As a teenager, one of my most prized possessions was my stereo. The multi-unit system sat atop the dresser in my bedroom for years before following me to college and on to my first apartments. Nowadays, we only need a smartphone and a Spotify subscription to enjoy our favorite artists. Still, decades ago, serious music listeners required a bevy of single-function components and several mail crates full of albums to accomplish the same feat.
Growing up, I had a cheap, portable record player that I listened to 45s on. If I wanted to play albums, I had to utilize the family Victrola, which doubled as living room furniture and was regularly covered with photographs. However, as I started coming of age and appreciating music on a deeper level, I decided I needed something more “serious.”
My older brother was an audiophile, so he likely contributed to my decision to upgrade. Plus, I was jealous of how much better music sounded on his equipment.
I built my first stereo system piece by piece over many years. I started with a Pioneer receiver and two tall Kenwood speakers (back in the 1970s and early 1980s, the bigger the speakers, the better—until you had to move them, of course). I also had a Technics turntable to play my burgeoning album collection.
After this initial grouping, I soon added a Marantz dual-cassette player. And then, just to take things up a notch, I incorporated an Altec 15-band graphic equalizer (let’s be honest, the lights on an equalizer made everything look way cooler). The final piece to my stereophonic assemblage was a Philips CD player, but that wasn’t until the latter stages of the accumulation.
Listening to music was my escape; collecting music was my first passion. I pined for the release of my favorite artists’ new albums so I could run home and fire up the turntable while reviewing the liner notes (most people my age look back on liner notes with nostalgia since that aspect of music appreciation has basically disappeared).
Most of my early listening selections came from my brother’s album collection. I would hear him playing songs in his bedroom and take a liking to them. Then, when he wasn’t around, I’d sneak into his room and grab one. This was a dangerous undertaking since my brother was very protective of his records. Getting caught was a reliable way to get a good pounding.
Of course, he also taught me how to hold an album properly (always by the edges) and how to clean an album (by sliding the cleaning tool from the middle of the album outwards). He was even particular about how to slide an album back into its sleeve so you wouldn’t tear the bottom edge (middle finger in the center hole with thumb wrapped around the outer edge while dropping the sleeve downwards onto the album).
I still remember my first album purchases: Tom Petty’s “Damn the Torpedoes” and Queen’s “The Game.” My brother had moved out at this point, so I lost access to his music, and the Tom Petty album was the one I missed most. Queen had also just released “Another One Bites the Dust,” which was tearing up the charts and keen to my ear.
By the time I got to college, I had a legitimate album collection that encompassed several milk crates (the go-to containment system of the day).
My listening tastes spanned a large spectrum. I’d listen to anything from disco to new wave to classical to punk to metal. To me, if it was a good song, I didn’t care what genre it was from (and I’m still that way today). However, when I got to college, I met several die-hard proponents of one band or one style of music, from which they never deviated. The Deadheads I knew were of this ilk.
To this point, there was one scrappy blond-headed kid in my dorm who was a Bob Dylan fan to the core. His room was covered in Dylan posters, he had every Dylan album, and he knew every Dylan lyric (which he was happy to recite whenever prompted). He was admittedly a bit odd, but it’s because of this kid and his passion for Bob Dylan that I soon developed my own appreciation for one of history’s greatest troubadours.
This week’s film, “A Complete Unknown,” starring Timothée Chalamet and Elle Fanning, is a big-budget biopic about a young Bob Dylan and his quest to navigate the sudden rise to fame that nearly derails his life.
The film centers around the 1965 Newport Folk Festival when Dylan stunned the world by electrifying his set, something true folk aficionados found heretical. Sliced in between were the various relationships that formed the opinions and attitudes of the musician.
I’m a big fan of Dylan, but I found this film to be a winner on multiple levels. The acting was great, the story was intriguing, and most importantly, the music and musicianship were masterfully executed. Give this film a try if you love Bob. And if you don’t, go anyway. The historically relevant storyline is worth revisiting.
I give a harmonious “A-” for “A Complete Unknown,” now playing everywhere in theaters.
Got a question or comment for Dom? You can email him at moviediary@att.net.
