Camp Lo / "Luchini a.k.a. This Is It" by Mike Cardman Profile Records The first time I ever witnessed the spot get blown up was back in the summer of '84. Sunning my lithe 9-year-old body along the concrete riviera of the municipal pool, my ruminations on Dungeons & Dragons were cut short by a searing guitar lick issuing from the lifeguard's tinny boombox. "Dig if you will the picture" was a request I was powerless to deny; I edged in as close as possible to the lifeguard stand, the sound drawing me to it like the call of the Lik-M-Aid during Adult Swim. I knew then, in the twinkly, wide-eyed, Wonder Years, uncorrupted-by-sugarless-cereal way that only children can know, that I would be hearing this brand new bag much more, and that it would forever mean 1984 to me. Since then the sands of time have taken their toll, making my face all leathery, wizening my gaze, and inuring my spot to getting blown up. I mean, half of blowing up the spot is the excitement of a shared experience. And for some reason, radio is absolutely essential for this, but I don't even have a radio anymore -- 'cause, like, fuck the radio, it fucking sucks! Something precious died along with Top 40, and the only thing that vainly (in both senses of the word) tries to fill the void is MTV's Buzz Bin, a miserable debasement that inanely imagines it can actually manufacture the connection between artist and audience. So, for the last five years, instead of having my spot get blown up, I've had a long string of Alanis Morrissette's "Ironic"s, a wonderful song that shall forever mean 1996 to me and most of the people I know, yet shall forever fall short of being a part of our cultural heritage. But life has a funny way of helping you out, and we were all (yes, you too; that's why I'm writing this) redeemed by the grace of "Luchini a.k.a. This Is It," broadcast from WNRN's "Boombox" while I was riding shotgun in a friend's car a couple weeks ago. Suddenly it was July in February. This Camp Lo fellow stole a little bit of that soft, flickering air underneath the pine trees surrounding Sholem Pool and wove it into a mellifluous Hit. The music touched me there, there where I hadn't been touched in so long, and, as two hands instinctively reached for the volume knob like in The Lady and the Tramp, I knew that the "Entertainment Tonight"-ization of American popular music had been, if only for a moment, subverted. I thought to myself, "Go ahead, programmers and demographers, bury the pop, shove it underground if you must. I know it will only come back some day, as strong as a giant mutant mole and as angry as one of them angry worms, just itching to crush you and your Maverick label." And then I put the seat back and digged the picture.

back to Decweb main