So, as you can imagine, I was thrilled to see a very special image on Flickr today: a father and son in two pictures taken thirty years apart – one at the first Space Shuttle launch, one at the last. You should definitely see it for yourself.

As I have said before, 1969 seems to me to have had the most interesting summer of the twentieth century. But in 1985, 1969 probably seemed like it took place in another world. I cannot say the same for 1995. Though the same number of grains of sand have passed through the hourglass in the intervening years, 1995 feels like yesterday. Perhaps that’s why nobody is writing hit songs about it.

I conceived of this series when I heard this song in that store.  Nothing captures the essence of summer nostalgia better than the lyric, “And every time I hear it play / I think of you and those summer days / I can still remember when I heard it on the radio”:

This song is fluffy disco, but has within it something powerful.  This contrast will soon lead me to a new series about silly songs with profound truths.  Stay tuned.

After a break from school that, for all intents and purposes, began last December, I am just one week from embarking on at least two grueling years of intensive study, and I am sad to see this summer pass away.  I have a great deal to look forward to, but at the same time, the uncertainties are many and the fear is strong.

Furthermore, with the commencement of autumn classes, this long, glorious summer will come to an end, and I will still not understand how it could have passed so quickly.

So, before that dreaded day arrives, I will reflect on these last few months in a series of posts that I hope will answer that age-old question: how I spent my summer vacation.

MTV connected with kids because it was on when kids wanted it.  Every afternoon after school, on weekends, all summer, MTV was there with videos, and almost everyone I know watched it every day.

MTV doesn’t exist anymore.  Sure, I understand that there is a channel called “MTV”, but it isn’t “Music Television”.  There may even be “MTV2″ or “MTV [Whatever]“, but videos don’t seem to matter to anybody anymore – at least not like they used to.  MTV cannot be blamed for that, I suppose, since cable television in those days consisted of maybe thirty channels, and, as the only station of its kind, it had a captive audience it cannot take for granted today.

Still, if you were a kid in the 1980s, and you had MTV, you almost certainly remember the video for The Cars’ “Magic”.  This is the MTV I miss.

But Barber, of course, wrote much more.  Yesterday, for example, I listened to Gil Shaham’s wonderful recording of Barber’s Violin Concerto, which deserves a place in the regular concert repertoire.

Happy Birthday, Samuel Barber.

UPDATE:  When I arrived at work this morning, I noticed that Exploring Music this week is devoted to Samuel Barber.  Tomorrow, in fact, the show will feature Knoxville: Summer of 1915, and the fabulous Summer Music for Woodwind Quintet.  Friday’s show will have the Piano Concerto played by John Browning – a recording I have on CD.

Actually, I never really possessed this record until I was much older.  It was always at my grandparents’ house, where I could listen to it on visits.  And since I visited so often, and since I loved Sesame Street so much, I have heard this album more times than I could ever count.  Of course, I got older, and though I never forgot that this record existed, I only thought of it occasionally.  Then, a couple years ago, my grandmother gave it to me as a Christmas present.

As you can see from the cover, the Sesame Street Book and Record “contains [a] 24 page illustrated book”, and a “full color poster [is] included”.  Most of that stuff is long gone from my copy.  I have three or four pages from the book inside the gatefold jacket, and the vinyl album itself isn’t even in a sleeve.  Naturally, the disc is in fairly bad shape, with plenty of pops, and a couple skips on side two.

But, aside from the magical nostalgic quality, what I can appreciate about this record even as an adult are the songs.  They’re clever, sweet, and performed in a surprisingly unadorned style when compared to what is popular today.  The little kids sound like little kids, and not children mimicking Aretha Franklin.  Susan’s a little bit soulful on “I’ve Got Two” and “Nearly Missed”, and the backing band gets pretty funky in “Up and Down”, but you never forget that it’s a record for children.  “What Are Kids Called”, “Somebody Come and Play”, and “J-Jump” are especially sweet.  “Number 5″, “I Love Trash”, and “Rubber Duckie” are lots of fun, and “Green” is a quality song.  I seem to recall “People in Your Neighborhood” being a favorite.

I don’t know if I would have admitted it at the time, but the Sesame Street Book and Record was my favorite album until I was a teenager.

So, as I sat with my father on a blanket under the open sky last Saturday night, watching Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band play “Racing in the Street”, I felt like things couldn’t get better.

Sure, it looked like the sky might open up any time and unleash a raging storm.   But aside from a few sprinkles here and there, the weather held out.  And, sure, I was a little worried about how bad our view would be way back on the lawn, but that actually turned out great, too.  And, if $56 per ticket seems expensive, we did get three solid hours–twenty-seven songs–of rock.

Miriam and I met my dad at my Uncle Tom’s apartment in Tampa.  It could not have been more conveniently located.  We ate an early dinner at Longhorn Steakhouse, which was enjoyable and new to me.  We made it to the Florida State Fairgrounds before six o’clock, but they didn’t open the gate for a little while after that.  We weren’t too far back in the line at the gate, but there were still enough people that I was slightly nervous about getting a decent spot on the lawn.  Plus, while were were standing there, the sky, which had spent the earlier part of the day raining, then the afternoon threatening more, began doing just that.  It didn’t last, though, and by the time we reached the grass we were hopeful.  Though there was a mad dash for the closest seats on the lawn, we managed to find a great spot.

As I expected, “Badlands” opened the show, but for the next two songs I was nervous.  Springsteen’s voice was shot.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t sing in tune; he couldn’t sing.  I honestly expected him to call the show off.  But he drank some sort of hot beverage, saying, “I’ll be better in a few songs”. Sure enough, he was.  By the time he got to “Seeds” his voice was strong.  In the request portion of the show, which has become a fixture of the last couple tours, Bruce grabbed just about every sign from the pit.  I saw some fools asking for “Ramrod” and “I’m a Rocker”.  Fools.  I did see someone after my own heart requesting “Drive All Night”, though, of course, we didn’t get it.  What we did get was “Growing Up”, requested by a child in the front row, “All or Nothing at All” which has only been played six times ever, and “Jole Blon” which hasn’t been played since 1981.  So, we did okay, especially considering that a few nights later he played “Ramrod”.

I was hoping to hear some classic songs I had not yet heard live, and I got them, including, in the encore, “Rosalita”.  After “American Land”, I figured the show was over.  But the crowd was so frantic that he busted out “Bobby Jean” and “Dancing in the Dark”, then, finally, “Hungry Heart”.  The place was out of control, and I didn’t think he would try and top it, so we grabbed our blanket and were making our way out when the noise got even louder.  Something was happening on stage that we couldn’t see.  Then we heard Bruce grab the mic and say, “I guess we forgot one”, before the opening strains of “Thunder Road”.  It was incredible.

Still, in a show which included so many highlights (including an enthusiastic version of–of all things–Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times Come Again No More”, which, as you know, is my personal anthem), perhaps the best single performance of the night was an astonishing version of “Johnny 99″.  It turned into a rollicking railroad reel with dueling guitar solos and showboating.  It was thrilling.

Nevertheless, ages and ages hence, when I think back on that night, I’ll most fondly remember hearing “Racing in the Street” while seated on a blanket with my father under the open sky.

When someone did come to protect me from the lion, and took me to the window to see the beast, I found something completely unexpected.  The fearsome roar was, in fact, a hot air balloon flying low above the woods across Fletcher.  I was in awe.  Since that day, I have dreamed of riding in a hot air balloon.

Today’s featured Flickr gallery highlights the recent Biennale Mondiale de l’Aérostation, and the pictures are incredible.

I suppose that I will someday ride in a hot air balloon.  But when I do, I want to do it right.  It needn’t be in some spectacular place like the Grand Canyon or the Loire Valley, but I wouldn’t want to just drive out to Palatka and soar majestically over a bunch of rotting mobile homes and deserted strip malls.

Glynnis Ritchie has some wonderful photographs of a balloon ride over Virgina.  A voyage above rolling hills followed by an excursion to Monticello seems truly delightful.

Nobody born after 1984 can appreciate how big a star he was.  No pop culture figure can ever match the Beatles and Elvis for sheer overwhelming fame.  But if you lived during the early 1980s, Michael Jackson was the star.  When I was little, every kid had Thriller, and listened to it over and over again.  A new Michael Jackson video on MTV generated tremendous interest.  Kids at my school wore leather jackets with tons of zippers and tried to moon walk.  He was ultra-famous.

But, of course, he could never duplicate the success of Thriller.  Even if he continued to sell well through the rest of the 1980s, everyone compared his later work to Thriller or Off the Wall, and the comparisons were never favorable.  Combine that with his increasingly erratic behavior and freakish appearance, and before long Michael Jackson seemed like a sad carnival act.  While he had once been the one everyone wanted to emulate, he wound up being tabloid fodder.  A lot of it he brought on himself.  Some of it may have been unfair.  But, by the mid-1990s you could have queried a hundred Americans and not found anyone who’d claim to be a Michael Jackson fan.  “Thriller was good”, they’d say, “but that guy’s messed up”.

We live in a different age.  Everything is incredibly segmented now.  There isn’t just one MTV anymore to claim the attention of the young.  The 1980s saw the rise of some remarkable superstars, but the conditions that created those stars don’t exist any more.  Set aside the sham marriages, plastic surgery, baby-dangling, accusations of molestation, and all the other bizarre and disturbing behavior and rumors, and think back to the years 1983-1985.  There was nobody bigger than Michael Jackson.  And no athlete, movie star or singer will probably ever be that famous again.