I Can Hear the Echo of the Days of '79 (and '80)

In my time on this planet (more than a half a century, if you must know), I’ve seen a lot of concerts. From being a teenage music fanatic through working in record stores (where free tickets flowed from the labels) through being a marketing regional at a major record company (going to shows was part of the job) to dating a musician (a situation in which gig-going is mandatory) and slinging drinks for 15 years at one of the east coast’s most legendary rock clubs, I’ve got literally thousands of live shows under my belt. 

By law of averages, most of them were largely forgettable. Sure, a good chunk were worth the price of admission (even if I was fortunate enough to have that price usually be $0.00). And at least a few dozen were exhilarating testaments to the good parts about being alive. But I gotta say, of those thousands of shows, the all-time highlight… was number one. And that one took place forty years ago today (as I post this piece).

On March 6, 1980, I (along with some friends) traveled to the Tower Theater just outside of Philadelphia, PA to see The Clash on the “Sixteen Tons” tour in support of their then-new album, LONDON CALLING.

But let’s back up a bit. Prior to 1979, my relationship with rock and roll took a back seat to my obsession with comic books. In elementary school, I was content with whatever Casey Kasem was counting down on American Top 40 (given the era, a highly mixed, but not altogether unsavory bag). In junior high, I became a card-carrying (literally) member of the KISS army (thanks mostly to their comic book image). But then in 1979, at the beginning of my sophomore year of high school, I was introduced to the music that would change my life.

On the bus one crisp autumn morn, I was talking with my friend Kevin Fleck about how I really liked some of this “new wave” stuff I was hearing on the radio, like Blondie’s “One Way or Another” and the Cars’ “Just What I Needed.” Kev’ told me that he had a few records I had to hear, and one day after school, I went over to his house for a little edification. My friend pulled out an LP with a fluorescent orange logo on the cover, removed the vinyl from the sleeve and put it on his turntable, skipping to side two, track two, his favorite song on the album.

Drums, bass, and guitars exploded in my ears, followed by a singer passionately exclaiming in a distinct, guttural British accent, “They offered me the office, offered me the shaaaaaa-OP! They said I’d better take anything they ghaaaaaaa-OT! Do you wanna make tea at the BBC, Do you wanna be, do you really wanna be a CAAAAAAHP?”

“Listen to how angry he sounds!” Kevin instructed. And I listened. Oh, how I listened.

The song was “Career Opportunities” off of the self-titled debut album by the Clash, and thus I was ushered into the oft-reviled (back then, anyway) world of punk rock. Granted, by 1979, the movement was waning, and, being a 14 year-old white boy in suburban Pennsylvania, it’s not like I could relate to much of the political content (particularly as it pertained to a downtrodden British working class), but the energy, the fury, the intensity were all ridiculously inspiring. Kevin graciously loaned me that record as well as the even more incendiary NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS, HERE'S THE SEX PISTOLS to take home. I would soon own my own copies of these albums. Gripped with the furor of punk rock purism, I gave all of my KISS albums to my younger brother (a move I would later regret, but that’s another story).

In short order, the Clash became one of my favorite bands, even if (like many) I was somewhat underwhelmed by their second album, GIVE ‘EM ENOUGH ROPE (which, thanks to their label’s short sightedness, came out in the States before their first, reworked record).

And so, one Friday in January, 1980, I was hanging out at the Park City Mall in Lancaster PA (as was the custom of the day). Part of my mall routine was doing some record shopping, hitting the numerous outlets and flipping through the racks, seeing if anything jumped out or picking up some new release by a band I’d grown to like.

On this particular day, however, I knew exactly what I wanted. I was picking up LONDON CALLING, which was just released in the US that week (it had come out in the UK the prior December). The only question was, from where? I could get it at Camelot Music or Harmony Hut, the two primary record stores at the mall at that point. But instead, I opted to purchase the new release from the record department at SEARS (yes, Roebuck’s former partner). I still remember picking it off the rack and paying the—what, $7.98? Something like that? (I know it was a double LP for a single platter price, the band fought for that.)— and being anxious to get home and slap it on my Sony HP-318 all-in-one hi-fi!

But first I had to meet my friends. I caught up with some of them at one of our regular mall haunts, The Salad Haus (where I always ordered the roast beef sandwich) and excitedly showed off my purchase. Most of my friends were likewise suburban punks like myself and everyone was (Jimmy) jazzed to hear the band’s third album.

LONDON CALLING felt like an event. It wasn’t just that it was a double LP (unprecedented for a punk band). It wasn’t just the exciting graphics on the cover (Pennie Smith’s iconic black and white photo of Paul Simonon smashing his bass at the Palladium in New York contrasted with the bold lettering lifted from Elvis Presley’s 1956 debut LP). I think for me, it was the first time I’d purchased a hotly anticipated record by an unassailably cool band the week it came out. Finally, I was cool. I mean… not really. But I sure felt cool (I’m sure the clerk at SEARS thought so, right?).

I don’t remember if I played it that night (I mean, I couldn’t miss THE INCREDIBLE HULK, could I?) or the next morning, but I do remember how I felt when I put the needle down and that opening blast of the title track came roaring out of my speakers. Fucking exhilarated, that’s how.

But “London Calling” wasn’t my favorite song of the album. No, my first favorite track of the 19 spread across those four sides was “Spanish Bombs.” At least at first. Then it was “Hateful.” After that, it became “Clampdown” (which also later served as my friends’ and my unofficial graduation theme). The point being, there was not one bad song on the damn thing; Every single one felt utterly urgent and necessary.

My friends agreed. And when Kevin informed me that the band was coming back to America in the Spring to tour in support of the record, playing the Tower in Philly, he asked if I’d like to go. In a word, Duh. Even though I had to have been at least a little intimidated. I was a fresh (if pimply) faced 15 year-old, and had never been to a concert, let alone one in Philadelphia.

Tickets were $7.50, purchased via Ticketron, at a ticket outlet at one of the anchor stores (I forget which one) at the same mall where I’d just bought the album.  Kevin bought four tickets, including two for our friends Al and Nathan. Then he bought another, separate single ticket. This one was for his father, not so much a Clash fan as a supportive escort for four teenagers going to a punk rock concert on a school night. Kevin’s father wasn’t about to leave us alone in the theater, but he was cool enough to sit far enough away from us that we didn’t LOOK like a bunch of kids whose daddy had to take them to the show.

Thursday, March 6, 1980. After a no-doubt interminable school day, we took the bus to Kevin’s house and his Dad drove us to Philly (stopping for dinner at Burger King along the way, at which Kevin got a premium “Crazy Ball,” a plastic ball unevenly weighted to as to roll in unpredictable directions. This sounds like superfluous trivia. It is not.

When we got to Philly (Upper Darby, to be precise), the first thing I did was buy a tee-shirt from a dealer outside, a black shirt with a reproduction of the LONDON CALLING cover. I thought it was strange that they were selling merch outside the venue, but it was my first concert, what did I know.

It wasn’t until I got inside and saw the enormous wall of merchandise that I realized I’d bought a bootleg shirt. How very punk rock of me, I may have thought (but probably didn’t). Instead, I bought another shirt, a white one with a simple red Clash logo and a black and white image of the band (they are both long gone). I also bought a copy of Issue 1 of THE ARMAGIDEON TIMES, a zine put together by the band and friends (I’ve still got that).

The crowd was a mixed bag, as this was before the more shocking aspects of British punk fashion had taken hold in most of the USA… there were precious few stereotypical punks in the crowd, more long hair and denim on display than mohawks and bondage pants. We made our way to our seats, near the back of the orchestra section (my ticket is for Row T, Seat 104) and settled in, restless even before the three (THREE!) openers took the stage… I will confess that the first two openers, Mikey Dread and Lee Dorsey left us cold (we were hardly alone… it’s well documented that a frustrated Joe Strummer often chided audiences who reacted unfavorably to the black acts who often opened for them). We were more into the third band, a Toronto band called The B-Girls, but the natives were getting restless. Kevin decided to let loose his punk rock aggression by throwing his Burger King Crazy Ball towards the stage. There was no way it was going to make it that far, but he probably thought it would go further than it did… which was directly into the back of the head of the large man seated directly in front of us. As the angry peltee slowly turned around, glowering, Kevin pleaded for his life (I’m barely exaggerating) as Nathan, Al, and I struggled to suppress our laughter.

Ah, youth.

But then… finally… As Tennessee Ernie Ford’s “I6 Tons” played, Joe, Mick, Paul, and Topper took the stage, plugged in, and gave the whole room a not-little “jump of electrical shockers” as the show kicked off with “Clash City Rockers.” What followed was a incredible hour-plus of songs mostly from LONDON CALLING, with a few old tracks thrown in (and one or two that had yet to be recorded). I’ll be honest, though… my memories of the show itself are fuzzy. I remember feeling like my head was gonna explode (in a good way) during "Complete Control." I remember the pandemonium during "I Fought the Law." I remember "London Calling" knocking me through my seat. Mostly, I remember it being fast and raucous and loud. So loud, in fact, that I did something that I now look back on incredulously… when the band took its final encore (I think there were two), I decided that I’d rather go back outside to the lobby and look at some more merch. DUMMY.

The show ended and we climbed back into Kevin’s dad’s car (I don’t remember precisely what he thought of the show, but I do know that Kev’ said he was not the biggest fan of punk rock). We got home late and the next day, of course, all wore our spankin’ new Clash shirts to school, to much ridicule from the clueless heads and jocks who dominated Hempfield High (Yes, my school was named Hempfield High, I’m not joking). I didn’t care. To me, their ridicule was a badge of honor. I’d just gone to my first concert, and it was to see The Only Band That Matter(ed).

That was the only time I saw The Clash. I had tickets to see them open for The Who (again in Philadelphia, this time at the enormous JFK Stadium) in September of 1982, but I didn’t go because my then-girlfriend’s mother wouldn’t let her go, so I stayed behind out of a misguided sense of romantic solidarity (again, IDIOT ME).

Ah, well. Such is life. Ups and downs. Triumphs and defeats. Good decisions and bad. These days, my life is pretty small. It takes a lot to get me to a concert (like when X comes to town or The New York Philharmonic plays the score to PSYCHO live). As such, I spend a lot of time—probably too much—looking back. But I’ve always been nostalgic (even when I was too young for it, really), a bittersweet state of mind that many find risibly wasteful.

I dunno. Sure, I don’t love being a quinquagenarian. There are aches and pains and regrets and my hair’s a lot thinner than it was in 1980. But I wouldn’t trade the experiences I had for youth. I wouldn’t trade record shopping at the mall and then blasting that vinyl on my stereo for streaming music that I don’t own from records whose covers I can’t see by faceless bands through a crappy sounding Bluetooth speaker. Also, get off of my lawn.

High School "punker," 1981

I love the fact that I got to be a Clash fan while the Clash was still a band. I love that The Clash was my first concert (and yes, I enjoy when that question comes up in a social setting). I love that I can watch documentaries about the band and video collections of everything they did. I love that I can now check out bootlegs from that tour and remember it a little better. I love that I can now read entire books about the band, the making of that specific record, and a detailed chronology of their existence. I love that I can hear the rehearsal takes and watch video of them in the studio with the volatile Guy Stevens making this piece of art. I can do all of that stuff with the knowledge that, for one small sliver of it, I was there.

The one thing that truly sucks is that Joe Strummer is no longer with us. We need voices like his now more than ever. If you think about it, the title track of LONDON CALLING fits 2020 as much as it did 1979… “The ice age is coming / the sun’s zooming in / meltdown expected / the wheat is growing thin / engines stop runnin’ / but I have no fear / cuz’ London is drowning and I live by the river…” The “zombies of death” Joe Strummer was talking about in “London Calling” were heroin addicts, but the lyric could just as easily be describing the smart-phone staring masses oblivious to the world around them, concerned only with their own reflections in the black mirror. (And, different song, but not even the most cynical punk could imagine the “evil Presidenté” we’ve got today.) These are truly terrifying times, and for me, there’s no contemporary punk rock catharsis that fits the bill like this 40 year-old slab of righteous fury.

The $7.50 ticket stub that was torn four decades ago tonight hangs framed in my bedroom over my desk. As I write this, of course, I’m listening to LONDON CALLING for the thousandth or so time and it still sounds as great as it ever did. Right now, if I had to pick a favorite song off the album, it’d probably be “Lost in the Supermarket.” Or maybe “Death or Glory.” Hmmm, wait, no, maybe it’s “I’m Not Down.” Wait, no, I'm going back to "Clampdown." Ah, I can't pick just one!!

The larger point is, LONDON CALLING remains more than just my hands-down favorite rock album. I will forego my usual aversion to objective superlatives and make the claim that it is also the best rock album of all time. Name another record that melds so many styles and genres in such an organic way (each band member bringing a distinct musical influence into the mix), that defied expectations, that took punk rock to another level while maintaining the spirit of the movement. Name another record that’s a perfect microcosm of its time and yet still sounds utterly timeless. Name another double LP with nary a clunker in the bunch.

Nope, not THE WHITE ALBUM. No, not BLONDE ON BLONDE. Sorry, no, not that other one you’re thinking right now either. You’re wrong.

Okay, fine, for you something may be “better.” It’s all subjective. But for me, this was it. Yeah, I guess I peaked early, but whatever. Forty years ago today, I let fury have the hour, and it was glorious.


Eternal thanks to the Flecks, Sr. (RIP) and Jr... And be careful with those Crazy Balls, Kev. 

NOTE: Parts of this piece are from the STILL unpublished book, COLLECTOR’S EDITION, coming someday before I die, I swear! 

Albums That Made an Impact.

As I've said once or twice on this thing, one of the sad side effects of social media is that it has seriously maimed blogging as an expressive outlet. Rather than take the time to craft an extended piece about any given topic, most people (myself included) are far more likely to just dash off a quick rant on Twitter or their Facebook page, have it be seen by whomever happens to have them in their algorithm for a day or so, and then move on with their life. As with everything else in this digital age, even the most passionate post becomes merely ephemeral, disappearing until perhaps the person re-posts it when it pops up in their Facebook Memories. 

And while those who do still take the time to write full pieces—whether for their own blog or some other outlet—will of course promote them on social media, it's rare the the opposite occurs; Why not cut and paste a good Facebook post into a blog so it doesn't quickly disappear? GOOD IDEA, ME!

While I normally take a hard pass on social media hot potatoes ("List every single place you've ever been and tag seventy people in it!"), I recently relented and took up the "Albums That Made an Impact" challenge. I found the particular criteria (literally impactful, rather than simply favorite) to be an interesting exercise. Some of the records that made it only my list are ones that I don't particularly love (either anymore or ever!), but they are all touchstones to one extent or another. And since I am an old, wordy, and opinionated bastard, I went well beyond the traditional ten, first by adding runners-up for each record, and then by adding a couple extra after I thought I was done.

AND SO, for the benefit of perhaps nobody other than myself so I can recall spending all the time doing this little bit of musical onanism... My Most Impactful Albums (in mostly chronological order)....

I'm starting with one of the first LPs I ever owned, a not-original-cast recording of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, released by Pickwick Records. I listened to this thing so much that I still know it by heart, and so to me, THIS is the original recording, not the actual MGM Records soundtrack... And yes, I still have it, the original scratchy, beloved vinyl.

RUNNER UP: This album may surprise those to whom I've voiced my extreme loathing for the Walt Disney Reich, but Walt Disney's Happiest Songs was another of my first records, and thus has a strong nostalgic pull for me.

2 of 10 Albums That Made an Impact: KISS, The Originals. Technically, the band's first three albums packaged together with a plethora of bonus goodies, this set represents the first band I truly loved. Oh, I'd listened to glorious '70s FM radio, and owned a few pop albums and 45s prior to this (see first comment below), but heading into junior high, I was behind the curve when it came to rock and roll (I partly blame being the youngest kid in my class as well as a lack of elder mentoring). But due largely to the comic book aspect of the Metal-Lite quartet from Noo Yawk, KISS became my first favorite band, even though it would only be a few years until I discovered the music that would TRULY change my life, and I'd hand over all my KISS records to my kid brother...

RUNNER-UP: I was originally planning on posting the first "rock" LP I ever owned, but The Originals set was actually far more impactful than... ahem.... Captain and Tennille's Song of Joy, which prompted my grandfather to disgustedly comment, "Ugh, don't tell me you're listening to ROCK AND ROLL," to which I replied, "Hey, at least it's not PUNK ROCK!"

3 of 10 Albums That Made an Impact: Steve Martin, Let's Get Small. I was not the only smartass in school who was able to recite this album beginning to end, but it taught me so much about the power of language and timing and how you could be smart and absurd at the same time. I still love it (and his next two records) to death. 

"R-A-M-B-L-I-N-APOSTROPHE!"

RUNNER-UP for #3 isn't a comedy album, but it's the soundtrack that I've now repurchased five times in different formats and reissue versions, and that I ABSOLUTELY know by heart to the point where I can tell you where each second of music fits into the film. It's (duh) John Williams' soundtrack to Superman.

4 of 10 Albums That Made an Impact, and while I'm doing these (mostly) chronologically, this was the biggest wallop: The Clash's self-titled debut (US version). I was a freshman in high school, and one morning on the bus, I happened to mention to my pal Kevin Fleck that I was really starting to like some of this new wave stuff I was hearing. Kevin insisted I come over after school so he could play a couple of records for me. He put this on, skipping straight to "Career Opportunities," and said, "Listen to how ANGRY he sounds!" ...And as Joe Strummer snarled, "Do ya wanna make tea at the BBC, do ya wanna be, do ya really wanna be a CAAAAAAHP?!" my eyes widened, my brain exploded, and my life changed in an instant. Kevin loaned me The Clash and one other record (see honorable mention, below), which I spent the entire weekend listening to repeatedly. For the first time in my life, music truly spoke to me, connected with me on such a primal, personal level that I finally felt like I belonged somewhere (besides the Comic Store, I mean). The Clash went on to become my all-time favorite band, and while London Calling may be my favorite album of theirs (and, in fact, my favorite rock album of all time), this is the one that altered my reality. Thanks again, Kevin.

RUNNER-UP: The other album that Kevin loaned me: The Sex Pistols, Never Mind the Bollocks. As brilliant and incendiary and exciting today as the day it was released.

5 of 10 Albums That Made an Impact: Blondie, Parallel Lines. The Clash and the Pistols may have sounded the clarion that awakened me, but being a not-quite downtrodden middle class white kid in suburban Pennsylvania, I never felt comfortable being identified as a "punk" (or, as the normies called my friends and me, a "fucking punker"). I may have loved punk, but I was more of a new wave kid. And this record, one of the first "cool" albums I bought on my own, turned Blondie into my next favorite band.

Postscript: Decades later, drummer Clem Burke was performing at Maxwell's, and when he came to the bar, I said, "I gotta tell ya, Parallel Lines changed my life," to which he replied, "Hey, mine too!"

RUNNER-UP: The B-52's self-titled debut, purchased the Monday after their mind-blowing appearance on Saturday Night Live in 1980. Talk about polarizing, that morning in school, my punk / new wave friends and I were all gushing about how amazing they were while the jocks and the preps were talking about how much this weird band sucked. Their derision and rejection (which wouldn't last through my senior year) was a badge of honor.

6 of 10 Albums That Made an Impact: This is a weird one because it's an album that I no longer own, and never really liked all that much: The various artists original soundtrack to Pretty in Pink. This rather tepid collection of mostly danceable new wave included a completely ill-advised up-tempo re-recording of the title track by the Psychedelic Furs and represents everything I hate about John Hughes films.

So why is it on this list? Because it was the very first promo (meaning free record) I received. I was working at Sam Goody in the Park City Mall in Lancaster, PA, and an A&M rep brought in a box of freebies (something we usually didn't get at the chain store) because she had a crush on our singles buyer, Dann DeWitt (poor girl didn't know she didn't have a chance with Dann, being a female and all). Dann was kind enough to share the goodness with the staff and I chose this. I couldn't believe my luck. A FREE RECORD! What I didn't know at the time was that this would be only the first in a mountain of literally thousands and thousands of free records, CDs, tapes, videos, and more swag that would flow my way in the next two decades in the music biz.

But you never forget your first.

RUNNER-UP: Honorable Mention goes to a far better album that came out a few years earlier that got squeezed out of the list by the epochal nature of the above promo: The Replacements, Let it Be.

7 of 10 Albums That Made an Impact: R.E.M., Green. I had just taken over as manager of BBC Records in Lancaster as Warner Bros. was gearing up to release R.E.M.'s major label debut, and I was receiving tons of promos (including a clear orange vinyl 12" of "Orange Crush," a "meadow in a can," a hardcover digipack CD, and more) from Julie Panebianco, my WB Altmktg rep (a job I would later inherit from Mary Marcus when I moved to Hoboken in '96).

The album's promotion was tied into the 1988 Presidential Election, and when George Bush handily beat Michael Dukakis, I drunkenly made my way the five blocks from my apartment to the record store I now ran, unlocked the door, threw Green on the stereo, cranked it up, and passed out on the floor. This record is cemented in my mind as an icon of the beginning of the best job I ever had, the start of my relationship with the record label at which I would eventually work, and catharsis in a political defeat that wasn't the first, and wouldn't be the last.

RUNNER-UP: Throwing Muses, self-titled 4AD debut. This was the first expensive import CD I bought (at BBC Records while I was still working at Sam Goody), and I was openly mocked by Paul Pendyck for purchasing it, giving me my first taste of the High Fidelity brand of music retailing (a tack I would perfect myself).

8 of 10 Albums That Made an Impact: Frank Sinatra, The Capitol Years. I've written about this epiphany numerous times, but here 'tis again. In the late '80s, while I had begun to listen to vintage big band and pop vocal sides, I was still inexplicably averse to (or at least ambivalent about) Frank Sinatra. But when Capitol released this three disc set in late 1990, my BBC cohort, Rex Litwin ordered one and I asked if I could borrow it. I took it home, along with a 100-minute blank cassette on which I would record the songs I liked, thinking that would be sufficient. But sitting on the floor in front of the stereo, by the time I got to "I've Got You Under My Skin," I was enraptured, feeling the kind of musical connection I hadn't felt since Kev' played "Career Opportunities" for me in 1979. True, this music was not of my time, but that didn't matter. Then again, that's one of the things I quickly came to realize about Sinatra... he's timeless. I now own almost everything the man ever recorded, and probably a day doesn't go by where I don't listen to at least a few songs by who I consider the greatest singer of the 20th Century.

RUNNER-UP: The record that got me into this kinda stuff in the first place: The soundtrack to Woody Allen's 1987 nostalgia-fest, Radio Days.

9 of 10 Albums That Made an Impact: Miles Davis, Kind of Blue. It was a short step from listening to Frank, Ella, and Billie to digging on jazz, and this utterly perfect 1959 album (with perhaps the most killer lineup ever) was the gateway. My interest in jazz exploded to the extent that Steve Murray graciously allowed me to expand BBC Records' specialty from just alternative to alt and JAZZ (never a big seller at music retail, but we made it work).

RUNNER-UP: The Yin to Kind of Blue's Yang: The Dave Brubeck Quartet's Time Out. It wasn't uncommon for some of our rock customers at the store to decide to dip a toe into jazz (usually because of instore play), and we would always recommend one of these two records as the perfect starting point.

10 of 10 (or so) Albums That Made an Impact: Built to Spill, Perfect from Now on. There was a bit of culture shock going from running a tiny indie record store to working at one of the biggest labels on the planet, but I was never an anti-major label elitist. After all, most of my favorite albums were released by the majors. So when Joe McEwen handed me an advance cassette of the label debut by Idaho's Built to Spill, I excitedly took it to my office and cranked it up. And holy shit. Of all the records I worked in my brief time at Warner Bros. Records, this one was perhaps the greatest evidence that my corporate labors had some merit. Of course, I was there as Warner's legendary reputation of being artist-friendly and taking time to let careers develop was ebbing away, but in the moment, there were some true musical highlights, none brighter than this...

SUPER CLOSE RUNNER-UP: Wilco, Being There. Their best record, if ya ask me, and I have an incredibly deep emotional attachment to memories of working this one. To say the least.

Oh, Yeah, Here's Another Album That Made an Impact, Day 11: Various Artists, A Very Merry Christmas volume 1. No single record in my collection is more iconic to me than this department store compilation produced by Columbia Special Products in 1967. This is the record I remember Alice Heitmueller (I call her "Mom") spinning on the old giant Magnavox stereo more than any other, This is the record that I begged her to replay (Jimmy Dean's version of "Jingle Bells," precisely), This is the record that served as my first (of MANY) soundtrack to Christmas. 50 years later, I acknowledge that some of the songs herein are ripe cheese (that I will always love and devour), but some of it still rings in my ears as being among the most beautiful music ever recorded.

12 of Fine, I Need More Than 10 Albums That Made an Impact: Elvis Costello & the Attractions, Armed Forces. Snarky, smart, sardonic, hooky, perfect. And it came with a bonus live 7" single, to boot! I got this for Christmas 1979 (along with The Cars' Candy-O, which I was accused of wanting only for the cover). Two utterly perfect records that still have an impact to this day.

13 of Just a Few More of These, I Promise: X, Under the Big Black Sun. It was the summer of 1982 and some friends and I were record shopping in Philly when I spotted this striking cover (encased in a loose shrink wrap, which stuck with me) on a new release rack. While the band's first two albums had somehow slipped through the cracks with me, I bought this record and their utterly unique sound (a melding of punk, country, roots, and a touch of '60s psych) combined with some of the most beautifully distinctive imagery in the history of rock soon made X one of my all-time favorite bands (to this day).

I Swear, Last Day of Albums That Made an Impact: Matt Pond PA, Emblems. While music never ceased to be important to me, by the time I was slinging the drinks at Maxwell's, I'd lost the kind of passion for finding new bands that defined my younger days. And then one evening, as I was setting up the back bar, this band I hadn't heard of was sound checking and I had to stop working and just go stand on the floor and watch them. Through that, and their subsequent set, I was mesmerized. I bought their new record, and for months, it was practically all I could listen to. Matt Pond PA became probably the last "new favorite band" that I'd ever have.

Then again.... "Tell me there's going to be time left /

Tell me I'm stupid and I don't have to worry"

One last runner-up: Screaming Females, Castle Talk. The other time when I was just completely knocked out by a band. Marissa Paternoster is as big a rock star as anyone who's ever picked up a guitar.

Collector's Edition Photo Preview

So, with Collector's Edition: Confessions of a Pop Culture Obsessive-Compulsive done (aside from the kind of updating a book like this needs to be as contemporary as possible when published), I've been going through the arduous and agonizing process of trying to find an agent to sell the darn thing to a good olde-timey publisher who makes books out of paper. Which means that a final format has yet to be decided upon. My ultimate goal (and I think the logical one) is for the book to feature many illustrations, so the uninitiated can see what a Dr. Fate Super Powers action figure looks like instead of simply relying upon my thousand words describing it.

But I mostly want to feature the great photography of my pal Gary Ashley, who generously spent much time and effort taking amazing photos of things in my collections and from my own nerdy pop productions for the book. Gary has the true eye of an artist (his prints and sculptures are likewise things of beauty), and it was exciting to see him bring that to these artifacts, spanning over four decades of accumulation. And, if all goes according to plan, Gary and I will work even more closely on a follow-up book, the details of which I'm keeping to myself for now.

But for now, here's a mere sampling of just some of the hundreds of beautiful photos by Gary taken for Collector's Edition. For more of Gary's work, go to his website, the Gary Ashley Show.

All photos are ©Gary Ashley and may not be reproduced.