The Children of 1977

They were the Young Americans.

On the Fourth of July 2009, twenty-three members of Goshen Central High School's class of 1977 got together for a thirty-second reunion. The adults reminisced, their kids went fishing and a splendid time was had by all. No marijuana was smoked. Incredible.

I'm always very grateful to be included in their celebrations because - technically at least - I am not part of the class of '77. I dropped out of school at the beginning of my Junior year, a wasted victim of America's drug culture. I eventually quit the stuff forever the summer after my former classmates graduated - on my nineteenth birthday in fact - which, coincidentally, was also the day that Elvis Presley died. I always like to tell people that Elvis and I quit drugs on the same day, the only difference being that I did so voluntarily. In all seriousness, had I not stopped when I did, I would have died decades ago.

Our high school was not extraordinary by any stretch of the imagination. At the time, my dad was president of the school board. The faculty, to their credit, never gave me preferential treatment because of this. Truth be told, that would have been impossible; I was a troubled kid and a bad student. Our principal and vice-principal were named, respectively, Robert Leslie and Andre Assalian. I have no photographs of them to show you, but just picture in your mind Ronald Reagan and Saddam Hussein and you'll get a pretty accurate mental image.

We had a football team that, as I recall, was one of the best in the county. My memory is shaky on this subject because I only attended one game while I was there. Then, as now, I am indifferent to all sports. The reason for that team's success, I am sure, was because of the presence of my beloved pal, Paul Scesa, and the late Tom Losey. I had been tackled at least one time by both of these guys and, quite frankly, would have preferred to have been hit at full speed by a medium-sized pickup truck.

Compared to the swinging sixties, our decade was relatively low key. By the time we entered Goshen Central in the late summer of 1973, the Vietnam war was pretty much winding down. Nixon had ended the draft the year before in a bid to get the votes of kids between the ages of eighteen and twenty-years-old - a demographic that was voting for the first time in 1972. As a result, none of us guys had to deal with the nightmare our older brothers had faced; getting an induction notice in the mail on our eighteenth birthdays. Our greatest anxiety was getting busted for possession of grass. There was a lot of marijuana around in those days. On the bright side of things, due to the availability of pot, alcoholism among the class of 1977 was rare. Generally speaking, we were a fairly healthy lot, I think.

But it was also the era of a political scandal which overshadowed anything the sixties had to offer. It was an incident which turned me, at the tender age of fifteen, into a stone-cold political junkie - Watergate. We had grown up believing that the men (and they were mostly white men) who represented us in Washington were a fundamentally honest - if slightly goofy - lot. It was the sins of Richard Milhaus Nixon and company - sins which would only be dwarfed by the atrocities committed by the Bush Mob a generation later - which turned most Americans into political skeptics.

The summer before our Sophomore year, political reality would force the President of the United States to resign his office in complete disgrace. Only a pardon by Gerald R. Ford in September would save him from federal prison. It was an incredible time to be alive - not unlike today.

A year before we entered high school, an African American congresswoman from Brooklyn named Shirley Chisholm sought the Democratic nomination for president. In 1972 her candidacy was considered an amusing joke even among most Democrats. Last year, the main contenders for the nomination of that same party were an African American and a woman. Only the extreme Right Wing laughed in 2008. Barack Obama is today the president. "Those who laugh last...."

"There's a Star Man waiting in the sky
He'd Like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds"

David Bowie
from the 1973 album
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars

Perhaps the Star Man hidden in the clouds in 1973 eventually realized that he could reveal himself to us without blowing our collective mind. So much has changed in this country - for good and ill - it really is quite breathtaking when you think about it. We have gone to a completely different place and there really is no turning back. Those are causes for both joy and sorrow I suppose. Was it mere youthful naivete that made me feel that the world in the sweet summer of 1975 was essentially a nicer, more hospitable place in which to live than it is in the dismal summer of 2009? Perhaps.

The freshest memory of that era is, of course, the music. No invention in the history of the world has amazed me half as much as Mr. Edison's talking machine. The ability to reproduce (at the mere click of a button) the sound of a recording session recorded decades before I was born or the sound of a human voice - a century dead - is something I have never taken for granted. Lou Reed will be sixty-eight-years-old on March 2, 2010. But his voice from the evening he walked out on the stage of Howard Stein's Academy of Music in the Spring of 1974 and let loose with a stunning version of Sweet Jane (the Rock 'n' Roll Animal LP) will be forever as youthful and tormented as it was on that long ago night. We may age but our music remains younger than we were all those years ago.

The night of November 2, 1974 stands out: My father drove Kevin Swanwick, Jeanne Farley, Beverly Cathey, Paul Scesa, Dan O'Brien and I down to Radio City Music Hall in Manhattan to see the opening of David Bowie's Young Americans Tour. It was just Bowie and his back-up band - no special effects, no props - none of that garbage. You see, the music was so good back then, you didn't need all of that stuff. I am not trying to imply that there are no great bands today - there are. But they are no longer main-stream. They're called "Alternative".

Just think of the great albums of that era:

Blood on the Tracks by Bob Dylan
Berlin by Lou Reed
Songs in the Key of Life by Stevie Wonder
The Who by Numbers by The Who
Walls and Bridges by John Lennon
Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd
Physical Graffiti by Led Zeppelin
Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road by Elton John
RINGO by Ringo Starr
It's Only Rock 'n' Roll by The Rolling Stones
461 Ocean Boulevard by Eric Clapton
Close to the Edge by Yes
Living in the Material World by George Harrison
Band on the Run by Paul McCartney

I could go on for hours naming them all. Can anyone name for me "an album" or unit of songs on a single CD in the last five years that really stands out like Blood on the Tracks? Give me an hour or so and I might think of one. By the way, am I alone or do you miss the 45 RPM half as much as I do? Dammit, I loved those little discs! I do not miss the 8-Track tape, though. Those things were absolutely worthless. Excuse me, I'm wandering off topic....

To commemorate our reunion, I transferred to compact disc seventeen songs from my original vinyl collection (with original surface noise!) and gave a copy to all who attended - and more than a few who were unable to. All of the songs encompassed the years 1973 to 1977. As I was listening again to the long-dead, haunting voice of John Lennon singing #9 Dream thirty-five years ago, I was suddenly struck dumb by this fact: That recording is as removed in time from 2009 as Glenn Miller's 1939 recording of Moonlight Serenade was removed from 1974 - thirty-five years. Indeed, it must be conceded that, culturally speaking, 2009 is as different from 1974 as 1974 was from 1939. A damned ocean of water has flowed under that bridge, Buster!

It was great seeing them all in one place again. They were a great group of people to grow into adulthood with. One of the topics of conversation I heard discussed was the fact that our parents might not have been quite as dumb as we had thought them to be when we were still teenagers. Never having had any kids of my own, I haven't quite arrived at that place yet but their point is well made. Only four of us, as far as we know, have passed on. Not bad for a class of several hundred kids who are turning fifty this year! I think the biggest surprise of the day was myself. I could see it in their eyes when I greeted them: Tom Degan can still stand upright! Will wonders ever cease? 

Being with the children of 1977 again was somewhat of a bittersweet experience. Driving away from the event left me with just a small touch of melancholy. One can't help but be reminded of the tragedies that have transpired since then. My childhood hero, John Lennon, would eventually fall victim to an act of cold-blooded murder three-and-a-half years after the class of '77 went their separate ways. The "bright future" that we all envisioned for ourselves in some cases gave way to tragedy and wasted lives; the "Land of Plenty" that America seemed to be three-and-a-half decades ago has fallen victim to corporate greed and plutocratic excess.

But the treasured memories of a time so different than this one cannot be altered. That is what makes each of us human. One wisp of recognition - the lyric of a long-forgotten song or the smile in a faded photograph - and it all comes rushing back again. It did for us on July 4, 2009.

A final message must go out to Mrs. Warren, who became a grandmother only a few months ago: You're still the prettiest gal in town, Jeanne - and the nicest. My old co-conspirator, Jeff, is the luckiest guy in the world.

"There's a Star Man Waiting in the sky
He told us not to blow it 'cause he knows it's all worthwhile
He told me:
Let the children use it
Let the children lose it
Let all the children boogie...."

 Rock on, children.

Tom Degan
Goshen, NY
tomdegan@frontiernet.net

AFTERTHOUGHT:

The photograph at the top of the page of the reunion on the Fourth of July was provided by Mark Thompson.

The photo to the left of the column is of the author of "The Rant", aged sixteen, taken in the Spring of 1975. Some people have "bad hair days", I've had a bad hair life.

And finally, the photograph at the very bottom of this piece is of me and the lovely Jeanne Farley, taken by my old pal Paul Scesa in the shed behind his house on Judd place, summer 1974. I imagine the joint still reeks of marijuana. Jeanne - to her eternal credit - never touched the stuff. No wonder I admire her so much!

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"THE RANT" by TOM DEGAN

Pray for peace