I celebrated and shared a fairly impressive milestone with one Peter Frampton on Thursday night.
Thirty-five years ago this very week, at the tender age of 16, I broke into showbiz by writing an article about said Mr. Frampton for a weekly newspaper called The Sunday Express.
I'll try to keep this releatively brief, but here's the story:
I had scored a Saturday job in the paper's sports department starting July of 1976, and since I was way more into rock music than sports, I tried--ultimately, quite successfully--to worm my way into the entertainment section with a collection of what I'll call "large white lies."
Given that Frampton was the hottest act in the world at the time, riding high on the "Frampton Comes Alive" phenomenon, and given that he was playing a show at Montreal's Place des Nations the following week, I asked the paper's entertainment editor if I could write a piece on the golden-tressed guitarist. Well, I actually asked if I could "adapt it," since it was an article that I had ostensibly written earlier that year for my college newspaper, but was unfortunately never published due to a teacher's strike.
Now, truth is that I hadn't yet ever been to college (as I mentioned, I was only 16 and just out of high school), and had never written anything in my life other than the perfunctory school essays.
But given the ever-so-slim nod yes by a woman named Rosa Harris, I got to work that night, sat for three hours at the kitchen table in my parents' place, stole some quotes from Circus and Creem magazines, and banged out an acceptable piece--my first ever--on my father's noisy portable typewriter, which found its way into the paper with my byline the following Sunday.
That piece opened doors, established me as a rock 'n' roll critic, led to interviews weeks later with '70s staples like Chris de Burgh, Loggins & Messina and Chicago, and in the fall, at the age of 17, enabled me to replace Rosa as Entertainment Editor.
Crazy, huh? I still have the piece framed, and look at it every now and then to remind myself of what a long, strange trip it has mos' def been.
So while I was sitting smack-dab centre at Place Des Arts last week, warmly listening to the tunes that engulfed AM (!) radio and an entire generation back in '76 as Frampton re-created them with perhaps even greater energy three-and-a-half decades later, I couldn't help but sighing and thinking that "Things were so much simpler then."
That's what feel-good nostalgiac music does to you.
But stop those touchy-feelies right now. Like a drug, the music's effect is pleasant, but unreal.
Fact is, the music perpetuates a myth, one that's kinda harsh, but ultimately settling:
Things are NEVER simpler.
With deeper reflection that night, I thought back to the way things REALLY were back then. Despite the Cameron Crowe-like position (remember "Almost Famous"? That really was my life), I was 16 and filled with the usual high-school, "How do I get rid of this acne?" / "Does Bonnie really like me?" / "What if I flunk Chem Study?" teenage angst.
Five years later, the subjects changed, but not the worry, the pondering, the insecurity. And 10 years later, and 20, and well...35 years later.
Now I'm not complaining. Time has treated me well. Like everyone else (Oh Christ, here comes that music again...), I've had my share of life's ups and downs. But such is the power of music that it can erase the rough spots and bumps and let the past remind you of what you are not now. Despite the tender glow of familiar Frampton, THESE are the good old days...not then.
So here's what I learned this week:
It's wonderful to reminisce. But don't be blinded or lulled into a false sense of time-travel envy because of it. Time heals all wounds, and time wounds all heels, but it doesn't change the fact that things then were the same as things are now...and vice versa.
People often say to me: "It's so much harder being a teenager today." No way. It's hard being a teenager period. In any era. Read David Hadju's brilliant "The 10-Cent Plague" for a fascinating look at teendom in the '50s, when comic books were the equivalent of today's Internet. Or see the musical "Spring Awakening" for the late 19th Century version of teen tumult.
It also ain't easy being a 30-something. Or middle-aged. Or golden aged. Or whatever-aged.
It ain't easy. But it ain't that bad either if you just live for the moment and enjoy today. Or (oy, more music!) don't look back.
And when you celebrate a milestone by revisiting your point of showbiz inception with the same guy who took you there 35 years ago, sit back and enjoy the ride...instead of spending the evening pondering your lesson-of-the-week.