1977 and I’m nine years old.
My dad’s parents live in a small suburb in St. Paul and I spend weekends there. My grandfather in a wheelchair, my tiny grandmother rushing around the house trying to make everyone happy.
This is the house where my father grew up. Grew up with three brothers and two sisters. A two-bedroom house with an attic and a basement. And up in the attic is where I stay, hiding from my scary, angry grandfather.
Up in the attic where my uncles live. Where their record collections live.
1977 and I’m nine years old.
I’ve read J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis and H.P. Lovecraft. Batman and Spider-Man. Conan and Elric.
I find one record. A cover that grabs my eyes and won’t let go. I have no idea what it sounds like. I’m not supposed to play my uncles’ records… I’m not supposed to play my uncles’ records… I’m not supposed to…
I didn’t know anything about sex. But seven songs later, I wanted to know.
___
That Halloween, I’m in the TV room, the set turned as low as I could. My parents are upstairs pretending they don’t know I’m up way passed my bedtime.
It’s Saturday night. Doctor Who on PBS. Saturday Night Live on Channel 2. I’m switching back and forth, a blanket thrown up over the TV to block the light.
Christopher Lee on SNL. He introduces the band. The band I’ve been waiting for.
It started almost a year before. It hasn’t ended.
A long, long love affair.
Songs so loud they grab your heart and squeeze every last ounce out of it.
Voices so loud they make sirens blush for shame.
Everything louder than everything else.
A long, long love affair.
Music, music, music.
And white tank tops.