Let The Good Times RollTime travel courtesy of whatever fits your fancy ...

Music is a powerful vessel, don't you think?

It can transport you anywhere you want to go, forward or reverse. The magical vibe of sonic stimulation can also be a companion most intriguing just sitting in park and going absolutely nowhere behind the soothing hum of your idling mind. If you find yourself blessed enough to be wrapped in this bliss of pure, natural nothingness, savor it as the rare cut of steak it really is.

That's right, let your mental digest every drop of that protein for the thought, and take its deliciousness not for granted. No salt, pepper or sauce needed - scrumptious as is.

But when music takes you somewhere, the trip is most often one to revere, for better or worse.

Any given song can remind you of that one time, at that one party, back when you were young, dumb and happier for it. You know, when it took no more than the opening riff or beat of "your song" to convince you that running through a bonfire was a stellar idea.

Or, in a much sappier vein, everyone has that one ballad in their skeleton closet that transports them back to a time that was most beautifully graced by the first love of their life. Oh, the chorus swells your heart with cheesy memories of how you each agreed that this was "your song," so perfectly articulating your mutually ridiculous devotion to one another.

It truly was an angelic anthem orchestrated by Cupid himself ... just for you.

And then, for one reason or another, one of you ripped out the other's heart, ate it and vomited the remain into the universe of broken love.

The beauty? You probably have a song dancing around out there somewhere that got you through that, too.

Once upon a time, back on another planet in a different galaxy, I would pull up Spotify, set it to random and write whatever each passing song laid the foundation for. It was always such a fun ride, and it never failed to keep my wheels turning and my fingers playing catch-up.

I also found it to be a great writing exercise; one that didn't put me at greater than average risk of having a shitty time. But somewhere along the line I lost the urge, I lost the enthusiasm ...

I lost the point.

But I feel it coming back, so here I am, taking another step back in the right direction. Or some direction. But, hey, is it not better than no direction?

And there's the point. Let's take a trip.

Halftime

ABBA - Dancing Queen

The year was approximately ... well, somewhere between 1976 and 1979, probably leaning more toward 1979. What I do remember is that I was a young kid who, like many other future ruffians of that generation, thought The Fonz was the shit.

All he had to do was blow on his fist, pound it on the jukebox, and the joint was rockin'. Then with the snap of a finger, the hottest babes within earshot of his primal beckon flocked to his arm.

Even though I hadn't even reached double-digits in age, I knew that was cool. Ayyyyyy.

The only characters who even came close to such a level of coolness were Spider-Man and The Bandit, although I was way more impressed by the Trans-Am than Burt Reynolds.

I wanted two things at that time - a leather jacket and my hair slicked back like ol' Arthur Fonzarelli himself. Those were happy days indeed.

Since my parents thought it unpractical for a child of my age to have a leather jacket, I grew more persistent about the hair. And after my urging grew to a fever pitch one Saturday afternoon, my mom decided to shapeshift me into a miniature Fonzie.

Only it didn't really go so smoothly.

For starters, I had very straight, limp hair that refused to obey with anything beyond lying there ... you know, all limp and whatnot.

Further, there was no hair grease or whatever the hell was required to make one's hair hold that rebellious slick and sheen in the house. But there was some of my dad's flattop wax in the bathroom closet, assuredly left over from 1965, which was the last time he would have probably even worn  a flattop.

Meaning, the viscosity was a tad extra viscous, if you can imagine such viscosity.

I didn't have to imagine it for long, as it was soon caking my Beatles-type bowl cut to my goofy childhood head, all sitting on a narrow, skinny neck and underdeveloped shoulders.

One horrified look in the mirror did plenty to turn my illusion into delusion. Instead of looking like Fonzie 2.0, I more resembled some kind of rare bird, and not even an exotic one at that. To be real, I looked like a prehistoric bird that had managed to crawl its way out of a tarpit.

I wanted to hide from the world. But I couldn't, and this is where Dancing Queen comes to mind.

It was the 70s, a carefree time when roller-skating - or at least hanging out at a rink - was a popular thing to do on a Saturday night. And on this particular eve, I had to ride along as my mom dropped my older sister off for a night of hell on wheels.

I wasn't of proper age to go in, but I wouldn't have anyway ... not with my head of waxy hair that I could feel ever-hardening by the minute. I felt like a birthday candle. You could have totally jammed a wick into that mess and lit me up; I would have burned for days.

And what song do you think was creeping on the AM radio dial as I hid on the floorboard so no one would see me?

You got it ... goddamn Dancing Queen.

For the record, I still really enjoy that song. And it took about 10 washings over the rest of the weekend to get that shit out of my hair.

Next ...

Choices

Metallica - Fight Fire With Fire

I had a job at a local grocery store beginning the summer before my junior year of high school. It was also shortly after I successfully acquired my first of what would go on to be many, many driver's licenses over the years.

And the best part about it was I driving to school and work in my 1980 Buick Regal ... my 1980 Buick Regal. I had picked it up over the summer, made possible by my new daily regimen of stocking shelves, mopping floors and bagging groceries for elderly lasses who felt it was their moral obligation to critique every move I made.

Then again, I also bagged groceries for a bevy of not-so-elderly lasses that created strange static in my 16-year-old thoughts. Knowing now what I didn't know then, I think they not only knew this, but enjoyed it. But that's neither here nor there, is it?

Much to my excitement, my "new" car came equipped with a Pioneer stereo - with a cassette player, and some post-factory speakers already installed. This was a day before CDs, multi power amps and subs, so having such equipment was amazing for a chap my age.

I know it's all about the bass today, like that one chick says. In the 80s, we were all about the midrange and bullet tweeters, with a little bass tossed in for good measure.

After school let out at around 3-ish, it was generally off to the store. My shifts varied between 4-9 p.m. or 5-10 p.m., which meant I had either one hour or two to spend before catering to the lasses.

For a considerable stretch of time, this meant Little Caesar's and Metallica.

I would carry out the daily ritual of getting two slices and an order of Crazy Bread. For anyone unfortunate enough to not remember, that was back when Crazy Bread was crazy good, not like the raw, rolled out strips of undercooked doughy substance it has morphed into in its current state.

It was superb, and nothing went better with it than Metallica in whatever park or parking lot I chose to devour both in. The combination more than prepared me for more nights of grocery store shenanigans than I can count or even remember.

I do remember the Crazy Bread, though. In fact, I can still taste it whenever I hear the devastating fury of early pre-pop Metallica.

Yum.

Next ...

Found 44

Great White - Rock Me

This is weird, man, because it seems I will remain stuck on this 1980 Buick Regal, grocery store and my junior year of high school.

There's really not much like the newfound freedom you feel when you become independently mobile for the first time, and I was super caught up in that after I started driving. In addition to getting me much more intimate with Crazy Bread, my car also stoked my fascination - and infatuation - with music. Now I didn't have to turn it off when I left the house; I could just continue rocking on the road, which I did.

I still do. At least some things haven't changed, unlike Crazy Bread.

This song carried with it a heavy dose of enchantment for a kid who suddenly was experiencing a unique form of excitement that has previously eluded him. Having grown up out in the middle of nowhere, this new luxury of depending upon no one to get me from point A to point B and beyond was like nothing else.

I did lose those privileges twice before I even turned 18, but that's beside the point. What can I say? I had a heavy foot and a brain that made bad choices. You live and you learn, right?

Some things do change, like that lame-ass Crazy Bread.

But that song ... and really the entire album ... it was a staple in a collection that began to steer me down a haphazard path of wanting to write the music, not just listen to it.

So as I aimlessly cruised the streets after another titillating (very odd adjective selection, I know) evening at the grocery store, car loaded with hooligans or not, I would always have a soundtrack as my guide. And whenever I hear Rock Me to this day, as I just did, my thoughts drift back to some of the most exciting days I've ever known, and I can almost feel a carefree nature ease its way in to my spirit.

For the briefest of moments, I can soak up an ounce of lightness as I remember the simpler times of bagging groceries, paying for my car and doing the occasional homework between parties and having the world at my doorstep.

Life would go on to be crazier, heavier and riveted together by more beauty and tragedy than I could have ever dreamt. That's what makes the ride a ride, you know. It makes the journey a journey.

But when I hear that opening bass line of Rock Me - now with actual, present-day bass pumping - I'm back behind the wheel of that 1980 Buick Regal, oblivious to everything but a freedom that was so incredibly precious while wishing I could have fully understood just how at the time.

We live and we learn. We sure do.

One more. Next ...

Found 66

Foreigner - Juke Box Hero

This was 40 years ago, man ... and I vividly remember this in full audio-visualization.

I was in the fifth grade, lying in bed listening to my alarm clock radio play this nightly countdown on a rock station I couldn't get enough of. It was my nightly escape preluding another tumultuous day of forced participation in this thing they called "school."

I was good at learning; it just came naturally. And that was fortunate, because I wasn't so adept at socializing and such. By this point of my young journey, I had begun to regress in ways, increasingly paralyzed internally by this weird new sensation I felt but could not understand.

I think it was called anxiety, or something like that.

However, it introduced me to an escapism that would someday rule my world and save my life many times over.

Even as an extreme youngster, I always knew that I would go on to be an artist of some kind. OK, maybe I didn't know it at the time, but the seeds of dreams were planted before I even knew what they were. I definitely was clueless as to what they would grow into, but I didn't need a clue.

All I needed was an imagination ... and that one guitar. And then, like the guy in the song, my whole life changed. Except it would take another seven to eight years before my transformation took place.

For some reason, it was Juke Box Hero that inspired the concert in my head that would someday, to some extent, become a reality. I didn't even really know what the hell was going on with all the instruments and how they all played off of one another, but the energy captured my intrigue and never let go. 

Once that song started, the fracas was on. I closed my eyes and there I was, on a stage with a few of my little fifth-grade compadres - one singing and another playing drums. I didn't know what a bass was yet, so my dreamland band had no bass player, even though the bass plays a very prevalent part in the buildup of this song.

Hey, give me a break ... I was in the fifth grade.

I was the guitar player, waiting for that iconic chord to take the song to a whole new level and kick my adrenaline glands right in the adrenaline glands.

And when it did, I got chills and goosebumps that I have yet to forget. I would also go on to experience them firsthand - not in a dream, but in stone cold realism. It's the most engaging feeling ever ... ever.

For that moment in time, though, all I had was the song, the imagination and the dream.

Turns out, it was all I needed. To this day, it's still all I need.

Thanks for the trip.