Chased in the Dark

1973 was a year of new experiences, major ones. We moved from the south side of Chicago to a house in the Wisconsin woods. I went from sleeping in a narrow room with one tiny window to a third-floor spread with red carpet and a sliding glass door that overlooked a front yard that had four trees and, beyond that, the Rock River. Every 11-year-old’s room is a haven, but this was other-wordly. And, at night, nice and scary. Say what you will about the dangers of the city streets -- absolute silence in the pitch-black middle of nowhere takes a bit of getting used to as well. Which brings me to the first song that genuinely scared me, Elton John’s “Have Mercy on the Criminal.”

Christmas of 1973 landed me a Panasonic tape recorder. It came in a glossy shoe-sized box that had psychedelic rainbow graphics splashed on it, like a Peter Max painting. The tape recorder was packed tight in a Styrofoam shell that slid out of the box and, when opened, emitted this strong, exciting scent of brand-newness. This was the device, of course, that launched a discovery of music that would go on for years, throughout high school, in that room. And the first cassette on that road was my sixth-grade purchase of “Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only The Piano Player.” It had two established hits already, “Crocodile Rock” and “Daniel,” thus making it a pretty cost-effective choice at Musicland in the Janesville Mall.

Among the several exotic features on the Panasonic (including a dust cover, built-in microphone and AC/DC power), the most interesting was the automatic shut-off. This meant hitting “play” and forgetting about it, listening into sleep. All the songs were fine, of course, but I actually hoped I’d fall asleep before “Have Mercy on The Criminal,” which in its heavy reverb and crazed moments of Elton John shrieking “just TAKE/ these CHAINS / from aROUND my legs" called up images of some fugitive flailing in terror somewhere in the woods just under my room.