The best part about “burning” your own CDs (I’m not hip enough to have an mp3 player … yet) is that, unless you’re a masochist or just an idiot, you won’t include any songs that you despise. I’ve rarely found a pre-made CD that contains all gems. One of the only ones is Cat Stevens’ “Tea for the Tillerman”, but hey, that was years ago, and it wasn’t a CD when I found it. CDs didn’t even exist then. It was probably an eight-track, and I probably walked three miles in the snow in shoes with cardboard soles to get it. By candlelight.
I recently made myself a new CD full of “cardio” music for use at the gym. It contains mostly ’80s stuff that I loved dancing to at “gay” clubs in Philadelphia. Think Erasure meets (no, I didn’t say “meats”) Dead or Alive meets Bronski Beat.
This morning when I listened to this new CD, I was overjoyed to hear one song that I forgot I’d invited to the party. As much as I love the flashy dance tunes that take me back to my multi-zippered, silver-tipped-boots days, the one that really got me going this morning was the one that takes me back even further — 39 years ago this July 12. I think I heard it in “the womb”.
Wiggle into your capris, girls … brush your bangs down over your foreheads, boys … climb atop your desks, and …
(My favorite part of this song is a four-second bit from 1:32 through 1:36. Absolute bliss. Like a good sneeze.)