When I was 20, in 1980, I moved in with a guy named Leslie and took my records with me. I didn’t have very many records at the time, and when I say I “moved in” what I mean is I was crashing on Leslie's couch. My records were in a couple of boxes on the floor beside the couch. Leslie lived alone in a big house because his parents owned an import business and were always away in Hungary or Florida or somewhere. So he welcomed the company.
I remember two things about Leslie: one, he was a Jehovah’s Witness. Two, he had a .357 magnum handgun that we used to shoot in his basement. We’d go down there and fill a garbage bag with old magazines, tape targets to it and shoot it. Sometimes bullets would go right through the bag of magazines, hit the concrete wall behind it and ricochet all over the basement. It’s incredible we lived through that.
As modest as my record collection was back then it seemed to be getting even smaller while I was living at Leslie’s. A couple of times I couldn’t find a specific record I was looking for. Black Sabbath’s Master Of Reality was one of them, and it was an original pressing, which today is worth a bit of money. I was certain I hadn’t misplaced it, and one day asked Leslie if he knew anything about it or any of the other records I couldn’t seem to find. Without further prompting he admitted he’d been going through my record collection and getting rid of the records whose presence he believed would invite demons to move in with us. “I burn them in the backyard when you’re not around,” he said, and the look of incredulity on my face seemed to surprise him. “You have to burn them,” he insisted, with a righteous, religious conviction that seemed to suggest this was something I should know. “You can’t just throw them out,” he said. “They have to be consumed by fire. That’s the only thing that will kill a demon.”
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I wasn’t holding the .357.
Jehova’s Witnesses are a strange school of fish to be swimming with. Lesley and his friends were always trying to "save" me, even though I wasn’t interested. The end of the world was all they ever talked about. It was annoying. They believed - really truly believed - the world as we knew it was going to end in 1984 and 144,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses would be sucked up to Heaven by some kind of holy vacuum to serve on Jehovah's board of directions. Leslie would talk about this all the time. "Dead Jehovah’s Witnesses will awaken and rise up from their graves and just keep on going," he said, looking up at the ceiling. He believed in this so fervently he bought a car he couldn’t afford because he was convinced he wouldn’t have to finish making the payments. I'm not kidding. It was a blue GTO with two thick white stripes running front to back on top of it. I wonder if he ended up keeping it.
It was early summer, the tail end of June, when I shacked up with Leslie. Innerview was broadcasting a serial radio documentary about Jim Morrison, lead singer for The Doors. The 10th anniversary of Morrison’s death (July 03, 1971) was approaching, which is why the documentary was being broadcast. Every Friday a new chapter would unfold onto the airwaves and I was spellbound by it. One day I asked Leslie if he thought Jim Morrison would rise up from his grave and get sucked up to Heaven with him and his friends.
He shrugged. “It depends what Jehovah thinks of him,” he said. “Only Jehovah can know someone’s true heart. It’s not for us to say but I guess it is possible.”
“Seriously, man - on a scale of one to 10 how likely is it that Morrison is going to ride the Heaven vacuum?”
Leslie rolled his eyes. “It’s not a vacuum,” he said.
I could tell he didn't like where the conversation seemed to be going, and that's when It dawned on me that this could serve as revenge for him burning my records. So I decided to keep it up.
“Do you think Jehovah likes Light My Fire, and if he does will that give Jim some bonus points, which - honestly, let’s face it - he will probably need?”
“It’s not a points system.”
"Or would Jehovah object to the word 'fire' being in the title of the song?"
No answer.
I kept going. “Who’s more likely to go to Heaven - Hitler or Morrison?”
“It’s not up to me.”
“If Jehovah does decides to raise Jim from the dead, does he have to continue flying up to Heaven or could he hit the pause button and start singing for The Doors again?” I tried to sound as sincere as possible. On and on and on I went, for days. Then weeks. It almost literally drove Leslie nuts.
Years later I ended up owning a rare 5-LP set of that Innervision radio show. That’s how radio stations broadcast shows back in those prehistoric, pre-Internet and pre-CD days. The radio show people would send records of the show to radio stations, who would play the records. What was interesting about a show like this is how the records were pressed. The first LP would have sides one and three on it, instead of one and two. The second would have sides two and four, the third five and seven, and so on. This was so the DJ, as one record was nearing the end, could cue the next record without having to flip the one that was playing, thus making the broadcast appear seamless. Hopefully, none of the records skipped! My set did not. It was in excellent condition. Another cool thing about these radio show transcriptions: the records, in addition to the actual show, also contained all the commercials that were to air during the broadcast. Listening back they are almost just as much fun to hear.
Each set was stamped RESTRICTED USE! NOT FOR RESALE!
Me and what was left of my record collection soon parted ways with Leslie and I found another friend’s couch to crash on. I haven’t seen or spoken to Leslie in the 40-plus years since and have no idea what happened to him. I sometimes wonder if I might have influenced him to ditch the superstitious nonsense and start experiencing the joy of record collecting. But deep down I fear he’s probably still as batshit crazy as he was back then.
I also sometimes wonder where the rest of that old record collection went. None of those records are in my current collection today, which contains about 2,000 records, and I have no re-'collection' of ever intentionally getting rid of or otherwise shedding them. At one point they really were pretty much all I owned, and no matter who’s couch I was crashing on the boxes of records were always right there beside it. I don’t know why I felt I needed them as much as I did. I didn’t have anything to play them on, other than what happened to be wherever I was (and there was always a record player around somewhere). I think perhaps my records defined who I was, just as my current collection more-or-less defines me now. I’ve always maintained you can tell more about someone by rifling through their record collection than you can almost any other way (except, maybe, by getting to know their dog). And I really do think that’s true. Flip through my collection and you’ll know pretty much all there is to know about me. I've changed over the years. So has my record collection. I am not who I was back then, and none of those records are with me now. Songs are things I can relate to and it's a continuing evolution. I'm pretty sure I'm right about this because I once off-handedly mentioned to my wife that I was thinking of selling my record collection. She replied, "You can't do that. That's what defines you. You are your record collection. I won't let you sell it. You wouldn't be you anymore."
Don't cripple your children with ancient superstitions and censorship. Let them discover themselves. Allow them to find out who they are. Music can help them do that. Let them listen to music. All music.
It took me over 40 years to get around to replacing Master Of Reality. t's not an original pressing.
I remember two things about Leslie: one, he was a Jehovah’s Witness. Two, he had a .357 magnum handgun that we used to shoot in his basement. We’d go down there and fill a garbage bag with old magazines, tape targets to it and shoot it. Sometimes bullets would go right through the bag of magazines, hit the concrete wall behind it and ricochet all over the basement. It’s incredible we lived through that.
As modest as my record collection was back then it seemed to be getting even smaller while I was living at Leslie’s. A couple of times I couldn’t find a specific record I was looking for. Black Sabbath’s Master Of Reality was one of them, and it was an original pressing, which today is worth a bit of money. I was certain I hadn’t misplaced it, and one day asked Leslie if he knew anything about it or any of the other records I couldn’t seem to find. Without further prompting he admitted he’d been going through my record collection and getting rid of the records whose presence he believed would invite demons to move in with us. “I burn them in the backyard when you’re not around,” he said, and the look of incredulity on my face seemed to surprise him. “You have to burn them,” he insisted, with a righteous, religious conviction that seemed to suggest this was something I should know. “You can’t just throw them out,” he said. “They have to be consumed by fire. That’s the only thing that will kill a demon.”
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I wasn’t holding the .357.
Jehova’s Witnesses are a strange school of fish to be swimming with. Lesley and his friends were always trying to "save" me, even though I wasn’t interested. The end of the world was all they ever talked about. It was annoying. They believed - really truly believed - the world as we knew it was going to end in 1984 and 144,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses would be sucked up to Heaven by some kind of holy vacuum to serve on Jehovah's board of directions. Leslie would talk about this all the time. "Dead Jehovah’s Witnesses will awaken and rise up from their graves and just keep on going," he said, looking up at the ceiling. He believed in this so fervently he bought a car he couldn’t afford because he was convinced he wouldn’t have to finish making the payments. I'm not kidding. It was a blue GTO with two thick white stripes running front to back on top of it. I wonder if he ended up keeping it.
It was early summer, the tail end of June, when I shacked up with Leslie. Innerview was broadcasting a serial radio documentary about Jim Morrison, lead singer for The Doors. The 10th anniversary of Morrison’s death (July 03, 1971) was approaching, which is why the documentary was being broadcast. Every Friday a new chapter would unfold onto the airwaves and I was spellbound by it. One day I asked Leslie if he thought Jim Morrison would rise up from his grave and get sucked up to Heaven with him and his friends.
He shrugged. “It depends what Jehovah thinks of him,” he said. “Only Jehovah can know someone’s true heart. It’s not for us to say but I guess it is possible.”
“Seriously, man - on a scale of one to 10 how likely is it that Morrison is going to ride the Heaven vacuum?”
Leslie rolled his eyes. “It’s not a vacuum,” he said.
I could tell he didn't like where the conversation seemed to be going, and that's when It dawned on me that this could serve as revenge for him burning my records. So I decided to keep it up.
“Do you think Jehovah likes Light My Fire, and if he does will that give Jim some bonus points, which - honestly, let’s face it - he will probably need?”
“It’s not a points system.”
"Or would Jehovah object to the word 'fire' being in the title of the song?"
No answer.
I kept going. “Who’s more likely to go to Heaven - Hitler or Morrison?”
“It’s not up to me.”
“If Jehovah does decides to raise Jim from the dead, does he have to continue flying up to Heaven or could he hit the pause button and start singing for The Doors again?” I tried to sound as sincere as possible. On and on and on I went, for days. Then weeks. It almost literally drove Leslie nuts.
Years later I ended up owning a rare 5-LP set of that Innervision radio show. That’s how radio stations broadcast shows back in those prehistoric, pre-Internet and pre-CD days. The radio show people would send records of the show to radio stations, who would play the records. What was interesting about a show like this is how the records were pressed. The first LP would have sides one and three on it, instead of one and two. The second would have sides two and four, the third five and seven, and so on. This was so the DJ, as one record was nearing the end, could cue the next record without having to flip the one that was playing, thus making the broadcast appear seamless. Hopefully, none of the records skipped! My set did not. It was in excellent condition. Another cool thing about these radio show transcriptions: the records, in addition to the actual show, also contained all the commercials that were to air during the broadcast. Listening back they are almost just as much fun to hear.
Each set was stamped RESTRICTED USE! NOT FOR RESALE!
Me and what was left of my record collection soon parted ways with Leslie and I found another friend’s couch to crash on. I haven’t seen or spoken to Leslie in the 40-plus years since and have no idea what happened to him. I sometimes wonder if I might have influenced him to ditch the superstitious nonsense and start experiencing the joy of record collecting. But deep down I fear he’s probably still as batshit crazy as he was back then.
I also sometimes wonder where the rest of that old record collection went. None of those records are in my current collection today, which contains about 2,000 records, and I have no re-'collection' of ever intentionally getting rid of or otherwise shedding them. At one point they really were pretty much all I owned, and no matter who’s couch I was crashing on the boxes of records were always right there beside it. I don’t know why I felt I needed them as much as I did. I didn’t have anything to play them on, other than what happened to be wherever I was (and there was always a record player around somewhere). I think perhaps my records defined who I was, just as my current collection more-or-less defines me now. I’ve always maintained you can tell more about someone by rifling through their record collection than you can almost any other way (except, maybe, by getting to know their dog). And I really do think that’s true. Flip through my collection and you’ll know pretty much all there is to know about me. I've changed over the years. So has my record collection. I am not who I was back then, and none of those records are with me now. Songs are things I can relate to and it's a continuing evolution. I'm pretty sure I'm right about this because I once off-handedly mentioned to my wife that I was thinking of selling my record collection. She replied, "You can't do that. That's what defines you. You are your record collection. I won't let you sell it. You wouldn't be you anymore."
Don't cripple your children with ancient superstitions and censorship. Let them discover themselves. Allow them to find out who they are. Music can help them do that. Let them listen to music. All music.
It took me over 40 years to get around to replacing Master Of Reality. t's not an original pressing.
When I was 20, in 1980, I moved in with a guy named Leslie and took my records with me. I didn’t have very many records at the time, and when I say I “moved in” what I mean is I was crashing on Leslie's couch. My records were in a couple of boxes on the floor beside the couch. Leslie lived alone in a big house because his parents owned an import business and were always away in Hungary or Florida or somewhere. So he welcomed the company.
I remember two things about Leslie: one, he was a Jehovah’s Witness. Two, he had a .357 magnum handgun that we used to shoot in his basement. We’d go down there and fill a garbage bag with old magazines, tape targets to it and shoot it. Sometimes bullets would go right through the bag of magazines, hit the concrete wall behind it and ricochet all over the basement. It’s incredible we lived through that.
As modest as my record collection was back then it seemed to be getting even smaller while I was living at Leslie’s. A couple of times I couldn’t find a specific record I was looking for. Black Sabbath’s Master Of Reality was one of them, and it was an original pressing, which today is worth a bit of money. I was certain I hadn’t misplaced it, and one day asked Leslie if he knew anything about it or any of the other records I couldn’t seem to find. Without further prompting he admitted he’d been going through my record collection and getting rid of the records whose presence he believed would invite demons to move in with us. “I burn them in the backyard when you’re not around,” he said, and the look of incredulity on my face seemed to surprise him. “You have to burn them,” he insisted, with a righteous, religious conviction that seemed to suggest this was something I should know. “You can’t just throw them out,” he said. “They have to be consumed by fire. That’s the only thing that will kill a demon.”
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I wasn’t holding the .357.
Jehova’s Witnesses are a strange school of fish to be swimming with. Lesley and his friends were always trying to "save" me, even though I wasn’t interested. The end of the world was all they ever talked about. It was annoying. They believed - really truly believed - the world as we knew it was going to end in 1984 and 144,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses would be sucked up to Heaven by some kind of holy vacuum to serve on Jehovah's board of directions. Leslie would talk about this all the time. "Dead Jehovah’s Witnesses will awaken and rise up from their graves and just keep on going," he said, looking up at the ceiling. He believed in this so fervently he bought a car he couldn’t afford because he was convinced he wouldn’t have to finish making the payments. I'm not kidding. It was a blue GTO with two thick white stripes running front to back on top of it. I wonder if he ended up keeping it.
It was early summer, the tail end of June, when I shacked up with Leslie. Innerview was broadcasting a serial radio documentary about Jim Morrison, lead singer for The Doors. The 10th anniversary of Morrison’s death (July 03, 1971) was approaching, which is why the documentary was being broadcast. Every Friday a new chapter would unfold onto the airwaves and I was spellbound by it. One day I asked Leslie if he thought Jim Morrison would rise up from his grave and get sucked up to Heaven with him and his friends.
He shrugged. “It depends what Jehovah thinks of him,” he said. “Only Jehovah can know someone’s true heart. It’s not for us to say but I guess it is possible.”
“Seriously, man - on a scale of one to 10 how likely is it that Morrison is going to ride the Heaven vacuum?”
Leslie rolled his eyes. “It’s not a vacuum,” he said.
I could tell he didn't like where the conversation seemed to be going, and that's when It dawned on me that this could serve as revenge for him burning my records. So I decided to keep it up.
“Do you think Jehovah likes Light My Fire, and if he does will that give Jim some bonus points, which - honestly, let’s face it - he will probably need?”
“It’s not a points system.”
"Or would Jehovah object to the word 'fire' being in the title of the song?"
No answer.
I kept going. “Who’s more likely to go to Heaven - Hitler or Morrison?”
“It’s not up to me.”
“If Jehovah does decides to raise Jim from the dead, does he have to continue flying up to Heaven or could he hit the pause button and start singing for The Doors again?” I tried to sound as sincere as possible. On and on and on I went, for days. Then weeks. It almost literally drove Leslie nuts.
Years later I ended up owning a rare 5-LP set of that Innervision radio show. That’s how radio stations broadcast shows back in those prehistoric, pre-Internet and pre-CD days. The radio show people would send records of the show to radio stations, who would play the records. What was interesting about a show like this is how the records were pressed. The first LP would have sides one and three on it, instead of one and two. The second would have sides two and four, the third five and seven, and so on. This was so the DJ, as one record was nearing the end, could cue the next record without having to flip the one that was playing, thus making the broadcast appear seamless. Hopefully, none of the records skipped! My set did not. It was in excellent condition. Another cool thing about these radio show transcriptions: the records, in addition to the actual show, also contained all the commercials that were to air during the broadcast. Listening back they are almost just as much fun to hear.
Each set was stamped RESTRICTED USE! NOT FOR RESALE!
Me and what was left of my record collection soon parted ways with Leslie and I found another friend’s couch to crash on. I haven’t seen or spoken to Leslie in the 40-plus years since and have no idea what happened to him. I sometimes wonder if I might have influenced him to ditch the superstitious nonsense and start experiencing the joy of record collecting. But deep down I fear he’s probably still as batshit crazy as he was back then.
I also sometimes wonder where the rest of that old record collection went. None of those records are in my current collection today, which contains about 2,000 records, and I have no re-'collection' of ever intentionally getting rid of or otherwise shedding them. At one point they really were pretty much all I owned, and no matter who’s couch I was crashing on the boxes of records were always right there beside it. I don’t know why I felt I needed them as much as I did. I didn’t have anything to play them on, other than what happened to be wherever I was (and there was always a record player around somewhere). I think perhaps my records defined who I was, just as my current collection more-or-less defines me now. I’ve always maintained you can tell more about someone by rifling through their record collection than you can almost any other way (except, maybe, by getting to know their dog). And I really do think that’s true. Flip through my collection and you’ll know pretty much all there is to know about me. I've changed over the years. So has my record collection. I am not who I was back then, and none of those records are with me now. Songs are things I can relate to and it's a continuing evolution. I'm pretty sure I'm right about this because I once off-handedly mentioned to my wife that I was thinking of selling my record collection. She replied, "You can't do that. That's what defines you. You are your record collection. I won't let you sell it. You wouldn't be you anymore."
Don't cripple your children with ancient superstitions and censorship. Let them discover themselves. Allow them to find out who they are. Music can help them do that. Let them listen to music. All music.
It took me over 40 years to get around to replacing Master Of Reality. t's not an original pressing.
I remember two things about Leslie: one, he was a Jehovah’s Witness. Two, he had a .357 magnum handgun that we used to shoot in his basement. We’d go down there and fill a garbage bag with old magazines, tape targets to it and shoot it. Sometimes bullets would go right through the bag of magazines, hit the concrete wall behind it and ricochet all over the basement. It’s incredible we lived through that.
As modest as my record collection was back then it seemed to be getting even smaller while I was living at Leslie’s. A couple of times I couldn’t find a specific record I was looking for. Black Sabbath’s Master Of Reality was one of them, and it was an original pressing, which today is worth a bit of money. I was certain I hadn’t misplaced it, and one day asked Leslie if he knew anything about it or any of the other records I couldn’t seem to find. Without further prompting he admitted he’d been going through my record collection and getting rid of the records whose presence he believed would invite demons to move in with us. “I burn them in the backyard when you’re not around,” he said, and the look of incredulity on my face seemed to surprise him. “You have to burn them,” he insisted, with a righteous, religious conviction that seemed to suggest this was something I should know. “You can’t just throw them out,” he said. “They have to be consumed by fire. That’s the only thing that will kill a demon.”
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I wasn’t holding the .357.
Jehova’s Witnesses are a strange school of fish to be swimming with. Lesley and his friends were always trying to "save" me, even though I wasn’t interested. The end of the world was all they ever talked about. It was annoying. They believed - really truly believed - the world as we knew it was going to end in 1984 and 144,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses would be sucked up to Heaven by some kind of holy vacuum to serve on Jehovah's board of directions. Leslie would talk about this all the time. "Dead Jehovah’s Witnesses will awaken and rise up from their graves and just keep on going," he said, looking up at the ceiling. He believed in this so fervently he bought a car he couldn’t afford because he was convinced he wouldn’t have to finish making the payments. I'm not kidding. It was a blue GTO with two thick white stripes running front to back on top of it. I wonder if he ended up keeping it.
It was early summer, the tail end of June, when I shacked up with Leslie. Innerview was broadcasting a serial radio documentary about Jim Morrison, lead singer for The Doors. The 10th anniversary of Morrison’s death (July 03, 1971) was approaching, which is why the documentary was being broadcast. Every Friday a new chapter would unfold onto the airwaves and I was spellbound by it. One day I asked Leslie if he thought Jim Morrison would rise up from his grave and get sucked up to Heaven with him and his friends.
He shrugged. “It depends what Jehovah thinks of him,” he said. “Only Jehovah can know someone’s true heart. It’s not for us to say but I guess it is possible.”
“Seriously, man - on a scale of one to 10 how likely is it that Morrison is going to ride the Heaven vacuum?”
Leslie rolled his eyes. “It’s not a vacuum,” he said.
I could tell he didn't like where the conversation seemed to be going, and that's when It dawned on me that this could serve as revenge for him burning my records. So I decided to keep it up.
“Do you think Jehovah likes Light My Fire, and if he does will that give Jim some bonus points, which - honestly, let’s face it - he will probably need?”
“It’s not a points system.”
"Or would Jehovah object to the word 'fire' being in the title of the song?"
No answer.
I kept going. “Who’s more likely to go to Heaven - Hitler or Morrison?”
“It’s not up to me.”
“If Jehovah does decides to raise Jim from the dead, does he have to continue flying up to Heaven or could he hit the pause button and start singing for The Doors again?” I tried to sound as sincere as possible. On and on and on I went, for days. Then weeks. It almost literally drove Leslie nuts.
Years later I ended up owning a rare 5-LP set of that Innervision radio show. That’s how radio stations broadcast shows back in those prehistoric, pre-Internet and pre-CD days. The radio show people would send records of the show to radio stations, who would play the records. What was interesting about a show like this is how the records were pressed. The first LP would have sides one and three on it, instead of one and two. The second would have sides two and four, the third five and seven, and so on. This was so the DJ, as one record was nearing the end, could cue the next record without having to flip the one that was playing, thus making the broadcast appear seamless. Hopefully, none of the records skipped! My set did not. It was in excellent condition. Another cool thing about these radio show transcriptions: the records, in addition to the actual show, also contained all the commercials that were to air during the broadcast. Listening back they are almost just as much fun to hear.
Each set was stamped RESTRICTED USE! NOT FOR RESALE!
Me and what was left of my record collection soon parted ways with Leslie and I found another friend’s couch to crash on. I haven’t seen or spoken to Leslie in the 40-plus years since and have no idea what happened to him. I sometimes wonder if I might have influenced him to ditch the superstitious nonsense and start experiencing the joy of record collecting. But deep down I fear he’s probably still as batshit crazy as he was back then.
I also sometimes wonder where the rest of that old record collection went. None of those records are in my current collection today, which contains about 2,000 records, and I have no re-'collection' of ever intentionally getting rid of or otherwise shedding them. At one point they really were pretty much all I owned, and no matter who’s couch I was crashing on the boxes of records were always right there beside it. I don’t know why I felt I needed them as much as I did. I didn’t have anything to play them on, other than what happened to be wherever I was (and there was always a record player around somewhere). I think perhaps my records defined who I was, just as my current collection more-or-less defines me now. I’ve always maintained you can tell more about someone by rifling through their record collection than you can almost any other way (except, maybe, by getting to know their dog). And I really do think that’s true. Flip through my collection and you’ll know pretty much all there is to know about me. I've changed over the years. So has my record collection. I am not who I was back then, and none of those records are with me now. Songs are things I can relate to and it's a continuing evolution. I'm pretty sure I'm right about this because I once off-handedly mentioned to my wife that I was thinking of selling my record collection. She replied, "You can't do that. That's what defines you. You are your record collection. I won't let you sell it. You wouldn't be you anymore."
Don't cripple your children with ancient superstitions and censorship. Let them discover themselves. Allow them to find out who they are. Music can help them do that. Let them listen to music. All music.
It took me over 40 years to get around to replacing Master Of Reality. t's not an original pressing.
BONUS TRACK
In late July and August, 1966, the Beatles found themselves in a uncomfortable pickle. The teen magazine, Datebook, published segments of an interview with John Lennon in which he predicted Christianity would disappear and that The Beatles were more popular than Jesus.
This didn't go over well in the bible belt American South. On Sunday, July 31, a disc jockey in Birmingham, Alabama, kicked off a drive to ban The Beatles from the airways, saying his radio station would no longer play records by the group
By early August, a bunch of religious nutjobs started hoisting Ban The Beatles signs everywhere and even established pickup points where so-called Beatles Trash (including records, photos and other memorabilia that would have been worth a lot of money today) could be dropped off to be set aflame or otherwise destroyed.
The Daily Gleaner, of Birmingham, published the following notice: "Hundreds of Beatles records are to be pulverized in a giant municipal tree-grinding machine here because of what Beatle John Lennon said about Christ, a disc jockey revealed today. After going through the Beatle-grinder borrowed from Birmingham City Council, all that will be left of the records will be fine dust. A box full of the dust will be presented to the British pop stars when they arrive in Memphis, Tennessee, not far from here, for a concert August 19, said local disc jockey Rex Roach."
Lennon was forced to apologize, which he did at a Beatles press conference during the band's final tour in August. But I don't think he really meant it.
In late July and August, 1966, the Beatles found themselves in a uncomfortable pickle. The teen magazine, Datebook, published segments of an interview with John Lennon in which he predicted Christianity would disappear and that The Beatles were more popular than Jesus.
This didn't go over well in the bible belt American South. On Sunday, July 31, a disc jockey in Birmingham, Alabama, kicked off a drive to ban The Beatles from the airways, saying his radio station would no longer play records by the group
By early August, a bunch of religious nutjobs started hoisting Ban The Beatles signs everywhere and even established pickup points where so-called Beatles Trash (including records, photos and other memorabilia that would have been worth a lot of money today) could be dropped off to be set aflame or otherwise destroyed.
The Daily Gleaner, of Birmingham, published the following notice: "Hundreds of Beatles records are to be pulverized in a giant municipal tree-grinding machine here because of what Beatle John Lennon said about Christ, a disc jockey revealed today. After going through the Beatle-grinder borrowed from Birmingham City Council, all that will be left of the records will be fine dust. A box full of the dust will be presented to the British pop stars when they arrive in Memphis, Tennessee, not far from here, for a concert August 19, said local disc jockey Rex Roach."
Lennon was forced to apologize, which he did at a Beatles press conference during the band's final tour in August. But I don't think he really meant it.
