At the end of the disco era, massive social upheavals developed in cities across the country, signaling the death rattle of one of America's more humiliating cultural trends. It even went as far as a giant record burning session in a baseball stadium, which resulted in a riot. People tossed out their disco LP's in a defiant gesture against the powers-that-be who tricked them into buying into silly fashion and anything involving John Travolta. Disco was dead.
Meanwhile, cultural light years away in North Dakota, my parents were settling into their marriage and planning for their future. They had just become "born-again" and no longer wanted any secular influence in their lives. Unfortunately they still had remnants of the secular world still in their home, particularly through their music collection. My father feared that secular music would come between them and God; therefore, a record burning ceremony was in session.
I recall my mother sharing this story with me, and it was apparent that it still bothered her until that point. The records that my mom grew up with were left to smoke and ash, billowing into the night's sky. She said that before her records were destroyed, my dad and her listened to certain favorite songs for one last time. She cried listening to the Rolling Stones, George Jones, and Steve Miller Band. Then one by one, each record candidly tossed into the fire by my father. Each record taking a part of them with it. Songs that reminded them of a time and place in their lives. Feelings only revisited through music.
I spent a better time of my early high school years hiding certain cd's under my bed, hoping that my father wouldn't find them and throw them away. And the guilt of listening to some of my favorite albums followed me well beyond high school. These are the albums that help define who I am.