Neil Diamond cover songs are, I think, my equivalent of "No, I haven't read the book, but I've seen the Wishbone episode," which makes loving me a very specific prospect. My favorite ex-girlfriend works at a record label and regularly hand-mails me (through the postal service!) CDs she thinks I'll like and also bumper stickers promoting the 2005 release of a Pussycat Dolls album.
You've seen VH1, you either remember, or have seen reenactments starring Dee Snyder thereof, the Parents Music Resource Center hearings of the mid-80s, where a group of Congressmen's wives (what a sentence!) tried to enact a stricter music ratings system, and how it didn't work out too great.
When people asked young people in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s what they loved about the music they always gave the exact same answer as the adults gave when they were asked why they so disapproved of it: “the beat.” And it was the true answer; I, and a few million other teenagers, felt it and loved and craved its physical, driving energy.
I miss the ritual of taping songs off the radio: looking for a fresh blank tape, not finding one and having to choose which cassette to sacrifice to the cause, Scotch-taping over the holes along the top to render it able to record again, and situating myself in front of the radio, waiting waiting waiting for the DJ to play my favorite songs so I could record them to listen to later.
Babe it's honestly the fact that you don't ever expect me to visit you
that makes me feel so comfortable around you
like so comfortable I just leave my stuff indefinitely at your house
because you're not interested in shackling me with rules and contracts like
"can you come get your stuff"
"Glen your stuff is always at my house but you never visit"