from the L.A.
Weekly, May 27, 1983
Paint your walls white. Get a patio, or a stoop, or a fire escape at least. Open the windows. All the windows. Make sure you have plenty of ice cubes. You can make these yourself by filling an "ice cube tray" with water and letting it sit in the "freezer" portion of an icebox for a while, or you can buy big bags of them ready-made at the supermarket or 7-Eleven. They are very reasonably priced and absolutely necessary to the enjoyment of music in the summer months.
Call some friends. Ask them over. Ask them to pick up something to drink on their way over. Something to drink is absolutely necessary. Exactly what you drink is up to you. Many people are very fond of beer, which the 1973 edition of Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary defines as "a malted and hopped somewhat bitter alcoholic beverage," and which comes in light and dark varieties under many brand names and from many different countries. As I write this, in fact, I'm working on a "Tuborg," left over from a time I called some friends and asked them over, and though it says "by appointment to the Royal Danish Court" on the label, the fact of the matter is that this beer I am drinking was brewed in Phoenix, Arizona, where it is very hot in the summer, and quite a bit of the rest of the year besides.
Iced tea is quite nice (you see now where the cubes come in), as are lemonade, Slurpies, mint juleps, Sunkist diet orange, Thai coffee and Caramba. But hot coffee, cocoa, Lipton's Cup-o-Soup, warm milk and tepid water -- these are not at all conducive to listening to music in the summer.
Make the bed. An unmade bed is a horrible distraction and, besides, you've got friends coming over. You don't want it to get around that you don't make the bed, do you? So make that bed. Sit on the bed. Notice how much nicer it is sitting on a made bed than an unmade bed. Lean back against the wall with your hands behind your head. This is the life, eh?
Walk over to the window, which, if you've been doing this right, is open. Pull back the drapes, if drapes you have. Look outside. What are the neighbors doing? Listen. Do you hear music? What sorts of music do the neighbors like? Maybe you have a neighbor that really loves, say, Peter Allen, and is blasting the latest Peter Allen record straight at your open window. This is a bad thing if you don't like Peter Allen, but it's all part of music in the summer. When all the neighbors are blasting their stereos into each other's windows, then you know it's really summer.
Where are your friends? What a bunch of slowpokes.
The phone rings. It's your mother, wondering why you never call. Aw, moms, you say, jeez. In the background, over the phone, you hear music. Moms is listening to opera on the radio, just like she has for as long as you can remember. Opera in the summer is a bad idea if the opera is by Verdi, Puccini or Wagner. It's a good idea if the opera is by Mozart, Rossini or Purcell. (This is incontrovertible.) Moms is listening to The Flying Dutchman. Better shut that off, moms, you say. Is that any way to talk to your mother, moms wants to know. Okay, okay, let's not have an argument. Let's simmer down. It's summer. We're hot. Hot weather makes us edgy. Let's just cool out. Say goodbye, moms, yes I'll call soon.
Hang up. The phone rings
again. It's your friends, they'll be a little late, sorry. People always move
slower in the summer. But you're getting mighty thirsty -- better walk to the
store. Can't just sit around waiting for those bozos. Put on your zorries. Walk
down the street. Watch the convertibles pass. The car radios play loudly, as all
car radios must when the car is a convertible. Some car radios play "the
Survival Station." Some car radios play "the ROQ." Nobody ever plays Toni Grant
in a convertible. Nobody ever plays community-supported-
public-affairs-and-boring-
impressionist-jazz radio in a convertible. It is
simply not done.
In the store, you're on your own. We told you several paragraphs ago that we weren't going to mix in this business. What if we forced you (by sheer weight of critical authority) to drink something you didn't like? Our credibility would be shot. You'd no longer trust us and all the other instructions contained herein -- which are absolutely necessary to the enjoyment of music in the summer -- would just go ignored. Can't have that now.
On the way home, pass an open window. Through the window hear a hi-fi playing "White Rabbit," a song from the Summer of Love. The Summer of Love is 16 summers old. Some records from the Summer of Love are: Grateful Dead by the Grateful Dead, Country Joe and the Fish by Country Joe and the Fish, Big Brother and the Holding Company by Big Brother and the Holding Company and Moby Grape by Moby Grape. This is invaluable information should you wish to throw a "theme party." At a Summer of Love theme party, guests would wear love beads and marching-band jackets and hand each other flowers. Take up a "spare change" collection to pay for refreshments -- Kool-Aid would be appropriate. It comes in a variety of imitation fruit flavors and costs only pennies a glass. You can buy it pre-sweetened or add sugar yourself. Both methods have their staunch adherents. We have no opinion on the matter, except to point out that Kool-Aid is a fine summer drink, right up there with Perrier with a twist of lime. Chocolate Yoo-Hoo is not a fine summer drink, however, and would be staggeringly inappropriate at a Summer of Love theme party. Be careful!
Once home, put the ice cubes in whatever you've bought to drink. Put on a red-and-white-striped short-sleeve shirt and reflect upon your day. The open windows, the convertible, the made bed. Reflect upon the summer. Upon how best to listen to music in the summer. Pick up the most recent copy of the L.A. Weekly (the one in which this article appears) and read "A Guide to Summer Listening" by Robert Lloyd. Read it all the way through. Follow its recommendations explicitly and everything will turn out fine. This is completely scientific and infallible.
See you in September.
Copyright Robert Lloyd © 1983 and 2006