I walked into Jupiter Records looking for Black Sabbath’s debut record for my vinyl-enthusiast niece’s birthday gift. Mary had vetoed the choice in the previous year. I get to call all the shots now, I thought.
It wasn’t meant to be. No Sabbath was to be found. But someone had unloaded a small collection of T.Rex albums into the New Arrivals bin.
Instead of defying my late wife I was taken back 11 years (almost to the day) to when we walked into the Virgin Megastore at Piccadilly Circus, London. We were in the unabashed, full-fledged touron mode of our honeymoon and had never been in a record shop with escalators. I was trying to be cool and found a Blind Lemon Jefferson album I thought was rare. I tracked down Mary to show off my find and she was holding a T.Rex double CD: Children of the Revolution. “Don’t we have a T.Rex album?” I said, “One’s probably enough.” My veto was vetoed. It was weeks before we were home and I actually gave it a listen. I wasn’t sold at first, but found myself moving every time one of the tunes played.
Now it brings me all of the joy of dancing with Mary. Sexy, high-energy, hippy-wiggle rock with just a hint of headbanging. And fun, damn good fun. She never had a thunderbolt suit; she didn’t need one, she was a thunderbolt.
God bless,
Jason