My favorite Sirius channel lately has been the 80’s on 8. Reminiscent, I guess.
All week I’ve felt the need to buy a fresh can of hair mousse and pop my collar. But since I’m living a mostly cotton-tee existence lately, alas and alack, I’m without a collar to pop.
Sad.
Friday, after an Alan Hunter (remember him??), Charlie Sexton’s “Beat So Lonely” blared from the speakers and I nearly had to pull the truck over, because this girl had to rock. Just had to. (But I was in a truck; can a truck rock? or only mildly contort, because it knows nothing other than country things? I truly wished for a sports car at that moment.)
All weekend, I didn’t dare turn that knob. (Remember when vehicles had knobs? and window cranks? and wondered, what-the-heck-is-a-USB-port?) A week of Bowie, Springsteen, Bon Jovi, a dash of Thompson Twins, a smattering of A Flock of Seagulls spiced with a dusting of Duran Duran and my hair nearly congealed itself into a pompadour fronted by big bangs.
This morning I was compelled to Google Sexton’s name, typing quickly, all the while thinking, “Pleasedon’tbedead, pleasedon’tbedead…”
(This last couple of years, sneaky, evil Time has eroded my Rock Pantheon Monument, crumbling it into near-oblivion. So many guitars; too quiet now.)
But fortunately, no! Not only is Sexton still among the living, but he’s only moments older than I, doubling my relief that the man is still walking the earthly orb.
All morning, I’ve been YouTubing. I don’t do that, my son does that, yet here I am, clicking on one video after another, bouncing around in my absurdly uncoordinated middle-aged white girl brand of nearly-Fonda aerobics that double as Prancercising.
(Google that one; I’ll wait.)
In The Day, in the late 1900’s, I owned and wore out the Pictures for Pleasure album on vinyl, back when LPs were a norm. I’ll admit, I chose the record instead of the cassette because of the cover art. Because, well, aesthetics and all.
Now vinyl is back — my keen insight tweaked my nubian brain, blimpsing into the 2000’s and begging me to choose the proper form of musical listening — and sadly, I have no idea where that album could be.
I could cry, but I won’t, because thank heavens for YouTube, and Amazon, and next-day delivery.
If you see a big ol’ truck going too fast down a country road, but the music is awesome, please don’t stop me until you hear the song’s final, fading, fleeting departure, ’cause otherwise, I might really cry.