Rough Stone Rolling

Nostalgia is one of life’s crueler by-products. Moments appear rosier than they were and they taunt us with notions that the better parts are behind us. Nostalgia is junk food that, when over-consumed, leaves us aching and uncomfortably snug in our tight-fitting spiritual jeans.

Nevertheless, here I go.

As I write this, I’m listening to Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” album. There were far better specimens of 1972’s discography, I know, but that 12-year old didn’t know it. My first copy of “School’s Out” actually belonged to my friend Doug, but after I borrowed it I conveniently forgot where it came from and played it into oblivion on my cheap plastic BSR record player. I’d pace around my room, singing along– acting out the especially exciting parts– idly looking at the monster models, mini-bottles and sundry curios strewn across my shelves, my walls covered in black light posters, and my beloved number tile-flipping clock radio (with both AM and FM!) on the nightstand.

1972 was the year I discovered rock music and started assembling an odd collection of LPs: T-Rex “The Slider,” Harry Nilsson “Son of Schmilsson,” the soundtrack for “Superfly,” Jethro Tull “Thick as a Brick,” Cheech & Chong “Big Bambu,” Beatles “Let it Be,” Mott the Hoople “All the Young Dudes”… I joined Columbia House and got a bunch of records for ten cents apiece (who knew?)! Here’s a song list of the rest of 1972’s music offerings.

When the year started I was in the 7^th grade and my sense of clothes suddenly morphed into a perception of hip. We hung out at Jeans West in the mall, begged our parents for Brittania bell bottoms, denim vests and embroidered shirts. We reverently browsed Rolling Stone magazine, awed by the Earth Shoes and Dingo Boots ads. The girls were still wearing short skirts (the hems inexplicably started to lower around 1974), one-piece jumpers, headbands, tall boots and clunky clogs. They were foxes; I was terrified.

We walked and rode our bikes everywhere without fear (the sheriff’s dept. ruled the streets and all was right with the world). On Saturdays I’d take the bus downtown by myself, browse the magazine shops and play pool in an underground billiards room where, in retrospect, I’m sure they were running numbers.

1972 Utah was a moment. It was the beehives vs. the bangs, Postum vs. Boonesfarm. Under the shadows of the Everlasting Hills, the counterculture embraced funky day-glo styles; a block from Temple Square, a head shop thrived. Having a gun was every boy’s rite of passage and the Boy Scouts gave us NRA firearm safety. I fired my first handgun that year, my friend’s dad’s .357 magnum, and sat in my first Trans Am (in a dealer lot).

I love that year, choosing to ignore the trials that accompanied it. 1972 was the portal that ushered me out of kidhood and into a consciousness of music, culture, social isms and the opposite sex.

Maybe that’s why School’s Out was this boy’s anthem.