Continuing my theme of musical memory stimulation, this post by a semi-noble Tennessee Khan reminded me of yet another ancient scene from my youth.
I speak of course of riding around a small southern town in a 1978 Thunderbird with the most kick ass of stereos for the time. Bear in mind, dear pinheads, this was 1982 and my mobile system, thanks to my association with a car stereo shop, was equipped with 2 120 watt RMS power amps and passive crossovers feeding two true three way channels. Tweaked appropriately, the two 10 inch Becker woofers installed into the back window deck would make the trunk lid hinge springs vibrate and hiss. It was a most satisfying and extreme racket, long before the commonality of the cars that go bump, bump, bump next to you at the stop light. Call me a “Pioneer” if you must, for the title would fit.
While a large percentage of my contemporaries were busying themselves with Hank Jr’s or Billy Squier’s latest release, I was obsessed with Canada’s own little power trio of rock Gods, Rush. Little did I know, thanks to Neil Peart’s lyrics, I was receiving not only a headphone trip appropriately primed, but also a minor literature lesson.
The dated video is laughable in terms of fashion and equipment. The inserted ad for catheters only adds insult to injurious age, I must admit. But no one gets it done better than Rush when the high statement in technology for 1977 was Taurus Pedals, useless, 60 pound double neck guitars, snakeskin boots, and Neil Peart’s handlebar mustache. It’s what one must do when scaling the frozen mountain tops of Eastern lands unknown in search of Pleasure Dome, a couple of mealy Honeydews, and those mythical caves of ice.