Tim Sommer writes:
Remember that moment in the flat yellow hallway of your suburban high school when it seemed like the future would never come, when it seemed that your lips would never find a kiss, when you would stare at your reflection in the giant window panes by the gym and you would see exactly the moon-shaped, un-kissable face you assumed everyone else saw?
Then you heard the Kinks, or you heard the Mumps, or you heard Mott the Hoople, or you heard the tube-heated tones of a late-night DJ playing “Dark Star”, and you knew that behind the gamelan clangs of the blue green lockers, outside of the tall red brick walls, past that row of shrieking buses, beyond the anonymous whirr of the Long Island Expressway, somewhere beyond Bayside and Little Neck and even Jamaica, there might be a place where misfits like you would find love.
Rock ’n roll loved me before anyone else did, didn’t it love you before anyone else did, too?
That’s why it’s important to tell its story in the right way.