The Heat of the Moment

Instagram gato espectacular, elgringofeo, dropped a post this week featuring Asia’s record Alpha.

He ended it with this query: So what’s the most sentimentally evocative record in your collection, groovers?

It jogged my memory into what became a frothy nostalgic marathon. Rather than clogging his Insta feed with my recollective rambling, I offer it here…

…for you…

…my dear reader…

…thanks Ma, for your continued support!

My first week of overnight camp of any kind unfolded during the summer of my 11th year (1983 A.D.). The reason was an all-boys basketball camp. The setting was pastoral Paynesville, MN. By this point in my life, my parents were still optimistic at the prospects of a white kid of average height and speed from Shorewood, MN making it to the NBA. Hence, they sent me off for a week of intensive basketballin’.

It was an elite camp for boys with NCAA and NBA aspirations. Needless to say, I’ve enjoyed a nearly 30-year career in IT.

The campground was situated in and around the shores of glorious Rice Lake. There was an all-girls volleyball camp across the lake, because of course there was. Although I didn’t know it at the time—thank Buddha—the whole setting had a strong Camp Crystal Lake vibe. And while the sports camp experience was largely what I’d expected, extreme homesickness notwithstanding, something wholly unexpected happed on the last night.

On Thursday evening, just before we were to be fetched by our parents the subsequent morning, a dance took place. It was held in the massive Quonset hut at the far corner of the campgrounds. This half-moon shaped, galvanized steel, pole barn served multiple functions: mess hall, arcade featuring Pong, Space Invaders, and Battlezone, and general gathering/loitering space. The wooded area behind it was apparently an ideal spot for a clandestine smoke break.

Remember Battlezone?

Just inside the huge shed was a ramshackle stage that appeared barely structurally sound. Perched atop the stage was a long, once white, now dingy gray cafeteria table. Sitting atop the table was a receiver and an 8-track deck. A random selection of tapes were scattered about the table as well. I recall AC DC’s Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, Aerosmith’s Toys in the Attic, and the Eagle’s Hotel California among the heap of classic rock essentials. While the majority of tapes were of the AOR persuasion, most genres were represented—no Polka, however.

The 8-track was wired to a receiver that resembled some relic unearthed from an archeological dig. With the exception of the volume knob, it was so dusty that making out the lettering above any of the knobs was impossible. The shed’s gravel and dirt floor was the likely culprit; there was no foundation. The grimy HiFi setup was connected to massive P.A. speakers via wires haphazardly strung all over the place.

Perched atop (and wired into) the receiver was a grey metal astatic desktop mic. It was meant for official announcements from the camp staffers and the like. Unsurprisingly, this mic was often swiped by the campers to make impromptu announcements like, “This song sucks!” or “Journey is for pussies!” or “Jeff farted!” For adolescent boys, there is something utterly irresistible about hearing your voice broadcast in stereo for the masses. Even if just to announce who broke wind.

During our allotted nightly free time, anyone could walk up and cram a tape into the maw of the deck. The effect of this DJ-by-committee was a schizophrenic playlist that could swing from “Big Balls” to “Rhinestone Cowboy” to “Forever in Blue Jeans” and back again. Everyone endured the mandatory compilations whether they cared for the sonic whiplash or not.

On that fateful Thursday evening, one of the assistant coaches who fancied himself a regular Wolfman Jack was tapped to play a curated batch of tunes for a big dance. Since the boys at basketball camp needed dance partners, the girls from the volleyball camp were bussed over for the occasion.

I recall not being exactly aware of deodorant at this point in my life. I was aware of my own young man stank, however. I also recall all the older dudes talking about how they had to, “Shower, shit, and shave,” before the dance, “Cuz there would be chicks.”. I’d gone for a dip in the lake just before dinner, so I figured I was clean enough. And while I didn’t have a single unused shirt left in my duffle bag, I did have a Cutter insect repellent stick. I rubbed it under my arms and on the armpit area of my least stinky shirt to at least “freshen” things up a bit.

Satisfied, I marched up to the pole barn.

The scene was straight out of any ‘80s film with a “big dance”—boys milling on one side, girls tittering on the other. I noticed some strands of multi-color Christmas lights which appeared out of nowhere illuminating one wall. An orange Igloo beverage cooler surrounded by paper cups stood sentry at the end of a long table. There was a piece of masking tape across the front that read “LEMONADE”.

While the DJ played ballad after ballad from the likes of REO Speedwagon, Styx, and Journey—the holy triad of AOR sap peddlers—the girls mostly drank lemonade and chattered while the boys mostly lined up at the three arcade consoles. I stood against the wall near an older kid whom I had befriended. We just leaned there and took it all in.

The DJ finally broke the monotony by rollin’ a few faster tunes. This at least drew some of the girls away from the lemonade table as they formed sporadic boogying clusters. A very few brave fellas joined them.

As I stood against the wall next to my new pal, he bent down, cupped his right hand around his mouth, and said, “Just go ask any girl to dance. She’ll be too nervous to say no.”

“Really?” I questioned.

“Yup!” he assured.

And probably for the first time in my life, I did an extroverted thing: I walked up to a random girl (about my height) in one of the sporadic clusters and asked her to dance. He was correct, whether she wanted to or not, she was indeed too nervous to say no. Or maybe she fancied the scent of my Eau De Cutter? I’ll never know.

“Heat of the Moment” poured out of the P.A. speakers, and I danced with that nervous-but-willing girl like I knew what I was doing. She danced back at me. We danced at each other. And it was a completely innocent and wonderful four minutes that I’ve never forgotten. My success with that nervous-but-willing girl gave me the courage to ask a slew of girls to dance. Much to my surprise, they all said yes.

When we returned to the bunk house where we slept, I’d managed to impress even my senior bunk mates. I got a few high fives and slaps on the shoulder for my prolific light-fantastic-trippin’ with the ladies from the volleyball camp.

I’ve been a huge Asia fan ever since.

My brother and I periodically discuss this theory we have. We’ve posited that in the afterlife, one has access to a video library of one’s entire existence from birth to death. And any moment can be viewed from a third-person vantage point just by popping that particular tape into the cosmic VCR.

When I reach the afterlife and can review my entire existence on this astral plane, Basketball Camp Dance is one of the first videos I want to watch.

The next vid I plan to review will FINALLY reveal what in the hell actually happened to our old man’s crystal ice bucket on that fateful weekend in the summer of ’88.

But that’s an entirely different story…

—
© 2022 – ∞ B. Charles Donley

Saving My Heart For You

Out of the blue, I received the following message via FB Messenger…

I get it that no one reads this blog. I mean, I have access to the stats, so I know that NO ONE reads this blog.

However, if you are one of the one who does, you know how vital cassettes were to my survival in this particular lifetime, especially during my middle school/high school epoch. Therefore, an offer like this indeed registered on my personal Richter Scale.

The stellar human, total dude, and polymathic stud—he’s possessed of mad wood working skillz, he’s woke on podcasts, he has total nostalgia recall capabilities, and he’s hella gracious—who made the offer, just happens to live in the other neighborhood I periodically inhabit. You see, I split my time betwen Minneapolis (where my kids live) and Atlanta (where my wife lives). Trust me, you’ll understand it after I write my magnum opus and accept my academy award for “Best Adapted Screenplay”. But for now, just go with it as a “different” normal.

Anyway, being offered a two Nike shoe boxes and a Case Logic 15-cassette caddy overflowing with cassettes is not an unheard of experience for someone like me: an “audiophile” who covets all recorded music mediums (save 78s and Edison Phonograph Cylinders—gotta draw the line somewhere). But to be offered this volume and caliber of  recorded music on compact cassette tapes, which incidentally are “Better Than You Don’t Remember“, was a straight thrill—I ain’t gonna lie!

Full disclosure: when I get an offer like this, I’m torn. On one hand, I obviously want a well-curated compact cassette collection from the late ’80s—duh! On the other hand, I know what it would mean to me if I still had my own collection rather than hawking it at Down in the Valley in the early ’90s, only to turn around, literally, and buy copious amounts of used Eagles, Bob Seger, and (The) Who CDs with the proceeds.

My total dude southern neighbor assured me that “getting back into cassettes” was not on his radar, or his kids’ radars, or the radars of anyone with whom he was aware, related to, or casually associated…except me!

Yay me!

On a sunny March afternoon in ATL—sun in MSP in March is as rare as an OG cassette copy of Sublime’s Jah Won’t Pay the Bills on Skunk Records—my wifey and I swung by and picked up the magnetically coated polyester-type plastic film booty. It was a kick—I ain’t gonna lie!

Needless to say, the Pioneer mothership soundwall is located in a basement rumpus room in MSP, not in the unfinished basement storage zone in ATL.

And my big bad TOTL Pioneer CT-F1250 was exactly 1,117 miles away from the two boxes of tapes and one Case Logic caddy that I was cradling in my arms. Hence, I was going to have to endure the tedious yet familiar two hour and two minute return flight from ATL > MSP before I could hear the majestic notes of someone else’s teenage dreams.

Upon arriving back home from my trip home, I carefully unpacked all of the jewels and dropped them strategically in the open slots of one of the myriad wall-mounted Napa Valley Box Co. wooden cassette caddys that adorn my basement walls.

Tape by tape, I rolled my way through my neighbor’s teen epoch. In the process, I picked up a decent amount of music knowledge, such as…

Roger Waters’ Radio K.A.O.S. has been short shrift’d by AllMusic.

As I’ve always suspected, John Hiatt has one of those so-distinct vocal styles.

.38 Special was indeed special!

Anyway, I can’t adequately describe how delightful my trip through my latest acquisition has been. As my idol Bruce Springsteen once said…

“There is nothing so satisfying as busting the plastic seal on a new cassette, cracking open the case, and inhaling that new cassette smell.”

Actually, it was I who said that. And, older tapes present a completely wonderfully different bouquet—like that new record smell vs. an older mustier gem.

As I perused the cache of old-new stock tapes, I was struck by something.

Important.

Crucial, actually.

Among us diggers, there is a thing commonly referred to as: “record Karma”. It’s a pretty simple concept that takes a bit of time to explain and is best understood via example. I’ll give a first-hand account form my own experience, as only a first-hand experience can be accounted…

There is a Goodwill a scant three miles from our MSP home. Without getting mired in the intricacies of my custody arrangement, I see my kids every other weekend (and other days during the week). On my weekends, my daughter and I usually hit as many thrift stores as we can, and we hit ’em hard! We are ninja-like in our dismantling of any given outlet, and we know each store’s strengths and weaknesses.

On one particular trip to our local Goodwill, I ran across a freshly donated collection of AOR standards hastily crammed into the makeshift LP rack—actually a repurposed magazine rack—at the rear corner of the store. We’re talking High Infidelity, Against the Wind, On the Border, and so on, and etc…

Normally, despite previously owning at least a half-dozen different copies of each of these LPs at any given point since my 2009 vinyl Renaissance sparked my thrifting Odyssey, I’d snap them up for any number of rational (and irrational) reasons. Mainly, I’d snap them up strictly on principle. But, on that particular day, I was struck by the need to contribute to, rather than draw from, the well of record Karma.

I left that vein of vinyl gold and platinum—every LP in the run had been certified gold or platinum (many times over in some cases)—in that rickety white metal magazine rack for the next teenager, hipster, or oldster to discover. I wanted those records, but someone else likely needed ’em. I hope whomever needed ’em got ’em.

To my simplistic way of thinking, I believe that if you stack up enough of these displays of restraint, grace, and gratitude, really cool shit like your neighbor gifting you like 75 cassettes happens.

That’s what I’m going with anyway.

Thanks Matt! Your tapes will be graciously absorbed into my collection of 900+ cassettes and live to roll another day…many other days in some cases (like that Warren Zevon tape).

—
© 2020 – ∞ B. Charles Donley