Radio Free America

I have not been out of New York City in four months. I rented a car to drive home to visit my parents for Christmas. The only saving grace of such a trip – all 720 miles, solo – is that I get to select the music; my music. I had been listening to the noise and stink of 10 million others nonstop for the past one hundred and twenty some odd days, and now was the opportunity to indulge myself with some quality listening time. The night before the journey, I carefully selected the music that would carry me through to another world.
I was so happy to be leaving town and heading for sunnier, less populated shores, that I didn’t notice until I pulled the rental car out of the garage and onto Broadway, that it was a Ford . . . . I searched the dash . . . a Ford . . .the steering wheel . . . “airbag”. yes, I was driving a big, white Ford “Airbag” down the Great White Way. I was happy to be up and out so early, so none of my friends and acquaintances could see me behind the wheel.
I fumbled for the case of CD’s – for something perfect with which to slip into the outbound Holland Tunnel. It was then, at that moment, exactly .8 miles into my trip, that things went very wrong. The Ford Airbag was not equipped with a cassette deck. it was not equipped with a CD player. I was heading due west, armed with only an am/fm radio, straight into Pennsylvania, “God’s Country”, the longest state in the union.
The “classic rock zone” starts roughly around jersey city, new jersey and continues for the next 3,000 miles: fffffffftttttttt – “. . . she was a long cool woman in a black dress” – get it on! thank you! good night! next! ffffffffttttttt – “ . . . and comin’ up next . . . a killer classic from the Greg Khin Band” – thanks for the warning! ffffffffffffffffftttttttttttt . . .
I pass mile marker after mile marker. I pass trees. Endless trees. They all look the same to me. I pass places like the gargantuan “T & A Truckstop”. “T & A” . . . I don’t know what means or what they’re serving up there, but I’m certain it’s not tuberculosis and asthma. I pass the cooling towers of Three Mile Island. I swear I can see the clouds of steam and the towers in the rear view mirror more than 50 miles after passing them. There must be something in the Pennsylvania air, then that contributes to the proliferation of Christian fundamentalist radio bible school. It was an education all right, and did not require too much listening to conclude that the third rate songwriters, musicians and singers of Christian music simply couldn’t hack it in the world of secular music. Their over-emotive, so-sincere-it’s-phony vocal delivery as well as the canned, utterly – and ironically – soulless playing should be proof enough that these lost sheep missed their “calling”. ffffffffffffftttttttttttttt –
Saved by the “Police!” Back when Sting was his name and his game: “every little thing she does is magic . . . every thing she do just turns me on . . .” The music is loud, and I’m caught up in the driving beat and the repetition of the lyrics: “on and – on and – on and – on and . . .” by the time Sting breaks into his triumphant “E-O-oh – E-O-oh – E-O-oh . . .” I am unaware I’m hurtling forward at 97 miles per hour, while the white dashes fly past, in synch with Stewart Copland’s manically percussive high hat. “magic magic magic – magic magic magic . . .”
It turns out i’m in the middle of an “80’s music sweep”. Billy Squier is next, “In the Dark”, a song which I have not heard in 15 years, yet I know every word, every guitar lick. I entertain myself playing with a variety of harmonies. Billy and I never sounded better, I think. Def Leopard is up next, “Bringin’ on the Heartbreak”. I realize this music – these “oldies” – which I never listen to anymore, is from “my” era, my high school years. My briefly hightened mood begins to sink. I become depressed. I begin to think about the drummer of Def Leopard – a one armed drummer! I picture this one armed drummer trying frantically to keep up with the rest of Def Leopard. I become morose. I have, packed away somewhere in the car, a portable CD player. I can’t wait until nightfall, so I can discreetly slip on the headphones.
fffffffftttttttttt – “you say you want a re-vo-lu-tion—weh-ell ya know . . .” god, this stuff is brilliant – Lennon’s raspy voice, the ragged guitar sound, McCartney’s juicy bass parts, Ringo’s chugging drums: “if you talk about de-struc-sha-o-on . . . dontcha know that you can’t count me out. dontcha know it’s gonna be – alright . . . . . alright . . .” Hell, yes! At least Greg Khin was right about one thing: “they don’t write ‘em like that anymore.” No, they don’t.

© christopher peifer