JUKE BOX JURY
The old mercury hit 84 today and the placid streets of bucolic Marin County were brazenly disturbed by the sounds of yours truly, cruising along in my calaboose, windows down and the manic strains of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man” blaring from my 40-ohm speakers. The radio was cooperating to its fullest, flinging out one fine summer song after another, from “Brown Sugar” to early Yardbirds, with a lot of Van Morrison, Beach Boys, and Mungo Jerry inbetween.
A real boss summer
March 20
The old mercury hit 84 today and the placid streets of bucolic Marin County were brazenly disturbed by the sounds of yours truly, cruising along in my calaboose, windows down and the manic strains of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man” blaring from my 40-ohm speakers. The radio was cooperating to its fullest, flinging out one fine summer song after another, from “Brown Sugar” to early Yardbirds, with a lot of Van Morrison, Beach Boys, and Mungo Jerry inbetween. As I pulled up in front of the local drugstore I spied a gaggle of washed-out hippies mooning around an emaciated young lad who was strumming a guitar and half-heartedly mumbling to the tune of what sounded like “You’ve Got a Friend.” At that very moment, what should burst from my speakers but the opening chords of “Wild Thing.” I turned it up all the way and sat there grinning while they picked up the shreds of their shattered sensitivity and slouched off to mellower pastures. “Zowee!” I thought, “This is gonna be a boss summer!”