Many of life’s most difficult lessons can, in the retelling, be introduced with the sentence It seemed like a good idea at the time. As I’ve worked through this series of posts ostensibly about the pop music of the 1970s — at least as I experienced it in my firmly middle-of-the-road suburban South Jersey life — I’ve realized how much and how often I could have used that opening line.
First, there’s the “good idea” of building this playlist at all, at least the way I’ve done it: examining each year separately and including every single song which I still remember hearing, no matter how inconsequential to my life then or since. (And of course, no matter whether or not I actually thought a given song was very good.) The final list (on Spotify) grew to include almost 200 songs; it would take over twelve hours to listen to it all. I don’t know anyone (least of all, myself) with the curiosity and/or patience required to listen to it all.
Second, I decided to blog not just about the decade’s music or pop culture in general, but about events of my personal life back then, year by year. And you know what? I came to genuinely hate re-experiencing all those “good ideas” gone wrong. Hence my collapsing these two years into one: I’m just sick of thinking about it.
Herewith, a blitz through my life then, between mid-1977 and the end of 1979:
In August 1977, the sister with whom I’d been sharing an apartment got married and moved a good distance away. I moved back in with my parents. And my only income, right after I wrecked my teaching career (I’d had the “good idea” of “becoming a writer”), came from delivering furniture for a furniture store about 15-20 miles distant. Since that job didn’t pay very well at all, I decided it’d be a “good idea” not to blow money on insurance for my motorcycle or my car; indeed, that remained a good idea right up until I had a hypothetically minor traffic violation while on my motorcycle. In New Jersey, at least back then, operating an uninsured vehicle required judges to suspend one’s driving privileges completely for six months. So there went my furniture-delivery job.
[A not-inconsequential aside: I also decided to insist to family and friends that I did in fact have insurance, simply didn’t have my insurance card with me at the time. They were, of course, outraged by the miscarriage of justice — right up until I had to confess that, uh, well, no, I actually did not have insurance at all…]
I got a job, then, working in the shipping department of a major publishing company just 10-15 minutes away from my parents’ house. Even better, my other sister — who had not yet gotten married — also worked there, and also lived with my parents. So I had a pleasant ride to and from work, at least. I worked for the publisher all through the remainder of 1977, and then all the way to early 1979.
Somewhere in there, after my driving privileges were restored, I started seeing a young woman who also worked in the warehouse. This seemed like a “good idea” at the time because… well, it didn’t seem like a good idea at all, except on the most superficial level. (Interpret that as you will, and you’re probably not wrong.) Inevitably, I guess, I ended up simply walking away from that relationship when I got another job — a much better one — requiring me to move away from the area; I promised to keep in touch, though: a promise which was a “good idea” only from a cheap, heinously callous perspective.
But hey, I had a better job! And this one had staying power: I was a computer-programming trainee for The Phone Company — AT&T, which was then still one single unified enterprise, the only source of any telephone services in the country. I would stay with AT&T, moving on up the career path (technical, to management, and back to technical) until the 1990s…
…but on the way, in the first few months I was with them, I fell in love, hard, with a young woman in my training class. This, I still believe, was not merely a good idea but an excellent one — right up until the relationship ended six months later. (I never understood why it ended, but that it did apparently seemed a good idea to her.)
So there I was at the end of a decade’s worth of embarrassingly bad — and/or clumsily executed — ideas. When January 1980 rolled around, I didn’t know about the genuinely excellent (and well executed) ideas which lay ahead, and I didn’t know about the godawful missteps I’d take to undo the excellence of many of those ideas. Really, I didn’t know a lot of things.
But I do know that for my purposes now, it’s time to tie off off this series of posts here on RAMH.
About the playlist…
The same general rules apply here as in earlier years’ lists: songs appear in chronological order by release date; they’re not selected for their importance (to me or to the world), just because they sold enough copies to make the Billboard “Hot 100 Singles” lists for their respective years; and thanks to the way AM radio and the music business worked back then, the release dates run not from January 1 through December 31, but more like mid-year to mid-year.
Specific notes:
- Suddenly coming across 1979’s “Just When I Needed You Most” gave me (in October, as I’ve already said) the “good idea” to undertake this playlist series at all. Fittingly, I guess, my most maudlin self has always strongly associated the song with the collapse of the relationship at the end of that year.
- Disco was such a thing on AM radio in the late ’70s, especially with the 1977 release of Saturday Night Fever and its soundtrack album. I’d be lying if I said The Beegees had only one Billboard “Top 100” song in 1978-79. But that doesn’t mean I felt compelled to include more than one (“Stayin’ Alive”).
- Not recently, but I have over the years blogged, at least in passing, about some of these songs (“Blue Bayou,” “Fire,” “Chuck E’s in Love,” “My Sharona“…) — maybe the music stuck with me more than I imagined.
- I don’t feel at all guilty or hypocritical for including two Linda Ronstadt tunes — one for each year.
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