I have somewhat diverse taste in music. Although there are many musical genres I’d like to know better (Help Wanted: Woman seeks musical sherpa to teach her the ways of classical, jazz, indie rock, and Tom Waits), my favorite artists are varied and always changing. Led Zeppelin, Nina Simone, Nirvana, Beck, Tribe Called Quest, and Public Enemy all spend equal time in my stereo. But I am here to tell you that it was a hard, long road that brought me to this day in my musical life.
I was raised on Easy Listening.
As a youngster in the 70’s, my earliest musical memories, after the Sesame Street records, are from 106.9 WSWT, Peoria’s Home of Easy Listening. I was weaned on Bread, Gordon Lightfoot, and Lou Rawls. While most of my peers have fond memories of an older sibling or parent introducing them to The Rolling Stones, Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, or Heart, I have no such Almost Famous moment in my childhood. I wasn’t introduced to those bands until well into the 80’s, when their musical output was not at its peak. I thought Mick Jagger was a freak with terrifying lips, that Stevie Wonder was the King of Velveeta, that Heart’s career began (and ended) with All I Want to Do is Make Love to You.
I had no one in my life to tell me otherwise. In those first few years when the realm of my existence was my home and the family car, my parents made sure the radio dial never left 106.9. They would occasionally slip in a Ray Conniff Singers 8-track, and it was years before my ears were treated to anything beyond Engelbert Humperdink or America. Eventually television played its part in my musical rearing, but even then my exposure was limited to Donnie and Marie Osmond and Sonny and Cher.
Immediately upon watching my first episode of The Partridge Family, something inside me changed. With David Cassidy at the mike, music was suddenly sexy. Two of the first words I ever learned to spell were “Keith” and “Partridge.” I brought art projects home from pre-school that consisted of a tree, a sun, a stick figure, and the crayon scrawlings “Keith Partridge.” I taped each one to my bedroom door until it you could no longer see the door for the “art”. When I finally pulled the drawings down, the tape removed the paint from in a million little places on the wood. While my father furiously sanded the door in his workshop, I felt a hint of shame. My crush had gotten out of control, and personal property had been destroyed. It was my first taste of music’s dark side, and it was hardly my last. During playtime in kindergarten, I danced in a mad frenzy to the Village People’s YMCA. My kindergarten teacher reprimanded me during one such performance for getting too “aggressive” with the boys. I had worked myself into too much of a sweat for her comfort level, and had to spend the next playtime sitting on a bean bag while my fellow five year-olds boogied down.
In 1979 I started first grade, and rode a bus to school for the first time. Although I was forbidden from (and frightened of) the back seats of the vehicle due to my young age, I could still hear Queen reverberating from the boom boxes of the eighth graders twelve rows behind me. Although I sometimes misinterpreted the lyrics (it was years before I realized they weren't saying, “We are the Chestnuts”), the dramatic rock-opera beats seduced my ears. It was my first true exposure, other than Elvis, to rock and roll. My life would never be the same.
By the time the 80’s hit my parents no longer had full control of the radio. In order to maintain cafeteria credibility, I moved the dial of the hi-fi from 106.9 to 93.3. Anne Murray and Captain and Tennille were soon sharing the airwaves with Madonna and Michael Jackson. KZ93 was the contemporary rock station, although their playlist is now nothing more than the soundtrack to 80’s night at Alphabet Lounge. I don't think the term "pop" music existed back then, but that's certainly what we were listening to. Still, a precedent had been set in the Perino home. The new generation had voiced its opinion and been heard- WSWT had to rotate with KZ93.
At age eleven I joined Columbia House Record Club and was receiving monthly deliveries from artists ranging from Eddie Grant to Pat Benetar. Even my mom started getting into my music – she had joined an aerobics class and was memorizing dance moves to Huey Lewis tunes. Eventually MTV became a household fixture and once again I was able to picture the faces, big hair, and sparkled jewelry of the artists behind the music. By the time my brother had been kicked out of Catholic school and was bringing home Beastie Boys cassettes borrowed from his public school friends, WSWT was a distant memory, only played in the waiting room of my Dad’s psychology practice.
Still, I was missing a huge piece of music history that had transpired in the years before my birth. Thanks to an ex-nun music teacher named Mrs. Harmon, not only did I get to hear songs like Blowing in the Wind and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, but I also got to sing them. In the car ride home from what must have been a torturous three-hour school musical performance, my Dad grumbled about the song Mrs. Harmon had taught my sixth grade class that year.
“When the hippies were singing Aquarius,” he said, “some of us were off fighting a war.”
Soon it all made sense. In the tumultuous sixties, my parents were yanked from their American lives and shipped off to Tokyo. My father was drafted as an officer in the Army and was forced to delay his PhD. By the time he and my mother returned stateside, the damage was done. They hummed along to GI Blues, not Give Peace a Chance. Although now I understand, back then it meant I had to find some of the best music produced in recent years on my own.
This is where my neighbors Nina and Kara Koplas stepped in. Their Dad worked for IBM and their mother was an editor for a high-profile art magazine. Mr. and Mrs. Koplas had a loom in their basement and made their own ketchup. They sported ERA buttons and voted for Anderson in the 1980 Presidential election. Their daughters, both older than me, showed me the Growing Up and Liking It sex ed book a year we were taught it in school (interestingly, that also fell under Mrs. Harmon's job description.) Nina and Kara taught me adult words and told tales of public school lore. They also introduced me to Joan Baez and Cat Stevens. Although the Koplas album collection had its disappointments (they owned the Broadway version of the Grease Soundtrack, not the Olivia Newton-John one, for example), it was different enough from my own to be educational. I am grateful to Nina and Kara for many things, but mostly I’m grateful that they helped fill some of the musical voids that transpired between man walking on the moon and Michael Jackson’s moonwalk.
My high school boyfriend picked up where they left off. Chris not only showed the telltale signs of an easy listening childhood (he often quoted Gordon Lightfoot and took me to the America concert at Steamboat Days), but he also had Too Short and Johnny Cash albums. When I first realized I was falling for him, Pink Floyd’s Time was playing in his stereo. Chris had the most eclectic musical taste of anyone I knew – and most importantly, when he left for a week-long family vacation, he left his entire Led Zeppelin collection in my charge. It was the greatest gift anyone had given me. Thanks to you I’m much obliged... such a pleasant stay.
Throughout the years I’ve met many wonderful people who have influenced my musical taste. Many of the artists I love today were introduced to me by a special person at a special time, and although the music itself is the primary reason I still listen, I confess to sometimes listening just to remember. Now I enjoy much of the same music my friends do, but I have never forgotten my roots. We all love The Beatles and The Stones, but I'm the only one in the crew who got to experience WSWT. In those rare moments when Tie A Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree or Baby I’m A Want You play, I’m the one who’s singing the loudest.
Even if that means I’m the only one singing.
