#i am subbed to a few record companies and just general music channels as well as musicians

[willoftrees]

hm i should go thru my new music playlist

i have much to sort thru

need new musics for my (main) playlist

[textales]

“The Kid is Hot Tonight.”

One of my best friends in Junior High was a girl named Sam. Her mom was the first female Top-40 Disk Jockey in Montana, and the reason I got into the radio business.  

Back then AM still ruled the air – even if it was in mono and all crackly.  The FM band was obscure - saved for nerdy technocrats who smoked pipe tobacco and hung out at the library…or worse, Radio Shack!   Even though it was in stereo and superior in sound quality, FM was not yet as popular as AM. Most FM stations ran in automation, playing boring lectures from some college, or “beautiful music” suitable for any elevator.  AM was fun and live and fantastically phenomenal.  The kind of radio that came standard in every car, AM was the real deal.  And Wendi Carpenter rocked afternoon drive on 1450 KQDI, entertaining countless central Montana listeners hungry for anything other than country.    

Most days after school, Sam and I would stop at “the station” while her mother was on the air, to scoop-up free records and kill a little time hanging out with the other DJs.

“Early Adopters”

Record labels sent music to radio DJs everywhere.  Even stations in places like Montana were great for launching new artists…and hungry programmers looking to make their mark would take the suggestions of record reps by adding new songs to the playlist.  If the new song sold more than 500,000 units, those “early adopter” radio DJs would get their name and the station call-letters engraved on a plaque with a gold record, mounted in a fancy frame to hang as a brag piece.  

One breezy afternoon in the early eighties, Sam and I were hanging out at KQDI when the Music Director told us “This band will never go anywhere,” and carelessly flipped a 12” vinyl record at me.  I wasn’t sure if he was joking – but who cares if he was, it was cool to have a first pressing of a record with a stamp that said: “Promotional Use Only – Not for Resale.”

Little did we know in just a few months that Loverboy would become a big deal, and soon I’d be making a trip with my neighbor to see them play live.

“Working for the Weekend”

As neighbors go, Don was the coolest guy on the block.  Not only did he have two of the greatest classic cars ever built (a red and black Chevy Chevelle AND a pretty blue Shelby Mustang 350 GT), but he was also a huge music fan with the biggest record collection and the nicest stereo on the North Side.  His wife Judy was stunningly pretty and they were a model couple, making all the right choices like buying a home and saving for retirement starting in their early 20s.  

Don was a bit of a purist when it came to music.  He had strong opinions about music videos that played on the new cable channel called MTV…he found most of them fake and cheesy - he just wanted to see the musicians play. He also preferred vinyl LP records to the synthetic sounds of the new Compact Disks which were just barely making their way onto the scene.  

I didn’t expect Don to give a shit about Loverboy – they were hardly a “real” rock band like Foreigner or Boston or Journey – so I was surprised when he invited me to go see them when they came to a college town nearby.  

Because I was just 17 we had to promise my dad that Don would make sure I’d behave.  Oh sure, I assumed Don would sneak a beer or two my way (and there’d be no need to bother my father with that detail!) but I was stopped like a deer in the headlights when he asked if I would mind if he smoked a joint.

At that moment I learned that he and Judy smoked pot.  It didn’t bother me that he might want to imbibe in what has been considered essential for almost any concert-goer since the 1960s.  What bothered me was the fact that I hadn’t even thought about it.  

By no means did I think less of them for this – hell, lots of people smoke pot – I just felt like a fool for being so incredibly naïve for not even considering it.

Now that I look back, I wonder if there were other secrets.  What else didn’t I know?  

“The Feedlot” served gargantuan sub-style sandwiches using whole loaves of bread.  I worked there for a stint between radio gigs.  As high-school jobs go, this was so much better than actually having to make the stuff - I just delivered it using one of two company cars….a 1978 Chevy Chevette or a brand-new 1981 Mercury Lynx.  I got paid to drive around?  How cool was that?!

The manager thought it was cute that some of the regular customers would specifically request me as their delivery person – they wanted “the cute blond one” and she obliged.  

Two big burly truck-driver guys who lived on Bootlegger Trail were particularly fond of me. I can’t remember their names, but they were always having parties and seemed so very happy and friendly. They’d invite me to stick around for a beer or a Coke.  I would routinely turn them down - I had to get back to the Feedlot.  I was on the clock after all, and my employer should get full value for the $3.35 an hour she was paying me.  

Although they were “old” and lived in a trailer, (they were maybe in their twenties, it was a double-wide with full skirting and a tip-out), they were clean and smelled good and were always so very nice.  They paid by check (everywhere still took checks back then), and they tipped well – very well, in fact. The tip for a five minute drive to deliver a sandwich in a paper bag was more than I made in an hour on minimum wage.  My goodness, they were generous.

I remember their checks were so weird – not the blue or yellow “safety paper” most people got for free with their account at Northwestern Bank – theirs were “personalized” – printed with the Strawberry Shortcake cartoon character.  

Strawberry Shortcake?  WTH?   That seemed kind of strange.  And I remember how they would say “Bye” with an unusual inflection.   It made no sense at the time because I didn’t realize they were dropping heavy hints and hitting on me. Hmmm…maybe they knew I was gay – I know I sure didn’t.  And what else didn’t I know?

Hindsight is 20/20…and looking back I realize there were so many other times that I was so very oblivious. Like when I would surprise guys who were “entertaining” in their rooms at the all-male barracks on Malmstrom Air Force Base. This was a decade before “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” made being gay in the armed forces passable.  

“Oh, duh, THAT’s what they were doing!”  NO WONDER it took them so long to answer the door.  You’d think they’d be expecting me – although the wait-time on a sandwich is hardly that of a pizza.  Maybe they wanted to be interrupted? 

Huh. What else didn’t I know?

Naiveté has its place, mostly to serve and protect the innocent.  Although I usually got A’s and I considered myself fairly witty and articulate, I was completely naïve.  I was guilty of being “wholesome,” and my selective attention wasn’t at all finely tuned.  Or, on the other hand, my selective attention WAS finely tuned, with a filter added to keep out the unsavory thoughts I was consciously trying to avoid.  

In the early 1980s a new disease called AIDS was killing everyone in its path. However devastating, this “gay plague” was an epidemic confined to places far away, where homosexuals congregated in bars and bath houses and did unspeakable things in the dark.  Although gay men in big cities were dropping like flies, Montana was safe.  We didn’t have “those people,” and those places where unthinkable things occurred didn’t exist in Big Sky Country.

I got why people were scared shitless, and a majority equated being gay and having AIDS as an automatic given.  Misconceptions, myths and hysteria were rampant.  Victims were treated like lepers. Some feared you could get AIDS simply by being close to someone or kissing or hugging them.  

Most who had this opinion were essentially just naïve and innocent.  But the gleefully, willfully ignorant were the most troubling - often expressing their fear as “god’s wrath.”  Not surprisingly, many in this crowd also refused to believe Liberace was gay – go figure.

Hall & Oates sang: “Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid” and Ronald Reagan took the hint. The President said absolutely nothing about AIDS until 1987, near the end of his second term and years after his friend Rock Hudson had died from the disease.  At that point in the U.S., over 36,000 people were diagnosed with AIDS and over 26,000 people had died from it.  Montana was barely a bleep on the radar and it was still easy enough for the general public (and even the medical community) to avoid the issue for years.  “Not in my backyard” was a common sentiment.

Throughout most of the 80s and 90s nobody in Montana knew anyone with HIV or AIDS and if they did they wouldn’t tell you for fear of being shunned from their church or social group…or worse, being fired from their job or attacked by the gleefully, willfully ignorant.  Even doctors were dumb – my stepmother had a nurse friend who worked for a MD who threatened to fire her because her son had AIDS.  

For the longest time I was able to say “not a single person in my friends and family circle has been affected by AIDS.”  This was remarkable given that I had moved to a “real city” and was an open member of the very community in crisis hit hardest by the epidemic.

But hardly better than the gleefully, willfully ignorant, I had a self-righteous, cavalier attitude and figured I knew all I needed to know.  I wore my “garbage bags” and knew to never get in a situation of risk.  “I’ll just keep myself safe and sanitized and won’t have to learn anything about this unsavory thing.”  Even though I gave money to various AIDS and HIV charities, I separated myself from “those people” and wore a protective coating to prevent me from getting too close.  I still had tons of fun, knowing the rubber sheath would keep me safe, but I wouldn’t let love in or out…not in any way.  Figuratively or literally…emotionally or physically.  “Not in my backyard.”  

My personal “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” approach on HIV and AIDS worked until 1990 when my roommate Robert tested positive, and I was forced to pull my head out of the sand.  I was not going to let myself become a victim of fear and ignorance, so I told myself I best learn about this shit and what to do about it.  I loved Robert and wanted to do everything I could to keep him alive.  My self-righteous stance had softened.

What else didn’t I know?  I discovered having an open mind and open dialog gave me the courage to reach out to people I’d been shutting out, including my high-school best friend Ross. My buddy, Buddy, with whom I had a one night encounter in college, had come out of the closet and announced his status, and others I knew were starting to surface.  Although I was no longer able to say “Nobody in my life is affected by AIDS,” I was happy to kill that willful ignorance that was getting in my way of loving people.  I let curiosity have a place at the table, right next to security. I started asking more questions. Not that I became obsessed, I just wanted to stop being scared to death.  I refused to let hate and fear win over love and understanding.

It was a sad story two decades later when I learned that Don and Judy both died from AIDS. I heard he got it by a blood transfusion and unknowingly infected his wife.  They died at home, both frail shadows of their once vibrant selves.  Many friends and family volunteered with home hospice, trying to make the torture tolerable.  They left behind two teenage kids…I can only imagine the emotional torture they had to endure with not one but both parents dying, made worse by bullying school kids mocking and making fun.

Somehow it was supposed to make it more palatable that the source of the infection was not self-induced but completely beyond their control.  “Good lord, it’s not like they got this by having sex or doing drugs!”  They were innocent and deserved no shame or blame.

Yet there was a shroud of secrecy.  Nobody was supposed to know.  If Don got AIDS from a blood transfusion beyond anyone’s control, why all the shame and silent treatment?  What else didn’t I know?  And why do I care?  Am I as bad as those so called Christians who want so badly to assign blame and often end-up showering the victim in shame?  I can hear them now: “You reap what you sow.“ “Play with fire and get burned.”  Blah blah blah.  

It was easy for me to have such a callous curiosity from a big city thousands of miles away.  My job or reputation wasn’t at stake and my life wasn’t under the sharp scrutiny of the terrified in a small town where even just talking about sex was taboo.

Don wasn’t naïve and clueless, was he?  Even though he was straight and a “guy’s guy,” I had no difficulty imagining a “what if” scenario.   WHAT IF he had been at the wrong place at the wrong time?  WHAT IF at a concert in Seattle or Calgary he smoked a little too much pot and drank too much?  Maybe he stumbled into the wrong crowd who took advantage of his innocence, or worse, if he was coerced into something he didn’t want to do and by then it was too late?   WHAT IF that was me instead of Don?  

I only recently learned that in his dying days Don sequestered himself to a room in his garage in a self-induced quarantine.  I wish I had been around to ask why….was it to protect himself from the outside world or it from him?  And I’d like to think I would have had the guts to face my own fear and spend time with him talking about classic cars and music.  But as much as I want to figure it out, I’ll have to be satisfied with a “You’ll never know” when asking “What else didn’t I know?”

It happened almost overnight: FM became the preferred band for radio listeners. The sound quality was infinitely better and in stereo, after all.  And by the ‘90s every car had an FM radio that came standard from the factory at no additional cost.   Program directors started putting more time and attention to programming their FM stations, and the AM signals were the ones left for automation and a disintegrating audience share.  

In the next decade medical science had revolutionized treatment making HIV something people live with by taking just a pill a day. And now Prep offers what is essentially a vaccine against HIV.  

It would be great if we could restore humans like we restore cars.  It would be great to have some of those classics back in our lives.  And it’s so unfortunate that so many who passed were essentially victims of bad timing – I’m fairly certain they’d still be alive if they got their HIV in this current era.  

Ross, Robert, Buddy, Don and Judy.  It didn’t matter how they got AIDS and died….they were all victims.  Unfortunately, none of them got a gold record to hang on their wall for being “early adopters.”      

What else didn’t I know? Too much to write…but one thing I did eventually figure out: whether the injection was by needle or by penis, knowing how it happened didn’t make the pain and suffering any easier for anyone.    

[noseydewdrop]

Training week in Hamamatsu Japan

I stepped off the shinkansen in the twilight of the city lights and into the Hamamatsu station exit terminal. It was like an airport. Clean white marble walkways and walls with shops embedded in them. There was a pianist playing on what was a beautiful stage disguised as a hole in the wall. “Kawai” was plaqued next to his podium and I guessed the brand of the piano and at the time I thought nothing of it besides how beautiful the music sounded. People stopped and we shared feelings and some even recorded him. I rounded the corner in a rush to find the nearest restroom and I noticed a really elderly Japanese woman with a cane, and a woman which appeared to be her daughter. She was walking very slowly but had a very healthy and happy expression. If I had to guess she was 100 or really close, It made me think of my grandmothers and how they are both 94 this year and how healthy they are for their age. It warmed my heart to witness their interaction.

As i left the station the feeling of clean air in the deep purple sky came over me, the last minutes of light before darkness. The nighttime was noticeably different coming from the biggest city in the world, to the biggest city in a more rural prefecture. I pressed on to find my hotel with my heavy backpacks. For the first time since leaving America, I noticed a group of foreigners in the lobby of my hotel, and immediately fell into my introverted shell. “Maybe they wont think im here for training too” since I was wearing a mask and have been mistaken for being native countless times. My bags were under a net off to the side, which had bells as a security measure if anyone tried to get to them. In my struggles of checking in using Japanese, and attempting to grab my bags without permission, I don’t think I came off anything less than Gaijin to them. It was extremely embarrassing.

The rest of training felt less stressful everyday. I met people naturally from all over the world. I’ve never been in a group of people so culturally mixed. I felt the strange feeling that I am actually representing America for once, and that was so weird. I’ve come to learn the perception of Americans is so different than who I actually am. Most people only know Trump or famous actors and musicians so generally I feel so welcome to people thinking I would be as boisterous as the president. But I have met a few people like that here.

The morning of, I had no idea what to expect besides the serious covid measures set in place. It was the first time everyone had to wear masks, and I think that really helped me feel more comfortable. There were about 40-50 new teachers. We were put into groups of 4-5 trainees based on region and were assigned a facilitator that would coordinate group demos, luckily we didn’t have to do anything in front of the entire group if we didn't want to. The day was broken up with multiple lectures on how to instruct, practicing what we learned and feedback. The first 2 days was ES and the last 3 were JHS and living in Japan preparation. I took so many notes it felt like I was back in biology class in college, it felt weird since some people didn’t take any. I just like being as prepared as possible I suppose.

I was SO unprepared the first day of training. Naturally I was very shy and soft spoken. I am not someone who can improvise and feel comfortable in any situation but honestly its the best way I learn, being thrown in with the sharks. The improvement I made throughout the week was drastic and my facilitator told me I really reminded him of when he first started teaching in Japan 10 years ago, and that the kids would love me. That really gave me the confidence I needed to feel at the time. I still had no idea what to expect.

In between training days consisted of resting in the hotel room, studying Japanese and exploring the city. I learned Hamamatsu is the city of music in Japan and its where Yamaha music, Suzuki and Honda motorcycle companies were founded. It’s also famous for unagi which was way to expensive for me to try. At night on the main street there were many guys standing outside the restaurants they worked trying to get us in but when they realized we can’t speak well we were left alone for the most part but they were a bit more pushy. I really like the city vibes in Hamamatsu but its no where near as massive as Tokyo. A much less crowded city felt so different than what I was use to, yet everyone emanated a very friendly vibe much different than in Tokyo.

Friday came and gone and we were left to enjoy the weekend with very lenient corona precautions. Most teachers went out drinking but I decided to stay in for the night as I was so mentally exhausted from the week. I ended up flipping through the channels around 8pm in my hotel bed and Kiki’s delivery service was playing. I watched it in Japanese for the first time without subs and my childhood self was so happy. My week couldn't have ended any better.

The next day we had a health check and we were told to meet at the station at specific times. I didn’t see the time sheet they posted the day before but luckily my friend snapped a picture of it. Apparently during his checkup an hour before mine, his group was approached by a man with a clipboard and he was trying to get them to sign up for a group and get their personal info, one of them said it was very sketchy sounding. I felt fortunate to not have anyone with that description approach my group. Since it’s a pretty big station, I’ve heard many people wait around to approach a touristy/foreign person and try to sell you something or what not. All the people I’ve talked to were really friendly and nice to me. I can’t help but feel I avoided most of those weird interactions due to my appearance. Phew.

The next day was the last day before all the trainees disburse throughout the Kansai/Chubu region. I dreaded the thought of catching an early train to meet the person to help me with my apartment setup at 10am. Luckily it was only an hour by shinkansen (and it was paid for by the company), so I went down to the lobby, shipped my bags with Yamato (their luggage delivery service is amazing), and met one of my closest friends so far in Japan. He’s from the UK and I’ve never talked to him during training but somehow he ended up in the group in front of me, even though he is living in the same town as everyone but 1 person in my 4 person group. We bonded over cultural differences and experiences the entire train ride. I kept thinking before moving here I only had 1 friend from the UK before, and how there is so much to learn from everyone I am closest to here.

We were rushed off the train in east Shizuoka and parted as we were meeting at opposite sections of the station. I arrived 20 minutes early to drop off my pocket WiFi rental at the nearest post office.

It was rainy with a fresh scent away from the city, it felt like home but without the petrichor of the forest.