It smells of light oil and dust, it smells of history beyond scope, it smells of bar rooms and discos and speak easies and dorm rooms.
It smells of escape. Escape smells of freedom.
It is 1978. There is a pool of iridescent tar inscribed with one long, neatly carved line in a swirl that vanishes into forever. I can see my reflection looking back across the age. Three decades! People are born and have children in that time frame.
I hold the shimmering disk of blackness, the hole in the universe, in my hands. So careful, so delicate, it is a soap bubble of time and memory.
I lean forward and dive in.
I'm in Brooklyn in a house built right before the great depression. The color of the carpet is something that Linda Blair puked up. I'm flipping the cool metal switches on the JVC and sliding the bars on the equalizer. I move four speakers about ten feet apart. Tweeter, mid and twenty inch Jamaican Woofers, I pull the covers off, they're only going to fall away like spent sections on an Apollo Mission anyway.
I put the record on. The needle, a diamond tip with gold soniphone rod trembles on my finger as I hover over the spinning pool. Nervous as a heroin user, waiting for the first hiss and crackle as the needle touches down, feeling my soul slip as the needle settles, and the world falls into silence.
The album is Styx, Pieces of Eight.
I can feel it tear through me, rippling my spirit.
It sang to us geeks, us outsiders. It sang that we were okay, that we've finally found the person we've be searching for. It sang that we were Lords of the Ring. That we could make that journey, bearing that horrible weight on our hearts and come out okay.
That we were the great hope.
Tonight, I danced like it was 1978.