As a kid in the 60's I was lucky enough to live in a neighborhood that had two garage bands, one up the street from me, the other almost in my back yard. The back yard band used to practice in their back yard (hence the name,) on Friday nights, right around dinner time. Fridays were the night that my dad stopped off and picked up ravioli dinners at a little Italian place down in Newport. My chair at the kitchen table overlooked the back yard, and I had a bird's eye view of the band while I ate. They played typical 60's garage stuff, nothing I can concretely remember, but all of which sounded wonderful to my three or four year old ears. The band up the street played hard rock and practiced at night in the summer. My bedtime was 8:00 back then, but I was generally awake for several hours before my hyperactive mind slowed down enough to let the rest of me fall asleep. One night the band sounded particularly good, so I climbed out onto my window sill and listened for a while, completely oblivious to the ten foot drop to the driveway. Our neighbors across the street were out on the porch listening, and being the friendly kid that I was, I waved. They waved back, then got up and went in. I heard the phone ring in the kitchen, but it didn't occur to me that they might have called to rat me out. They did, and that was the end of my concert.

Only twice in my life have I had the misfortune of hearing a piece of music that I loved, missing the name of the artist, then not hearing the song again or knowing who to look for. The first time I was just a kid and my mom shut off the car just as they were about to mention the artist. Never heard it again and have no idea who it may have been. The second time was in high school and I accidentally changed the station while trying to turn the music up. (I later found out that it was a Rockpile song, so that ended happily.)

I wish I had the talent to do the kind of reviews that others contribute here, but when I start trying it sounds like someone is taking dictation while some retard reads a bad Rolling Stone review. Ain't got it, never will. As compensation, I've been blessed/cursed with a memory that somehow associates events with the songs that were played, no matter how minor these events were, or how forgettable the songs were. So, my reviews wind up being more like personal little time capsules that occasionally amuse me greatly, or not so greatly. As a result of this, almost anyone I've ever spent time with has their own soundtrack, but I'm the only one who hears it. ;-)