Recently, I found myself at a bar in nowhere southern Wisconsin discussing pop music over southwestern eggrolls and entrée salads with a burly ex-con. 

Bad to the proverbial bone, hey? 

Just kidding. About the bad part, anyway. There absolutely was a bar and a gruff tattooed biker dude, who also happens to be an ex-con (two adjectives existing only as happenstance and not because they are mutually exclusive identifying features or related in any way…) He, incidentally, was not too big a guy to have a salad for supper or to likewise exist in my phone as, “Joshy Maracas,” a silly little autocorrect fail I never had the heart to fix. Something tells me this wasn’t the image George Thorogood had in mind when he wrote the aforementioned phrase, though.

We got raised in the same small town, have a mutual love for heavy equipment and construction operations alike, appreciate chromey bikes with big motors, and demand an accessible world for amazingly cool warrior kids with special needs.  Especially ones named Aiden.  But we’ve also bonded over a helluva lot else, like, 80s pop stars including, but not limited to, important ladies like Paula, Janet, and Whitney.  You may have heard of them.  Again, not exactly reminiscent of an outlaw image one may have guessed from his exterior.

Small talk on the bar wall décor consisting of warped vinyl records and used guitars over the likes of Bohemian Rhapsody led us to subjects of incarceration, analog formats, and the genius of sound being a clutch on normalcy. 

I listened, completely enraptured, about how Night at the Opera on cassette specifically meant something to someone completely stripped of everything, a tangible borrowed reminder of life outside.  It was the opportunity for complete immersion in full orchestral rock’n’roll and the analyzation of big big vocal range, note by note.  All this from a piddly little rectangular piece of plastic bound by thin strips of film stretched over two separate mouths of teeth.  To have such a core memory poured out of his tap and into my glass was nothing short of unbelievable.  Obviously, my interest was one hundred percent in the music but his voice and candor in talking about the album on this format and his experience with me made me feel voyeuristic.  I didn’t deserve these intimate details.  It takes, “What are you listening to?” flying through a whole ‘nother dimension, which is a question I feel passionately about and is a complete turn-on for me when asked that by someone who actually cares to know the answer.

I protect that information as closely as inmates might when talking or not talking about their jail time.  It may be kept close to the chest, widely advertised, hopelessly inflated, or significantly downplayed. Maybe akin to the variety of vinyl community folks over on the Insta.

In a past life, I used to visit the clink by choice (…in reality, because of being volun-told, but I digress.)  I went as part of a workforce development program that was the first of its kind in our state serving individuals close to release in efforts to connect them with employment opportunities.  It doesn’t take an aeronautical engineer to know that, well, you leave with a job and supports already in place, it increases personal accountability and reduces opportunities to re-offend.  Despite my complaints, developing our program’s unique process for working with inmates has been a feather in the cap of my career, I’m proud of it, and grew to love it.  I just hated the fact that when you’re good at your job, especially one in government, you end up being rewarded with more work as opposed to the stuff that really matters, like, you know adequate compensation so you can feed, clothe, and house you and yours.

The point is, I heard some stories from that experience.  The licensed counselor in me has heard more shit than I’ve cared to know over the course of my career, much of the bull variety, yet I always seem to sift through to the good stuff that is impactful and important to a person; the things that put pen to paper and write someone’s narrative.  Despite that many times the main themes typically fit a particular profile of a person there were always those tidbits that made it uniquely their story. And I live for that. This is what I’ve always hung on to as a counselor, a friend, and a fellow member of the human experience trying to navigate life.  I want your details.  That’s what makes you special.

And this was the first time I heard someone, so unknowingly impassioned, delineate how a deep appreciation for Queen on cassette grew from a desolate concrete dorm nurtured by nothing more than incessant study and focused listening like it was some delicate orchid miraculously thriving in dry soil and a dark room.  It simply reinforced to me that music heals, saves, and gives a silver lining to some of the worst possible circumstances. 

Especially if the recollect is merely prompted by the falsetto of Freddie Mercury in a small-town Wisconsin bar over salads with a weirdo redhead. For this situation, I think it goes a level deeper for that reason.  The music is only a catalyst here, right?  Josh was willing to take that one out of the vault and share this experience with none other than…me.  How’d I get so lucky to not only have a Joshy Maracas in my life but to be deemed worthy of a story with such depth and sincerity as a cassette in prison?  I legit have no answer to that, though I know that dudes like Josh are a rare breed.  

To find more people like him, his crew, and really good causes, check out https://rusticroadriders.com/

@siliconeandvinyl