Had we fallen in love, in this other place, in this other time, it would have been my time. When Doo-Wop was in labor, when a girl could love a guy who had a Nash but would have loved him even more if he had a Chevy, when Lucky Strikes fit a t-shirt sleeve perfectly, when a ducktail was cooler if you were in chinos, when streetlamps shone down on a few brave greasy-haired guys who practiced all day to sound good for one hour at night … It wasn’t the words, or even the melody—it was the harmony that made us sit silently on our fire escapes and listen as the notes drifted up through the humid night and echoed something familiar and permanent for us. You learned to yearn, ‘cause Doo-Wop was about stories and dreams, about hearts and broken ones, black music and white music. It was about a time, just after the unthinkable and just before thinking became mandatory. So laugh if you will, if you must. The words, after all, weren’t sung to be heard today. They were for a simpler population, when you got credit for earnest blushes … when being cool was the day you had your “cool” clothes on; the other days were for laundry, and everyone understood.
( BTW, I have gone back and added things throughout the blog and will continue to do so )
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