We huddled outside the North Olmsted recreation center waiting for the rest of the spirit band to arrive.  On this cold December night, we were supposed to be energizing high school hockey fans, but when not enough kids showed up, we were presented with a three-hour window to spend the rest of the night.  Our foursome included Dan, a junior, cool, laid back (like most trombone players) and the one with the car.  There was Mark, a stocky, sophomore coronet player who was the epitome of band geek (really nice guy, though).  Mark often wore a t-shirt that asked the question, “Why be normal?”  He liked to smoke pot.   Jay was a fellow freshman drummer, one of those guys who bled talent, and a close friend at the time.  He was an emotional firecracker, calm and fun loving most of the time and then- BAM! — an explosion of anger.  Finally, I rounded out the group, the dorky son of the band director.  I wore big ’80s-style glasses, had poofy hair, and dressed in god-awful sweatpants that covered the knee brace of my injured knee.  With nowhere to be and nothing in particular to do, we piled into Dan’s car and drove away.

Cruising through the hometown seems like a time-honored rite of passage for most young men.  You get the keys to the car, you don’t want to be stuck at home, so you hit the road and just drive, listening to whatever music’s on the radio and killing time until you have to roll into bed and sleep away the weekend.  On that night, navigating the slickened streets of a Saturday night, with the melted snow sloshing around in the tire wells making that sound like water running, we owned those streets.  With a swagger you only have as a teenager, we felt like kings, invincible; nothing could hurt us.  The neon signs from the fast food joints, the banks and the gas stations beckoned us, but we drove on, searching for what I don’t know.  Camaraderie, I suppose.  Isn’t that what we all want when we’re trying to figure out who we are?

I was in low mood; my girlfriend had broken up with me the night before.  Somehow, even though I’d only spoken to a couple people, everyone knew, my first experience of gossip traveling faster than the tears can hit the pillow.  These three guys, boys I hardly hung out with before that night, decided to comfort me in the manner they knew adults handled pain and loss: by trying to scoring some beer.  Meanwhile, the radio dial was tuned to the venerable Cleveland station, WMMS, and their new weekend program, “Classic Rock Saturday Night.”  The deep voice of legendary DJ Len “Boom” Goldberg spoke to us through the speakers in Dan’ car, as he introduced music from the early 70’s by the artists who had shaped rock and roll.   We were a generation raised on new wave and MTV and in 1984 if we’d heard the music of Led Zeppelin, Cream, The Who or Pink Floyd, it was because of our older siblings who had passed the music down.  I hadn’t received that passing of the torch, so listening to “Boom” and the songs he played opened up a new world to me. (more…)