Press rewind

Remember me?
I said something like "Oh-ho-ho-ho sheeeeeeeeeut" when I found this on the web earlier today. Memory lane, son.

Maxell's UR 90s. WAVA's Top 8 at 8. Frank Ski's Doo Doo Brown mix. Monkees Greatest Hits. The mix tapes for hebrew school. Say word.

That DooDoo Brown tape was my prize posession back in 7th grade. Post-2 Live Crew, pre-2 Hype Brothers and a Dog, there was Baltimore's Frank Ski, and DooDoo brown was his calling card. Side A was all Ski beats and samples, Side 2 was all mix: Black Box, Turn this Mutha Out, 2 Live Crew, a BBD medley and UMC's Blue Cheese!. I taped it off this dude at camp named Neil who claimed he mixed it in his basement at home, and that sexy voice that came in repeatedly to say things like "You're listening to Frank Ski's megamix, oh baby, oh baby, ohhhh baybee" was his mother. Doubted him then, worry about him now.



I graduated to these Maxells in high school and rocked them like spinning rims until college. Honing my skills in mixology. Stacks of mixes for any occasion. Converting my dad's vinyl: dylan, carlin, otis, cosby. Like Ragu, it's in there.


I still have a blue bag that holds about 10 gajillion of these babies. The College Years aka the "bootleg" tapes. Grateful Dead. Dylan. Phish. DMB. The radio shows of Jay Vincent, Syracuse's overnight Deadhead sensation. Road trip mixes, etc.

Once upon a time my uncle Gary wanted to take me to a Grateful Dead show. I'm pretty sure it would have been at the Philly Spectrum sometime in the late 1980s (Note to still-lurking inner deadhead: look up all Philly Spectrum shows circa 1986 to see what you may have missed - assume it was the one with the most rare songs played). I believe the conversation went something like this:

Uncle Gary (to my parents): I'm gonna take Junk to see the Grateful Dead.

* Junk was my uncle's nickname for his daughter - my cousin - Jacalyn.

My parents: Really? That's great!

Me: I wanna go!

UG: Yeah, you like the Grateful Dead?

Me (no clue at this point): Yeah!

UG (to my parents, smiling): He wants to go too.

My parents: Uhhhhhhm...he has a Bar Mitzvah to go to that day.

Yeah, I wuz robbed. To think I could have spent my high school years dazed and confused rather than misanthropic and on the debate team.

Uncle Gary persevered, however, in his quest to expand my cultural horizons at an early age. During future visits to my relatives in Philadelphia Unka Gar would be my chaperone through the world of WWF matches, monster car rallies and multiple S&M shops on a trip down South Street. I'm pretty sure my father was there for that last one but not sure if that necessarily makes it any better.

ANY-hoo, fate eventually brought me to a Dead show at RFK, a month or so after my avoidance of Tour Rat status had culminated in being Class Speaker at graduation. It was there I was spied by two burnouts that had disappeared sometime after freshman year, only to reappear for a month or so every year hence, clad in tye-dyes, looking spun out and with tales of rehab.

They (on a grassy hill somewhere in the lot): Hey dude.

Me: Hey Bob. Hey Gumby.

Gumby (with deep voice, passing balloon to Bob): Nice speech.

* Gumby exhales, decks out.

Bob (nodding and hitting balloon): (decks out)

Me: Thanks, see ya guys.

Anyway, I can't see myself getting nostalgic over blank CDs. Viva los mixtapes.