GDTRFB

 

 

I live for summer. Everything I know about music came from summer days and nights in Brooklyn. 

My uncle had a speed boat that was parked on his lawn and my cousin and I would sit in it for hours listening to WABC or WMCA. When it got too dark, we went inside and listened to our very first mixed tapes, which were created by either my uncle or my grandfather on their reel-to-reel machines. They used Shamrock tape and would simply grab 45s from a stack and record them, often ignoring what was the a-side or the b-side, and just committing whatever was face up to tape. They were inadvertently creating the coolest mixed tapes in all of Sheepshead Bay. 

We'd drive to Far Rockaway a few times each summer to visit another aunt and uncle, and we'd bring a pad and a pencil, so we could write down WABC's Top 100 as it unfolded every 4th of July weekend. I remember my cousin Lisa showing her excitement for Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly Now" by repeatedly saying, "That's my best song! That's my best song!" Even as a kid, I couldn't hide my sarcasm. "Oh really Lisa? When did you write that one?" Still, that Johnny Nash song causes a wave of memories that I can't escape.

Years later, it was car hoods, stoops and boom boxes. We all had them, each blasting our own mixed tapes. We had to fight each other for air time. Some of the best nights were spent at Manhattan Beach. It was a private beach, quieter and cleaner than nearby Brighton or Coney. And it had very comfortable rocks right on the water, where we'd sit under the stars and moonlight with our radios, smoke weed and listen to the water break over the music. I wish I was there right now.

The last few summers haven't been anything like those amazing summers of my youth. Summer, 2022 has actually been the worst in recent memory. Even worse than the first pre-vaccine, COVID summer of 2020. At least in 2020, there was this unexpected sense of freedom and bliss, where we saw numbers go down and people started to make their way out of their lockdown. We all realized the hard way, just how much we missed each other. We called each other. Checked in with each other. Made plans to help us stay positive through those dark days.

Business exploded. Record stores, flea markets, record shows and thrift shops were still mostly closed, so all of my vinyl freaks resorted to mail order exclusively. Such irony, that I needed to make six or seven trips to the post office a week during a time I was expected to stay inside. I was getting calls for collections at least twice a week, as well. I guess people either needed the money, or maybe feared a COVID death, so why hold onto records they weren't going to play.

Summer 2022, and it seems everyone has disappeared. No one is buying records. No one is calling. I haven't had a collection come my way in months. People are behaving badly all over again. Masking on the NYC subway system is non-existent. It's like COVID never existed.  That sounds like a good thing, but anyone with a modicum of intelligence knows it isn't. Summer 2022, doesn't feel like summer at all. Not to me. I've seen the ocean once. I guess that's nobody's fault. The ocean is there. I'm not.

I have one more summer memory.

My friend was in the Air Force reserves at Vandenburg and I took the trip west to pay a visit. I was taken aback when he met me at the airport, holding a bible. My Sheepshead Bay running buddy had "found god." This was not the vacation I had in my mind, as I had recently, somewhat purposefully, lost god. But we made it work.

We stayed on Venice Beach, walking the walk and feeling like we hadn't a care in the world as we sat baking in the sun, with that enormous ocean in front of us.  I had convinced my friend to drive us to the Hollywood Palladium one evening to see The Ramones and The Dickies. He agreed, since it was my vacation. About halfway through The Dickies set, singer Leonard Phillips conducted a benediction using incense and a loaf of Wonder Bread. Like Barbara Eden as Jeannie, my friend was gone. Poof! During intermission, I found him sitting on the floor in a corner of the lobby, clearly appalled by the acts taking place on stage. After some cajoling and maybe a little begging, he got up and we caught The Ramones set.

For years after that summer of 1988, he and I would laugh about that week. Then, he disappeared, wanting no part of his past, not even the good stuff. I heard from him a few years back. He called to say how disappointed he was in my behavior on Facebook. He was a Trump supporter. I was not. That was the end of my relationship with both my friend and with Facebook. I haven't seen either since.

I hope Summer of 2022 is just an anomaly. I can't explain why this particular stretch is feeling so bad, but with the season officially ending in a week, summer 2022 felt more like a black hole than the summers I have lived for all these years. 

Maybe it's me. Or maybe it's not just me. Maybe if others had a venue to whine about shit like I do, I'd find some like-minded people. All I know is, something's gotta give. Even with the brutal heat wave of July, I'd like a do over. 

Thanks for your indulgence.