the
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
the
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
"No, Spiardi. I bought myself a ring that's too big." This is how Miss S.T. sarcastically answered when I asked if her boyfriend bought her the yarn-wrapped ring she was sporting on her finger. It had never occurred to me that the fuzzy bands worn by the A-list girls began their lives as one-size-fits-all pieces of cheap metal, purchased by…
"Where the boys are, someone waits for me," Connie Francis once sang. And just where were they waiting in my sleepy little hometown in the slow, sweet summertime? Well, let's just say it wasn't at our old cracked-concrete tennis courts. But for me, it was someplace to go, and go I did - back in my pre-car, pre-cash teen years. Every night after dinner, my friend Ann and I would dress to impress and make our way up cemetery hill to the courts to see and be seen. Alas, not much came of our tennis trolloping. Once or twice a guy friend would offer us a ride home, but it was never the guy we hoped for. Weren't we pretty enough, clever enough, or popular enough? Such thoughts would consume our high school years.
Snow came down like course sea salt on a big ugly Tupperware bowl of pale popcorn. It was January 1977, the coldest month in Pittsburgh history. I was a pint-size high school senior living in a small town 40 miles east of the steel city, serving my time and awaiting the day in late May when I would "commence." I was, in the words of Paul Simon's "My Little Town," savin' my money, dreamin' of glory, twitchin' like a finger on a trigger of a gun. I look back on the stay-at-home snow days of that brutal January - sheltered, sans-siblings, in the bedroom of our four-room apartment - as one of the most beautifully sad, soul-expanding periods of my life. With no actual school work, I was free to feed my psyche with all kinds creative matter. I was free to ponder the meaning of life -- to dissect the mysterious beast of High School Land.
Question: what's the next best thing to seeing your favorite artist perform at a rock concert? Answer: receiving a copy of the show's program from a friend who attended the gig. Okay, I know that's a stretch. Sure, you can drool over a concert program all you like, flip its pages till they fall out, and take it to bed and read it under the covers with a flashlight. But it will never sing to you. It won't make your ears ring for hours on end. And it will never blind you with pyrotechnics. Nevertheless, I experienced a true rock-shock when my friend Tony Vigliotti walked into sixth period French class and presented me with a souvenir concert program from the Queen show he'd seen the night before at Pittsburgh's Stanley Theater. Nobody but a fellow rockaholic like Tony could have imagined how much I wanted to see that concert.