No. 992 – Kyrie

In undertaking an autobiography, there’s a fine line between what’s essential to the story and what’s TMI. Some more than willingly cross the line in the name of sales. I have no such interest, so I’m less eager to avoid the details—unless I can make it funny or make me look like the boob that I am. In other words, I’m going to tell you the truth but not necessarily the whole truth.

What’s essential to the story is that when this song came out, Beth and I had become intimate. And whenever we could sneak away, we invariably would have the adult contemporary station dialed in on the radio. Beth didn’t care for the harder rock—The Who, Jimi Hendrix and (God forbid) Led Zeppelin—that I loved. But we agreed on Genesis and MTV-friendly pop, and Sunny 95 played the more mellow stuff, so that’s what was on most of the time. (And it was the first time I recall the splintering of pop/rock radio that now has gone overboard.)

I’m a firm believer that the reason Classic Rock dominates music radio these days is because it was the rock that was current when the baby boom generation, which rules marketing, began to have sex (granting, of course, that a lot of it is truly great). As we age, most people tend to particularly gravitate to the music that they listened to when they began to get laid. For me, it was what I call ‘80s synth pop crap. And when I say synth pop crap, I mean it in the best possible of terms. Give me Flock of Seagulls, A-Ha and Culture Club, and I’ll be asking for seconds. Adam Ant? Thank you, sir; may I have another?

Mr. Mister definitely fits that bill—recalling a time when my teenage angst gave way to a sense that maybe, just perhaps, all was right with the world after all—and I make no apologies for it.