I've been listening to This American Life and The Moth podcasts all morning. It always leaves me in a story telling mood, expressive in a way I'm not normally able to be . . .



My family had 8-track tapes when I was a kid. I remember that we had a silver 8-track tape player as part of our home stereo, and we had a player in our car. It was mounted under the center console by my father, the multi-colored wiring harness visibly extending from the back of the player and up under the dashboard like some sort of gigantic CB radio with which you could receive but not transmit. We also had a metric fuck ton of 8-track tapes; at least that was my impression. I never really thought about where they came from at the time, but I imagine they were collected from a myriad of garage sales over the years. Maybe from Salvation Army stores, or from the hamfests & flea markets my father would attend. Who knows.

I have peculiarly distinct impressions of the 8-track. The overwhelming physicality of the system. It captures the essence of what analog means! The tapes were bulky, the size of a small paperback. The feeling of sliding the tape into the gaping mouth of the player until the tape popped into place, seating against the magnetic read heads inside the player. The heavy clunk when you would push the gigantic "forward" button to skip to the next track; the weight and spring loaded resistance of that button. The clicks and ticks and clunks of the tape when it was playing and moved to the next track. The warbling of the audio after the tape had been eaten by the player a few too many times.

I remember that we had these cheap black plastic storage racks for our 8-track tapes at home. They held maybe eight or ten tapes each - I don't recall exactly. They were rectangular with slots that you slid the tapes into, ass end first. (If an 8-track could be thought of as having an ass, that would be the end where the tape was exposed.) The label was exposed and extended over the opposite end of the tape so you could see the title & artist as you looked through the racks of tapes - pretty much like the spine on a CD case today. The album art covered the rest of the label, on the flat broad side of the tape (but of course, you couldn't see that when it was in the player, or when the tape was in the black plastic storage rack.)

I remember looking through these tapes as a kid. I was . . . I suppose a small child. I don't know for certain. Younger than ten years, for sure. Looking at the tapes, taking in the album art and reading the titles exposed on the edge of the tapes. I don't much remember which 8-tracks we had. I would guess a lot of classical; both my parents were into classical at that time.

I do remember one name for some reason: Gordon Lightfoot. I don't recall ever listening to that 8-track, or really wanting to listen to it. In fact, I'm thinking about it as I write this and I couldn't list one song he recorded, or recall a single tune I associate with him. I was just affected by the name for some reason. The name "Gordon" had a very earthy feeling for me. I associated it with browns and mustard yellows, with Sesame Street (remember Gordon?), with the whole 1970's aesthetic. And Lightfoot sounded mystical, almost magical. The name conjured up feelings of a hip, stylish, urbane shaman. Black turtle neck sweaters, brown wide collared leather jackets, side burns, Black Power, alongside brightly colored psychedelic trips through outer space, a la the closing scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

There were two albums in particular that I remember actually listening to. A lot. One was an anthology of Beach Boys songs. I *loved* that tape. California Girls, Little Deuce Coupe, Surfer Girl. Thinking of it brings up images of driving in the car on long road trips - probably family summer vacations - my father behind the wheel, me playing that tape over and over and over and over (oh, the patience of a parent when their child discovers something he loves). Sunny days, air whipping through the open car windows, the backs of my thighs sweating against the (blue? green?) vinyl front bench seat. The vinyl cracked from UV damage, exposing the yellowed foam padding underneath. Adventures, new locations, cheap highway restaurants and novel chains we didn't have in western New York. Hardees seemed strange and adventurous then. All this set to a soundtrack of Brian Wilson and harmonies too perfect to contemplate.

The other tape was Pink Floyd's The Wall. There was something in that album that affected me intensely as a child. I was, of course, too young *understand* it. But the tone of the music would wash over me and I would sink into it. I have memories of sitting at home on the hardwood floor in front of the stereo, running my fingers over the latticed doors of the cabinet set in the back left corner of the laundry room (This was where the stereo cabinet was. It wasn't an actual laundry room - the washer and dryer were in the cellar - but it was where we folded the clean laundry. Thus it is, in my childhood memory at least, The Laundry Room.) I remember huge, over the ear headphones with a spiral cord and a thick, 1/4" plug. I put those padded, over-sized RadioShack headphones on and the world would disappear in a sort of delicious sensory deprivation chamber. A distant organ (was it an accordion?) began playing softly in my right ear, and then that gigantic, over powering chord would erupt and away I was dragged. Like an undertow, blessedly drawing me under the water into a sort of all consuming oblivion. Dark, isolated, confined, enveloped and floating in something I was too young to fully comprehend. The Wall was was authentic, it was true. It was *my* truth. It transported me to dark parts of my subconscious that were too dangerous to approach in full daylight. I wore that 8-track out, literally. I remember the day the magnetic tape broke in two while it was playing. The Wall was the very first compact disc I ever purchased as a teenager.



A Beach Boys anthology and Pink Floyd's The Wall. All those 8-tracks, all those years of having them played in my presence, and those two albums are the only two I remember. I think if you knew that about me, that might tell you everything you need to know to understand me.