Dark rooms except for the glow of stereo dials, bodies sprawled here and there, wherever they could find a place (not too particular at that time of night). Hot Rocks, After the Gold Rush, American Beauty or Dark Side of the Moon playing as we all drifted off into the Land of Nod, casualties in amongst all the party debris littering the tables and floor, the gratified victims of excess. A few hours of rest before a bleary-eyed dawn. And then perhaps not remembering parts of the previous night, laughing when somebody told you about something silly you said or did. Everybody feeling a little foolish now, and still giddy from the drink (the hangover not having set in yet). The first order of business (after a little hair of the dog, perhaps): breakfast; some solid sustenance to put in those growling, sour stomachs. What did your parents, or your aunt, or your grandparents (whoever we were house sitting for while they vacationed somewhere) have in the fridge, in the cupboards? Our teenage bodies were ravenous. But that would all come the next morning after the last record was finished and just a very audible hiss came from the speakers (the volume having been turned way up).

I recall those last pulls on a warm bottle or can as I lay there touched by the music (it seemed that and beer was all I needed) and wondering how people could write really good songs like that, songs that meant something and stayed in your head for days. Not like so much else in life that didn’t seem to matter at all. Sometimes it seemed that nothing in life mattered more than bringing a party off, the anticipation of one being almost as delightful as the “event” itself, something talked about days before. And these “parties” sometimes lasted whole weekends, or for most of a week if it was summertime and we had an empty house available. In the hot summer, we welcomed the cooler nights, coming alive with cold beer and joints, and the music, of course, and our talk (for we could talk easily then) of our concerns, plans and ideas that had recently occurred to us, and none of us really sure of ourselves, testing ourselves, in fact, on ears sympathetic if only because of our mutual intoxication. These relaxed and noisy nights were the only times I can ever recall there being some genuine communication between my peers and myself, the only times I saw sides of people I never saw otherwise (and vice versa, I’m sure). That’s why these festive occasions last the test of time as memories, and it only takes the mention of someone’s name or a certain song played on the radio to bring those nights back, when we had time to be drunk and goofy and laugh at our stoned thoughts, before the end of that particular time, which we knew and had been told (countless times) was coming, when the fun supposedly stopped and we were old enough for the “real world” to begin.

M. Blake