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By Larry D. Thacker
My ears and head were filled
with my father’s LPs spinning in
from the living room stereo
as I readied for school and ate breakfast,
my essential musical education fed: Hendrix,
The Beatles, BB King, Elvis, George Benson.
Eating Captain Crunch to the alien screams
Voodoo Child across our home was a natural
state of things. I robotically knew every word
of every Beatles song I heard to the surprise
of adults. Practiced imitating Elvis’s lower
range and vibrato. Air-guitared King’s fretting.
Hummed tunes from Breezin’ through my
first classes, probably wondering in my
young way why I couldn’t shake these songs
out of my head through homeroom, or
out of my head for the rest of my days:
knowing now these forty years later,
an exactness of why, a the history of it,
as easy to track as by the steady tock
of a metronome, the intro, those first
moments of a boy’s start of a day
with a father, just learning to listen.