September 20, 1963, was my 14th birthday. Always the youngest in my class, I was usually the last to, well, whatever. Even then, I had a paper route. My first hidden Playboy Centerfold was still two years away.
Bob Dylan arrived on the scene that same year. 43 years later, in 2006, I saw my first concert.
In two months, with my 37-year-old son, Ben, I’ll see performance number seven.
I’m always late but eager. Like a young pup. Bursting with potential. What accounts for this dormancy?
Of course, you’ll say, “Do you mean The Dance of Love?
And I’ll respond, “‘No, no, the Bossa Nova,’ the very first song I heard on my orange transistor radio, a birthday gift from my parents. They also gave me ear buds so that I could listen late into the night, esconced in the protective privacy under my covers, without waking my younger brother Peter.”
However, you know what they say. The first is always the most important. It sets the tone. My first song could have been Nino Tempo and April Stevens’ Deep Purple. Or Busted by Ray Charles. What about The Chrystals Then He Kissed Me?
Instead, I got Eydie Gormé’s Bossa Nova.
So I’m still trying to make up for lost time.
Dig it.
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