#307

Recently, in a short story by Jhumpa Lahiri, I read: “My father was extremely particular about his stereo components,” then something like, "The stereo was his most extravagant purchase, which he carefully, lovingly cleaned every Saturday, wiping the parts with a special cloth, before playing his favorite songs," etcetera, etcetera. Oh man, this resonated powerfully with me, maybe like mention of the Kennedy assassination stirs up baby boomers; they remember with exceptional richness the moment they found out. In a similar fashion, I recall my dad’s stereo with an unusual sensorial allness; I remember how different parts of it smelled, looked, and felt, and, of course, I remember the sound, unforgettable melodies and voices, the music of the ‘70s. The smell was that of power-hungry early-electronics and warm, scarred plastic. The needle and record grooves could be touched, and the speaker fabric, and the buttons, knobs, switches, and wires. The clear plastic lid of the turntable is a primary visual in my mind, also the massive dials for station tuning and volume control. And there was gilding and wood trim; some stereo components and speakers were encased in wood or faux-wood. The mechanism that lowered and raised the needle was fascinating and impossibly precise (at the time). The records themselves were precious and cared for but handled frequently; their labels and cardboard jackets showed signs of wear, and the aromas and residues of beer, food, and other contraband maybe transferred a little. Milk crates were perfect for storing and filing through records. I could go on. I’m grateful my dad’s stereo wasn’t an iPod, or Bluetooth speaker, or Spotify. It wasn’t even a cassette or CD player yet in my fondest recollection; it was a system of multiple pieces, hand-selected, spec’ed out, brand-named, and expensive as shit – pricey, at least, for parents like mine who married young and were dirt poor before they hit their stride. A stereo system included, give or take, a record player or turntable, a receiver, radio tuner, big speakers, and humongous headphones (that made me think of Princess Leia’s hair), and maybe an equalizer and additional amps. To confirm these wistful memories, I emailed Papa Mike for more details. This is his response: Dan, you can ask your mother... our stereo was always the most valuable thing we had... even more than the car sometimes... and I/we had multiple stereos through just our first five years or so... when we couldn't trade in our car because it had a crazy rotary engine (Mazda '73) when they gave you $500 cash back (and that was like two month's rent) I always ended up selling my 'stereo'.... always a fine receiver, Marantz or Pioneer, and a fine turntable, magnetic cartridge only, Garrard I think, and oh, Advent speakers... then when we got some money from my working at the Clark station in town in Ames or for the raccoons my neighbor and I killed and got $35 each, we would buy another decent plus component system and play those LP's... btw, I can 'cut' a USB drive of Mike's 339 most favorite songs if you like….

That, friends, is awesome. Stories, memories, life. I’m grateful to be a son and father, and a person who lived in the '70s!

Don't get me wrong, technology ain't bad. I use Spotify (but only after Michael got me started; previously I used Pandora without his help). We have many Bluetooth speakers (a few purchased cheaply in the knock-off bartering markets in China). But a balance between old and new is essential. For example, I don't think I'll ever stop making fires, and reading words on paper, and writing words on paper. I'll never stop reflecting on the wisdom of Jesus, and the Stoics, and Native Americans, and the classic rock songwriters of the '70s that are simply peerless!

"There's nothing that I enjoy more at night than reading Rumi, the Sufi mystic; he is a transcendent thought leader maybe like Seneca; he has tremendous wisdom. And so I think the wisdom of the ancients has a lot to offer; I find a lot of use in these texts, the Bible, the Quran, the Zen parables and Sufi stuff. For me, it's not like you have to be slavishly obedient to them, take what you find useful, move on, but I found a lot of use in those texts." –– Kevin Kelly. Sort of paradoxically, Kelly is the founding executive editor of Wired magazine, and a very prescient voice about the future, technology, and digital culture.