I had no idea what any of these songs were
referencing. What they really meant. How subversive they really were. I used
the radio to disappear. To escape from my family. Enter another dimension. Melt
inside a psychedelic sound stage which cascaded out through the airwaves
filling my already fractured psyche with throbbing, slinky, funkified soul
music, where soaring rhythms and strangled guitars took me out of myself and
gave me goose bumps. “I break out … in a cold sweat” stimulated me in ways I
could only express by shaking my ass, flapping my arms, and stomping my feet. Everybody
was glued to the tube on Sunday nights. The Rolling Stones, The Animals, George
Carlin — all penetrated my unformed psyche, courtesy of Mr. Sullivan. Music is
the connective tissue between protest, rebellion, violence, sexual awareness,
and community. The inner-city ghetto which I called home was brimming with
hard-working people with attitude and conviction whose lust for life couldn’t
be beaten out of them by piss-poor housing conditions, lousy pay, the police,
or politicians. They taught me to keep the faith, and, when hoping for a better
tomorrow isn’t enough, turn up the goddamn music and dance the blues away. I
refused to allow them to strangle me by the ankles because even if I had to
“Beg, Borrow, and Steal,” this “Lightning’s Girl” was going to be sure she was
“Making Every Minute Count.” Just like the radio taught me.
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