Steve K. Comes Alive (1,043 words)
After my bicycle was stolen when I was in the 8th grade, I had to walk to school and other places until my dad gave me his old car three years later. I would roam for miles, exploring neighborhoods, climbing on the roofs of my old schools, seeing where classmates lived, and envying their nicer houses and subdivisions. I did this mostly in the afternoons, but on December 31, 1976 (I was 15 and in 10th grade), I set out at night. My parents always went to a party on New Year’s Eve, and I never had anything to do at home on that night, so I took off.

Strolling along, I followed the sights and sounds of fireworks, hoping to see some up close, perhaps be invited to light a firecracker or bottle rocket (never happened), and with the intent of gathering any duds I could find. The next day, I could cut open the duds, pile up the gunpowder, and set it off with a big flash. I headed north from the Lake Magdalene/Forest Hills area where I lived, toward Carrollwood, figuring there would be more fireworks in richer neighborhoods.

About three miles from home, I spotted a large number of fireworks going off in an apartment/townhouse complex near Fletcher, and followed the lights. It was a typical scene: several guys were drinking beer, shooting off the fireworks and cherry bombs with no regard to safety, and having a grand time. A couple of girls hung back, declining invitations to join in, and several younger kids oohed and aahed at the displays and explosions.

I saw a classmate in the group. Steve K. and I had had a class or two together. He had a round face, curly hair, a perpetual look of surprise, and good humor about the frequent ribbing he received over his extremely Polish name. We exchanged greetings and chatted until the fireworks were used up.

“Wanna watch the New Year’s countdown thing on TV?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, and we went into his apartment. The TV show was boring, and Steve asked if I wanted to see his stereo system. “Sure,” I said again, and we went up to his bedroom. I shared a bedroom with two brothers, and it seemed very swank and luxurious for someone to have his own room. Steve had Farrah Faucett and Cheryl Tiegs posters on his walls, and well as posters from rock groups. His stereo system was big, and he spent a fair amount of time explaining all its components: watts, amps, woofers, equalizers, and etc., with particular emphasis on the volume it could put out.

“Listen to this,” he said, and pulled out one of his Christmas presents. It was the 1976 Frampton Comes Alive album. “This is friggin’ huge,” he said. “It’s sold 5 million copies and has some great tunes on it--‘I’m in You,’ ‘Baby I Love Your Way,’ and, of course, ‘Do You Feel?’ You know that one, right? You like it? It’s a great friggin’ song!”

“Yeah,” I said, “I like it.”

“Man, if you’ve only heard it on the radio and not on a great stereo, then you haven’t friggin’ heard it. They only play a short version on the radio. On the album, it’s 14 minutes long. Listen.”

I sat on the bed, and Steve cranked the volume to the max and began to play Frampton’s “Do You Feel?” Over the next 14 minutes, I experienced two arresting performances. One was the live recording of Frampton’s California concert. The other was Steve’s running musical play-by-play, color commentary, and air guitar accompaniment. In that small room, 100 watts of sound was, well, it was just something you had to give yourself over to because it wholly perforated your body. It was like standing next to the speakers at the concert itself, and we had to shout to make ourselves heard over it.

“HE IS SO AWESOME ON THE GUITAR, MAN, AND THE CROWD IS INTO IT!” he said.

“YEAH!” I yelled back. I was in a kind of sonic stupor. Frampton had me in a spell. The record was so loud I thought I would never be in a quiet place again.

“HERE COMES THE TALK BOX!” Steve said.

“IS THIS WHERE HE TALKS LIKE A ROBOT?” I replied.

“NO MAN, THIS IS THE BEST FRIGGIN’ PART! THERE’S THIS SPECIAL EFFECTS PEDAL THAT SENDS THE GUITAR SOUND THROUGH A TUBE INTO FRAMPTON’S MOUTH, AND HE SPEAKS THROUGH THE GUITAR!!”

“REALLY?

“YEAH, MAN, LISTEN!”

And then Peter/his guitar did their thing: “Do wu weel?”—the crowd and Steve roar in response. Peter again: “Wike why do?”—more roaring.

Steve roars, “AND HERE COMES THE BEST PART, MAN—HE SAYS THE FRIGGIN’ F-WORD! I CAN’T BELIEVE HE GETS AWAY WITH IT!!”

Peter: “I won do wuck wu.”

The crowd goes ape-shit, and Steve laughs so hard he falls into his beanbag chair. “HA HAH! THAT IS SO FRIGGIN’ AWESOME!!!” He then does an imitation of the talking guitar, adding a lot of other dirty words and phrases. The room is simply not large enough for him and this music.

Pete Townshend, guitarist from The Who (and who suffered significant hearing loss over the years), said once in an interview that, during a certain period of his life, music simply could not be loud enough. Sitting in Steve’s room that New Year’s Eve in 1976 was close enough for me.

Like the crowd, Steve let it all hang out. He loved this song, and wanted me to understand and love it too. He disconcerted me—how do you respond when someone holds nothing back? Do I feel? Not like this. At one level, this unadulterated expressiveness was kind of silly. At the same time, I admired Steve’s ability and trust level to do this, and felt kind of cowardly at not being able to reciprocate the intense emotion he was showing—that he had a right to—this is, after all, what youthful enthusiasm is all about. It was willingness to say (and with abandon) what he felt, even though we almost always hold these things back.

Whenever I hear this song today, it is Steve that rings in my ears.