Communication Breakdown

A few weeks ago, I did the modern-day equivalent of throwing away my 13-year-old's entire record collection. I washed her jeans, not realizing that her iPod was still in the pocket.

The destruction was amazingly efficient. Her collection was gone in one fell swoop. Replacing it all proved to be surprisingly effortless as well. Although we had to replace the iPod, she had most of her music on back-up. We averted what would have been a disaster in the '70s.

Back then, in the era of monster stereos, you had to make a serious space commitment if you wanted to listen to your own music. Stereos came in several parts: turntables, equalizers, and waist-high speakers. Albums were lined up in crates.

In middle school, with very little homework or planned activities, my friends and I had lots of music and too much time on our hands. We played our records forwards, backwards, turned up, and slowed down, often looking for "clues."

Did they say the "f" word on "Flashlight"? Had the woman who screams on "Love Rollercoaster" really been murdered in the studio?

There seemed to be something ominous about '70s music, and one of my friends had an older brother who seemed unusually in the know about it all. He was in high school and hung out with the kids in the smokers' corner. He usually kept his door locked. He had an amazing stereo, including an equalizer that, with all of its switches, apparently required the fine motor skills of a surgeon to balance.

His record collection ran down the length of one wall. When he wasn't there, his sister and I would sometimes sneak into his room and rifle through his albums. As we sat on the floor of his room, we would fold out his Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd double albums and contemplate their weird covers and lyrics. We unzipped the zipper on his Stones' "Sticky Fingers."

Today, the world of music seems less about mystery and more about marketing niches. The only thing that creeps out my 13-year-old is Pandora's amazing stealth at targeting her listening habits.