My parents thought it was noise. My grandmother thought it was worse. To me it was the first thing that ever sounded like it was made for me.
The Radio Under the Pillow |
My parents thought it was noise. My grandmother thought it was worse. To me it was the first thing that ever sounded like it was made for me. |
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News for the America we remember |
I heard it first through a transistor radio the size of a deck of cards, under a pillow, at an hour when I was supposed to be asleep. |
The reception came and went depending on the weather and the position of my head, and I spent whole nights holding still in one uncomfortable angle because moving would lose the station. That is the part I want to explain to anyone born into a world where every song ever recorded is one thumb-swipe away. I lay awake, motionless, in the dark, in order to hear two and a half minutes of music one time, with no way to hear it again except to wait. |
And it was worth it. That is the part that is hard to convey. |
Because before that, music in our house was something adults chose. It came from a radio in the kitchen and it was pleasant and orchestral and it belonged to my parents' world entirely. There was nothing wrong with it. It just was not addressed to me. Then this other thing came |
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