Growing up, music was always the soundtrack to my life. Like many, I identified strongly with the rock anthems of the mid-70s. Bands like Foghat, Led Zeppelin, and Kansas dominated my turntable. 1977 was a pivotal year, filled with albums like “FOGHAT LIVE”, Led Zeppelin’s “Physical Graffiti”, “Leftoverture”, “A New World Record”, “Songs From The Wood”, and the ubiquitous “Frampton Comes Alive.” I was a devoted young rock and roller through and through. But then, John Travolta and “Saturday Night Fever” exploded onto the scene, and for a moment, my rock-solid musical identity faced an unexpected challenge.
My earliest musical memories are steeped in the sounds of my Italian-American upbringing. As a young boy, Tom Jones crooning “What’s New, Pussycat” on TV was a regular spectacle, often accompanied by the enthusiastic screams of my babysitting aunts and cousins. Then there was the iconic voice of Frank Sinatra, belting out “My Way” between innings of Cubs baseball games on the radio, a constant presence in my dad’s world and mine.
By fifth grade, music became even more communal. Our school, Our Lady of the Angels – sadly known for the tragic 1958 fire – had a jukebox in the gym’s “social room.” For a single dollar, you could get twelve plays, and my friends and I were obsessed with Tommy James & The Shondells. “Hanky Panky” and “Mony Mony” were on constant repeat, the soundtrack to our awkward attempts at coolness as ten-year-olds, mouthing the lyrics and trying to act like we knew what it all meant.
Sixth grade brought school dances, a major step into the world of social interaction and nascent “dating.” My mom meticulously prepared me for this milestone, outfitting me in what she deemed appropriate dance attire: red cotton pants, a red, big-collared shirt, and a red and gray sleeveless sweater vest knitted by my aunt. Looking back, it’s debatable whether I was truly “king of cool,” but in my mind, I was ready. These dances followed a predictable pattern: girls on one side of the gym, boys on the other, until the final songs loosened inhibitions and we tentatively ventured onto the dance floor, always wishing for the music to continue just a little longer.
Saturday morning roller skating parties in the school gym were where my personal music journey truly accelerated. Grand Funk Railroad’s high-energy cover of “The Locomotion” became my anthem, giving me the courage to ask girls – who always seemed impossibly taller – for couples skates during the slow strains of Barry Manilow’s “Mandy.” Ah, young romance and roller rink ballads!
After skating, a pilgrimage to “The Record Center” on Pulaski Road and North Avenue in Chicago was mandatory. We needed the weekly WLS AM 89 radio playlist. These were square sheets of colored paper listing the top forty songs, announced by legendary DJs like Larry Lujack, John “Records” Landecker, and Brant Miller. For ninety-nine cents, I could buy a 45 rpm single, complete with that essential swirly yellow plastic adapter needed for home stereos. My first 45 was Eric Clapton’s “I Shot The Sheriff.” Next came “Clap For The Wolfman” by The Guess Who. My record collection was beginning to take shape.
Puberty officially arrived the Christmas I received my first stereo. It was a “real” stereo, distinct from my sister’s “Close-N-Play,” with separate wooden speakers connected by multi-colored wires. This marked my serious foray into album buying, including all those rock albums I mentioned earlier. While baseball and hanging out with friends were important, nothing quite compared to belting out “Stairway To Heaven” into a hairbrush in my bedroom mirror, dreaming of rock stardom.
Then, suddenly, everything shifted. The girls in school, the girls in the neighborhood – everyone was captivated by John Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever.” It was a cultural phenomenon. To even attempt to keep up, I acquired a gold rope chain with an Italian medal from my cousin, some polyester pants, and yet another big-collared shirt. The platform shoes were, initially, a major draw. Being vertically challenged, the idea of gaining four inches in height was incredibly appealing. Platform shoes promised a new perspective, literally. However, the platform shoe craze became universal; everyone was elevated, and my height advantage vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Despite the fleeting nature of the height boost, we embraced the disco era wholeheartedly. We danced at every opportunity, putting on our “Boogie Shoes” and “getting down” daily. We thought we were incredibly cool. My hair was sculpted into a helmet of hair product. Pants were intentionally skin-tight. Pointed-toe shoes, multiple gold chains, Sergio Valente jeans, and a black “Members Only” jacket completed the look. I was “stylin’” – or so I believed. But the disco fever, for me at least, eventually subsided. My musical heart, while briefly swayed by the Bee Gees, ultimately belonged to rock, albeit the softer side of bands like Chicago, The Beach Boys, and The Eagles.
This journey through musical landscapes is why I am so passionate about my current work at the Arcada. Now, I have the privilege of working with the bands that defined my youth, my teenage years, my college days. They may not look exactly as they did back then, and frankly, neither do I. But when bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Doobie Brothers, and Steely Dan grace my stages, I can close my eyes and be transported back to my bedroom, hairbrush in hand, air guitar champion of my own world. My singing may not win any awards, but when it comes to dreaming, I’m always a “Dream Grammy” winner.
