Love or Confusion?

My man

The collection of vinyl I own is wildly varied, reflecting mostly my tastes from adolescence through the late 1980s, when I gave in to CDs. I collected vinyl religiously through the cassette days (never owned an 8-track because of the way it used to break up “Badge” in my boyfriend’s car) and most of my early vinyl is gone, disseminated to younger brothers and friends as I outgrew it. Or so I thought.

Perspective is a funny thing when it involves memory. 40 years ago this summer, I sat and sorted the three dozen or so albums I owned into a “baby” pile and a “grown up” pile, in honor of my newfound awareness of life. I also wrote my name on my records with the new purple Flair felt-tip pen I’d bought and was so proud of. A pen.

The “baby" pile included recordings by Herman’s Hermits, the Standells, Paul Revere & the Raiders, the Monkees, and the Beatles. The “grown up” pile included the Rolling Stones, the Velvet Underground, the 13th Floor Elevators, the Mothers of Invention, and the Beatles. The Stones, I believed, were always grown up. The Beatles, I felt, had a “baby” period as well as a “grown up” period and Rubber Soul was the dividing line. If only life were that easy now.

The oldest surviving album from my original collection is the Jimi Hendrix Experience’s Are You Experienced. Just looking at Hendrix ensconced in the virginal safety of my white suburban bedroom with its rose-red carpet and glitter-flaked ceiling sent my young mind to dangerous places that summer. “Foxy lady, comin’ to getcha!” The words licked my ear like flames. “Let me stand next your fi-yah!” "And the wind whispers 'Mary.'" “Is this love or confusion?” That line said it best.

Hendrix’s face stared back, youthfully sullen. Never seen hair like that before. Why does he, um, stare? Are those feathers he’s wearing? And the music … guitar to lead you astray from the path of righteousness in the name of the Stratocaster, the Telecaster, and the Les Paul. Jimi Hendrix represented sex to a young girl who didn’t really know what sex was. The stuff that went on in back seats with sweaty teenage boys didn’t really seem connected to the deeper allure of Hendrix. He was a symbol of the dark unknown that lay ahead for me.

Sitting cross-legged in my bedroom, I took my purple Flair for its maiden scrawl and flipped over Are You Experienced. I scribbled, "Margo," the nickname I forced everyone to use. And, without thinking, I also wrote: “Jimi is my man.”

40 years later, it’s my souvenir of surviving youth.