pt. 3, Why I Joined a Rebel Group of Post Capitalists

By ’78 my playing with toys days have started to wind down. We have plenty of Legos and I don’t need any more Star Wars action figures. To my parents and grandparents I let it be known that I prefer cash money for Christmas, Birthday and Easter gifts. Or a trip to a record store where I choose the record. With this gradual cash infusion Revolver and Rubber Soul join my album collection.

During this time we lived in Houston. Each of the three years there we attended the Houston Rodeo, a giant spectacle of an event in the Astrodome that included a musical performer. The first year we heard Charley Pride, one of the biggest black Country stars ever, and at the peak of his peak popularity. Year two Crystal Gale performed her huge hit Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue. My brother got the single. Year three, breaking the typical Country format the Jacksons performed. After leaving Motown they dropped the Five. And after several years away from the top of the charts they came back strong with Dance, Shout, Shake Your Body on to the Ground. And Michael Jackson had recently released Off the Wall my first non-Beatles album purchase. Rarely would I have such great timing in witnessing a musical legend at their peak.

I’m in fifth grade at this point and for PE two days a week we have dance lessons. Mostly disco as that’s the hot thing. Fifth grade teacher Mrs. Baldwin, a tall, elegant, immaculately dressed black woman with perfect elocution had two teacher’s pets. Me and Monique. Which kind of made us friends. Monique, the smart one, hung out with Tabitha, pretty one and best dancer, and Gwen. People now would say Gwen was ratchet. Rumors were that she had several older siblings all in juvie or jail or recently released. Cross Gwen and she would beat you down. Girl or boy. Even the teachers approached Gwen with trepidation. So during the disco lessons this trio of black girls laugh hysterically. At my dancing. They say, well you probably never heard this song. My reply, oh, I know this song, it’s Rock With You by Michael Jackson from the album Off the Wall. I have the album. They say, what? You mean your older sister has this album? I don’t have an older sister. Bought it with my own money. Wow.

So, I start hanging out with Monique, who was also pretty, Tabitha and Gwen at recess. Gwen brought a huge boom box to school. The first one I ever heard. We listened to Michael Jackson and danced in the field. They kept laughing. Then one day someone brought

Now, what you hear is not a test, I'm rapping to the beat

And me, the groove, and my friends are gonna try to move your feet

You see, I am Wonder Mike and I'd like to say hello

A to the black, to the white, the red and the brown, the purple and yellow

But first, I gotta bang-bang the boogie to the boogie

Say up jump the boogie to the bang-bang boogie

Let's rock, you don't stop

I didn’t buy Rapper’s Delight back then but I did get an early taste for Hip Hop.

As the reader may surmise I continued going to the record store on Shepherd. One day I see on top of the front display a stack of singles. Most singles have a simple unicolor sleeve with an opening to read the label. This one has a stylized photo of the Goddess. Blondie. Call Me. What will be my alibi for buying this record?

1980. Easter time. Visiting Baton Rouge. I didn’t know then but that summer we would move back to Baton Rouge. My maternal grandmother takes me to the big record in town. It’s called New Generation. She says I can have anything I want under $15. This means something big. That’s enough for a double album. A clear choice exists. The White Album. The only one of the Beatles five greatest albums I, or my dad, don’t own. But this spring one song dominates the hall ways of Edgar Allen Poe Elementary Magnet School and the radio station on my clock radio. Another Brick In The Wall, Pt. 2. We don’t need no education, we don’t need no thought control. Hey! teacher, leave that kid alone! My dad hates the song. A terrible message he says. My grandmother listens to the soft classical station, has no idea. She does think the album looks a bit strange. And the band’s name is Pink Floyd. That’s ridiculous. But wasn’t the Beatles a strange name too? I get the The Wall for Easter and the White Album for Christmas. That contains a large fold out poster with lyrics and color portraits of each of the Beatles which will cover the bedroom wall.

While my grandmother’s musical tastes had mellowed to the point of somnolence, it wasn’t also so. At the LSU basketball games when the band played “Tiger Rag,” a staple of their repertoire, she would tell my about her teenage years in the 30s. She and her friends used to “cut a rug” dancing all night. And her favorite, favorite song for dancing? Tiger Rag. The Benny Goodman version. He had the best band.

1980. Moving back to Baton Rouge at age 11 our house had a large yard. Lots of grass to mow. While still small, I could push a lawn mower. Unlike unpaid household duties like cleaning dishes or taking the trash out, grown men mowed lawns and they established market prices. $10 to $20 to mow a yard depending on size. The St. Augustine grass in the semi-tropical climate grows fast. Needs weekly mowing most of the year. I mow our yard and sometimes the neighbor’s yard, though she doesn’t always pay, and also my grandmother’s yard if I can. That adds up. That’s money for books and records.

New Generation, the big record store in Baton Rouge, thankfully lies only a couple of miles away and on our side of a busy eight lane highway. Stereo systems, televisions and other electronics take up much of the store. Like the record store on Shepherd it’s locally owned. This is before the big box store invasion. Record albums with large back sides often have extensive liner notes. I spend hours in New Generation scouring the bins and shelves, reading liner notes, learning, memorizing, carefully considered what to purchase.

1982. At Acme I see a new book. The Rolling Stone Record Guide. Thick, heavy, filled with every record review in the fifteen year history of the magazine plus more reviews of older records and artist profiles. Heavy on Rock n Roll but including Blues, Jazz, Country & Western, Gospel and Pop. Later I recognize the narrow vision, male-centric, boomer nostalgia of the whole Rolling Stone enterprise, but then it was a goldmine of knowledge and information. That takes gold to buy. It costs the outrageous amount of $30. Most paperback books cost $2.99, $3.99, maybe $4.99. New release albums cost $5.99 or $6.99, older releases often less. Blues and Classical albums cost as little as $2.99. New Generation has good prices. Though I remain loyal to Acme I feel compelled to see if B. Dalton in the big mall has a better price. Cortana Mall is also in biking distance though I do have to cross the eight lane highway. B. Dalton has the same price. I go home feeling defeated.

At this point in the story I admit to criminal behavior. I would never remotely consider stealing from Acme. But I really need this book. I hate the shiny mall books store with prominent displays of books about get rich quick schemes, dubious self help guides, spandex wearing fitness gurus, and a sad literature section stuck in the back right next to the Cliff Notes guides used by students who didn’t actually read the books. Fuck the man. I return to B. Dalton. And honestly, they invited shoplifting. The store does not have a door. The entire storefront opens to the mall. I walk in away from the view of the cashier, move straight to the music section, make my selection, walk out at the furthest point from the register, walk quickly, but not running to the mall exit, on my bike out of the parking lot. The whole caper takes less than 5 minutes.

One day during 7th grade I go to New Generation with another kid. Afterwards we go to his house. His dad asks where we’ve been. With great derision he says Jew Generation? Why’dya go there? I’m baffled. Most people in Baton Rouge would probably say Tiger Stadium is the best place in town. But I counted this musical wonderland the best. Along with Acme Books. That night I ask my parents what he meant. They say a Jewish man owns that store. And some ignorant, mean people don’t like Jewish people just for being Jewish. It’s called antisemitic. Well, this Jewish guy must be pretty cool if he owns that store. My family went to Methodist church and outside of that hour a week didn’t discuss religion much if ever. I did read the Bible sometimes, this man’s words, more so his attitude, seemed to me to conflict with the words of Jesus. This conundrum of mean, un-Christ like Christians remains through my life.