Remember being in a car with a guy on a sunny day windows down long hair lifting and spinning like arms of an amusement park octopus ride? A big car in the late 1970s that rode like a boat or a plane, the front seat a couch on wheels where nobody used seat belts (which added to the sense of freedom). You felt enveloped by experiencing this guy’s masculine confidence with his cigarettes, sunglasses and driving skills. You were a sexual accessory, you were ‘the girl’.
What was most important though was the music pouring through big speakers in the doors, those black caves like ear canals of the car. Back then it was Zeppelin, Boston, Bowie and loud — the soundtrack of our lives. Floating along with a near-man and his tunes, watching him choose the perfect songs with aplomb, studying his profile as he drove, letting the world sweep by. It was dangerous and pure, as sublime as being doused with Andre Cold Duck sparkling wine in the woods near Lawton School while wearing that blue crushed velvet Goodwill dress.