When I was little, I used to pour over my Dad’s records, which were mostly divided into two camps: Beatles and Rolling Stones. I loved the colorful Beatles record jackets, especially Magical Mystery Tour and Sgt. Peppers. The Stones records intrigued me; I knew the zipper on Sticky Fingers records was something I wasn’t supposed to touch, but I wasn’t sure why. Between Bowie, Queen, some K Tel classics and my Star Wars records, these were in heavy rotation.
Curiously there was a third pile, which I didn’t quite get. The Doobie Brothers, Loggins and Messina and their ilk, with their long hair, Hawaiian shirts, and high-pitched harmonies, annoyed my post-toddler glam rock sensibilities and thus, those records remained on the shelf.
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