Something went haywire with the cassette deck on one of my recent treks up I-75 from Flint to Suttons Bay. Since it's more than a 3-hour haul from the plywood drek of my former roost to the birchwood bucolia of my present one, a well-functioning music system is a must. For starters, it shortens the drive by half. But most importantly, the music deflects away from my brain all the free-spiraling shit in life that begins to plague me once the hoods turn to woods and the miles muddle on. Bad health, bad wealth, bad breaks, bad brakes...rumination as ruination as the odometer rolls but don't rock.

I pulled my Blazer over at a rest area near West Branch and started beating on the dashboard. Men often resort to this manuever when blinded by science. I flung the door open, sprawled out on the floor mat and tugged at every wire that wormed toward the dash. This accomplished very little...other than to prompt some do-gooder commuter sort to crank down her window and wave a cell phone at me.

"I'm prepared to call the police," she harped.

"No thanks," I hollered back. "I think I need someone from Radio Shack."

I shoved out of the rest area and into a music-free void. It was all quite frustrating. Propped right beside me was this large duffel bag full of self-concocted compilation tapes I'd fashioned over the years. A different tape for every conceivable mood swing, extending all the way from ornery as shit (DEATH METAL FOLLIES) to giddy as poop (BUBBLEGUM SONATAS). They were of zero use to me now. I knew the drive would soon become just another safari of dread as I skimmed through the frigid Michigan night with my ultra-critical bean serving as self-menacing gondolier.

Somewhere around Grayling, a revelation occurred. I was fumbling across the dash for the cigarette lighter when I yanked on this knob that wouldn't release. I twisted it to the right and a volley of loud static erupted. Huh? O Christ, that's right...these modern vehicles have RADIOS in 'em! In fact, I believe The Ramones wrote no less than three songs about this invention, and The Beach Boys probably penned an additional forty. Heck, even Elvis Costello chipped in with one back in those days when he resembled an angry young whipsnort as opposed to a chubby old Mennonite.

Yeah, yeah -- it's all coming back to me: way back there before Ray Martin's Dad got an 8-track installed in the family Bonneville, we actually listened to rocknroll bands on these gizmos. I remember they had some pretty good bands back in them days. What was the name of that one group? Uh, had too much to drink...no, no...too much too dream, that's it...I Had Too Much To Dream...The Electric Prunes!!! No bosh, those fellas really knew how to strum their instruments in rhythmic fashion and strike their percussion cylinders with well-timed vigor!

Around the dial I roamed listening for a decent tune. The AM wasn't coming in at all so I switched over to FM. Not much there, either...some chamber music, a man talking about how to build a canoe, a couple preachers. Obviously the pickins can get pretty slim when you're this far north of Saginaw and about to jump rope with the 45th parallel. I locked in the auto-search while wondering whatever became of The Electric Prunes. I imagined those guys were retired by now. Probably consuming prunes rather than being them. Those trusty Voxx wah-wah pedals stowed up in the attic next to the bowling trophies...their frizzy hippy brides darning pot holders as the....

CHUGGA-CHUGGA WHOOF BRRRANGGG!!! Holy hell, the auto-search suddenly pinged onto some way raucous now sounds. I leaned over and turned the volume down so I might identify the specific artist. Hmmm...Chugga-chugga whoof brrranggg. Alas, there was no hint of recognition. Another tune began. Once again, the same scrunchy bronto-riff, this time plowing beneath some husky faux-brogue cromag edict allowing something about, "a longing to escape" and a need to "take me higher." Well, that hardly whittled down the pack -- kids had been stumpin' that mopey slate ever since Ozzie Nelson got all dandered up and windmilled a toaster chord upside little Ricky's rump.

"The new one by Creed," the deejay announced when it was over. Ah, yes...Creed. This did present me with a couple followup queries: exactly when had Creed released a new record, and, come to think of it, who the fuck were CREED?

Time was when I knew every artist on the dial. You could play the first three notes to any number released between the JFK assasination and The Great Martin Bonneville 8-track installation and I'd come back at you spoutin' the artist, the song title and chart position quicker than Casey Kasem test-driving unstomped crank. Every Friday I'd hop a bus downtown to pick up a new WTAC Top Forty Radio Guide and I'd have that sucker memorized before I got halfway back to Dupont Street. Later that night, I'd have my little brother grill me...

Bob: "Number thirty-sev --"

Hamper: "StonePoneysDifferentDrumCapitolRecords."

Even into the 80's I retained a little of the old quickdraw. I worked in the factory next to this guy who used to blare forth the offerings of the local FM crotch-rock mothership. Yeah...all eight bands. Almost any night, I could be found espousing how Doug might oughtta turn down that godawful "JourneyDon'tStopBelievinColumbiaRecords" blarg before an F-49 stabilizer bracket came careenin' through the middle of his tuner.

But it's all over with now. I'm an old grunt. Perhaps not as old as an Electric Prune, but way too elderfied to detect a Creed in the crowd or, as it turned out, any of the other chartbusters that poured from the radio on that sad and sobering drive.

By the time I got back to Suttons Bay, I'd made a promise to myself: not only would I make an honest effort to acquaint myself with whatever group of artists happened to be inhabiting the top-sellers spot on that week's guide, I'd make an additional effort to have somebody else foot the bill for such a dizzy expenditure. After all, us old folk ain't no frivolous budget-benders.

I phoned Mike Moore. "Could you have someone at the office send me the Top Five compact discs on the Billboard Rocknroll Chart?" I asked. There existed a moment of strained silence before I heard a long exhale.

"You will be writing about this, right?" Moore hedged. "I mean this won't be like the time you had us send off that backlog of Gent magazines and the cask of Drambuie?"

"Hell no," I assured. "This one's strictly legit. You'll have my findings shortly."

It's now three days later, and I'm parked here in front of this five-tiered stack of CDs representing the favored listening pleasures of today's non-persnickety youth. I refer to these kids thusly because they apparently have a very liberal definition of what rocknroll is...or perhaps I should say, looks like. In my day it meant sullen caucasion hombres sporting identical girly-like manes. Today it means a kaleidoscopic scan through the the hearty halls of the United Nations follicle wing. I peer at woolies & baldos & dreadlocks & pigtails & corn rows & mohawks & flattops & nearly enough dazzling goatee thatch to insulate every ice shanty out on West Traverse Bay.