ELO, ZZ Top, Moe Bandy and the Rodeo Clowns, The Eagles, Linda Rondstat, and lots and lots of Elvis. I fell in love to listening to music in that crappy apartment. I picked it apart as I listened to it--isolating drum lines and harmonies and guitar parts in my head. I would teach myself how to sing all of the harmonies of ELO and the back up parts for Neil Diamond. I was determined to be a background singer when I grew up. Or Olivia Newton-John. Either one would've worked for me.

I started saving up my measly allowance so that I could go to Musicland at the mall and buy 45s and albums of my own. It didn't matter what the genre was, if it was appealing to me, I bought it.

You know, I really have my dad to thank for my love of music. It's not just a love of music, it's more like an insatiable hunger, really. R&B; Albums; Country; 45s; Electronica; 8-track tapes; AOR; cassette tapes; Metal; CDs; Rock; MP3s; Pop. It's all good, and I can never, ever get enough.