This is a stock photo of my very first musical listening device.
It is called a "radio" (pronounced: ray-dee-oh).
It was part of Magnavox' 1966 line of portable transistor radios. I
was 12-years-old and in the 6th grade at the time of purchase. It came w ith a fake leather protective case.
I heard many a Beatles, Rolling Stones, Monkees, and Who song (and
other great bands) for *the very first time* on this little 2 1/2 x 3
1/2 inch eight transistor box 'o tuneage.
The radio went
with me everywhere. I walked around the house with it. I took it
outside to the front porch, to the backyard swing set, and to Highland
Park - located just on the other side of the alley behind ye olde Smith
estate (i.e. deepest East Dayton). I also slept with it under my
pillow every night for several years.
That radio rocked.
And I rocked with it.
That radio and I made rock.
.
Back in December 1978, an old girlfriend and I went to see The J. Geils Band and Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes at Hara Arena. We were down on the floor near the right edge of the stage, surrounded by these leather-clad biker dudes. Southside opened the show and almost immediately there was some serious bad blood between The Miami Horns (Southside's amazing horn section) an d these hard-core biker guys (back then The J. Geils Band had this weird biker subset in their fan base).
It was pretty obvious that something had been brewing for awhile. There was lots of shouting, finger pointing, and a bunch of crap being thrown back and forth (and I don't mean hotel keys or panties). Had the thing really blown up, I probably would've put my money on the biker guys, but the Jersey fellas in The Miami Horns were definitely no slouches (imagine five guys from "The Sopranos" with horns).
Of course, it didn't help the tension level that my girlfriend was really hot (Hi Margo!) and the biker guys had duly noted the same. I mean, I would have defended her honor (and my vested interest), but unfortunately, basic physics teaches us that throwing punches while running in the exact opposite direction can be a bit problematic, or at least highly ineffective.
I thought about crying out "C'mon people! No more Altamonts!" and then seeing if maybe the biker dudes wanted to join hands for a swaying version of "Kumbaya" (preferably the Peter, Paul, and Mary arrangement), but I opted to shitcan the idea. I'm pretty sure that my girlfriend was grateful for that decision - and not because she wasn't fond of the Peter, Paul, and Mary arrangement, because she was.
Unfortunately, we didn't stick around for J. Geils' set because when Southside was done more bikers started to crowd around the stage area.
I still wish that we could have all just gotten along.
.
