The First Time I Heard a Hard Rock Song, It Was a Record I Stole

Well, I took it from my Dad, if that counts.

A bit about me in 1983

I was such a good girl. My grades were often straight As; I went to church and memorized lots of Bible verses in Sunday School. I wanted to be good, as it brought positive attention in a religious, conservative household.

Now, I wasn’t all prissy, prim, and proper. I played with the boys in the neighborhood, planning water balloon wars, climbing trees, doing pranks. I would stealthily trespass on some of the big properties near my neighborhood because of a creek that ran through them where I collected bones, minerals and pressed different flowers to learn their names.

So, I was a good girl with a healthy dose of curiosity. I loved history, writing, and science a little TOO much for the other 6th graders I went to school with. Dork alert.

Yet, I had a little criminal streak as well.

By criminal streak, I mean I would watch non-bullying crimes being committed by my fellow peers, and I would think, “Why didn’t they just do it this way, so they wouldn’t get caught?”

How I did the crime

My father was a football coach and a drivers education teacher at the high school where he worked. At the end of the school year, if no one claimed stuff he’d confiscated from students, he would either trash, give away, or in some cases, keep the contraband. He brought the box home and it sat near the front door, waiting to be gone through. I wondered what kind of stuff did high school kids (in the early 80’s) get caught with? I had to satisfy my preteen curiosity.

So, with my amateur criminal mind working furiously, I had to pick my moment to rifle through Dad’s forbidden objects collection. Mom was taking a nap with her door locked, and Dad was out grocery shopping. Little brother was at a friend’s house, so no tattling from him.

It was a mish-mosh of items. There was a paddleball, some old gum, a few yo-yos, a frisbee, some Swiss army knives (this was the early 1980’s, y’all), tubes of lipstick, a compact, some wax fangs, a stack of various types of magazines, both adult and teen: comics, Playboys, Cosmopolitan, Teen Beat, Mad Magazine.

Photo by Patrick on Unsplash I love my Swiss Army knife now, but back then I wasn’t allowed to have one

If I took one of the knives, Dad was sure to notice. I kept looking. The comic books were not great. I didn’t take any interest in makeup until about 8th grade. However, the adult magazines were compelling in their own strange way.

The Playboys did not interest me. I felt weird when I saw them; it was the first time I saw a woman displayed like that and it was a bit of shock, soft lighting and all. I wondered briefly if I would look like that when I became an adult female? I did not understand the so-called seductive looks on their faces either. Weren’t they cold getting their pictures done naked? What was the point?

A little aside: the first time I saw a Playgirl magazine was at my mother’s hair salon! I remember thinking “so that’s why when my little brother hit his crotch on the bar on his bike it really, really hurt. Guys’ privates are just out there, dangling, waiting to get caught in something.” I remembered my teaching in church about a perfect creator, and I thought for the first time, nah, something isn’t right if your delicate privates can get smushed like plums or caught in a zipper.

Then I finally saw it at the bottom of the box. A 45 record with a title that peaked my interest: “Black Betty” by Ram Jam. I had a little record player. It was not anything serious, like my father owned. His stereo cabinet weighed as much as a small car and it contained an 8 track tape player, a record player, an AM/FM radio and stereo speakers hidden behind this elaborate wooden cabinet.

This thing can hold a record player, an 8 track, speakers, an AM/FM radio and some storage for vinyl or clunky 8 track tapes and probably a secret passageway

I grabbed the record and took it to my room.

I kept the volume low and put the needle on. What in Jesus and all his carpenter friends was this sound??

This music was not like anything I had heard, except for the occasional 60’s rock that played on my Dad’s car stereo. I grew up listening to Motown, bluegrass, country, gospel, 60’s and 70’s pop, some disco, but never anything harder than Elvis, the Animals, or some of the Beatles. My parents would change the station or turn to country if Hendrix, the Doors, or the Who came on. Too hard for them, apparently.

Anything that sounded like rebellion, wine, women or loud song was not allowed in their house. I think it has to do with my parents’ backgrounds.

My family history on both sides has Southern gothic overtones. Some day I need to write about the mysterious and not so mysterious murders on both sides, the criminal activity on one side, the interesting and eccentric characters that came from the branches of both sides of my family tree.

Some of my father’s eight brothers were drug dealers, alcoholics, or had done some other crimes to put them in prison. My father had gotten born again in the Bible Belt, a college football scholarship, drafted into the Air Force and not sent to Vietnam by some miracle, and married to my mother. He was more than happy to relocate from Kentucky to Florida and leave family drama behind.

A bit of background on the song

The song is not a genuine creation of Ram Jam’s but instead originated from an African American work song, and was originally recorded by Lead Belly, an African American folk and blues singer. A lot of rock and roll comes from African American original music.

A LOT.

Here I was, a girl of 11, who grew up knowing Diana Ross and the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, the Temptations, and Smokey Robinson and the Miracles and I had no clue that the song forever restructuring my brain and how I listened to music, originated from African American work, folk, and blues songs. I wouldn’t learn this till later, when taking a music appreciation course in college.

This version by Ram Jam, as the kids say or used to say, slaps. It certainly slapped me hard into a different reality. The moment this masterpiece hit my ears, I think I started puberty a little early. It sounded like the music my Daddy’s felonious brothers listened to when they did crimes.

This song makes one want to jump in a muscle car and be the escape driver for an elaborate plan to run illegal liquor across state lines to a dry county to sell. It makes one want to take up smoking just so you can set the evidence of said hooch and moonshine run on fire in case the Smokies get too close for comfort.

I had no real desire to be a 1970s bootlegger, but I did want to hear more hard rock. I would play the song in secret, over and over. I asked my neighbor, who was only a year or two older than me, if he could put on MTV when we went to his house.

The corruption of an impressionable young mind

Rick, not his real name, was only more than happy to oblige. He was a huge hard rock fan. Thus began my education into hard rock, heavy and a bit of thrash metal. I never went as deeply into it as Rick or other guys my age did, but oh, it made me want to understand the guitar and the musicians who seemed to evoke these incredible sounds.

Van Halen, Def Leppard, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Slayer, Megadeth, and of course, as mentioned above, some of the originals — Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and Jimi Hendrix were all now taking up space in my expanding mind. I loved them, but my parents didn’t like them, and some of the boys I later dated in high school, who were into new wave or punk, hated them. I put away my heavy metal for a bit, until I met my now ex husband.

Unfortunately, when I lived with him, I put away my goth, new wave, punk, and country and didn’t rediscover it fully until I divorced him. He didn’t like that side of me, “too moody” said the moodiest, broodiest man I ever met. As if heavy metal isn’t just about anger or raising hell; no it couldn’t be depressing, fun, sarcastic, dark, ironic or you know — moody.

Isn’t it awful when one has to suppress what one appreciates and loves to be more lovable to a person who’s supposed to love and accept one as they are?

Two things can be right and okay at the same time. I can love heavy metal and I can love Broadway show tunes. I can love new wave, goth, and dance pop. I can love hip hop, reggae, soul, ska, some rap, and also love country music. Anybody ever hear of this performer named Beyoncé?

“Black Betty” might not be some folks’ cup of tea. Some may decide it is a dated song, belonging to a certain era of rock music. That is also okay.

But for a sheltered, musically curious girl of 11, it opened a door. I didn’t end up a drug addict, or worshipping Satan, or God for that matter (Christian rock in the 80s thru the early 2000s is another whole essay), or a criminal. The background music to my life became richer, infused with more color and expression.

And sometimes, I still look at criminals and think, “This is how I would have done it.” And that has nothing to do with my introduction to hard rock or heavy metal.

Just my curious little mind.

*This story is for the Three Imaginary Girls March writing prompt about what song, album, or artist was part of your musical journey.

Thanks for reading!