If you were anywhere near my childhood home in suburban Detroit on this particular summer day about 40 years ago, you may have heard the sonic boom coming from the family record player.
Thanks to my dad, it proved to be a memorable moment of my early years, albeit an embarrassing one. You see, Dad had gone a little crazy on this bright and beautiful summer afternoon. Now, he didn’t go off the deep end with liquor, cigarettes or women.
It was much worse.
Dad’s wild side surfaced when he cued one of his ethnic music albums on the Magnavox turntable we kept in our living room. The record player had been broken for a while and when it was finally fixed, well, Dad wasn’t shy about cranking up the sounds.
My dad had always been a fan of world music and enjoyed listening to vinyl records that featured international sounds of South America, Europe, the Caribbean and Mexico. However, I never knew how much until he cued an album so loudly it shook the ground. Since it was warm out, we had the front door open and the music freely blared through the screen.
The racket embarrassed me to the core. I was 10 years old and just starting to really like rock ‘n’ roll music; therefore having my dad’s music blasting from the house was mortifying. Another problem: I was at the age where trying to fit in with my peers was coming into play, and I would for sure be ostracized by what was spinning on the console if anyone else heard it.
If “This is Spinal Tap” Nigel’s amps went to 11, my dad’s ethnic tunes reached outer space. I told my mom Dad’s music was way too loud, hoping she would turn it down or get him to do it. Nope. She reminded me that he works six days a week to support his family and if he wanted to blare the music after a hard week at work, well, TOUGH!
OK. There was no getting around it; I just hoped nobody would notice. It didn’t take long for a neighborhood friend who stopped by looking for one of my older brothers who did. When at the door, I heard him ask my mom if she knew where that circus noise was coming from. She sheepishly replied that it was our record player and after the friend left, Mom caught on. She asked Dad if we could close the front door.
Ha! What a funny moment. It was that boxy Magnavox record player — with its oversized knobs and shiny, wooden cover — that became an essential part of my formative years. What a special piece of furniture it was.
Throughout my childhood, I spent much of my spare time — and since I was a kid I had a lot of it — lying on our ‘60s-style royal blue carpeting just a foot away from my parent’s record collection. The albums were neatly tucked into a rack.
The artwork and the liner notes fascinated me. Looking at the photographs of the famous performers drew me in. Offset by neon lights, Elvis Presley swooned in his white jumpsuit. Dolly Parton, with her big, blond teased wig, always looked like you’re best friend. Freddy Fender smiled from ear-to-ear although he sang about his last teardrops falling. Glamorous Vicki Carr stared at me through her false eyelashes.
I’d play some of the LPs. “The Sound Of Music” soundtrack starring Mary Martin on Broadway and Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumors” were the two albums in which I became obsessed. I loved those songs. And when I got the “Grease” soundtrack for Christmas, man, I was all set.'
Those early days with that Magnavox certainly put me on a path in which music would be at the center of everything. I still have that Magnavox. It’s in the garage — with a pile of junk on it — gathering dust. It was one of the sentimental things I kept after my parents passed. The turntable doesn’t work anymore, and I’ve been told it would be too expensive to fix. But I just can’t part with it. It’s going to stay in the garage for now, as well as in my heart and soul.
In Harmony, Maria Allard
