Columnist John Moore still listens to the albums he bought over 50 years ago. Photo John Moore

New music coming out used to be an event. Most of the time, you and your friends knew it was coming and you were waiting, money-in-hand, at the record shop to buy it.

I worked in the radio business for several decades beginning in the 1970s, and became very well acquainted with how records were produced and promoted.

Radio, television, newspaper, and magazines were driving forces in promoting new music. Today, we can open our electronic devices and get the entire World Book Encyclopedia in a matter of seconds. But during what is arguably the best era for American music and promotion, we had the four mediums to deliver the news.

Record companies and radio stations made sure they had worn out the possibilities of the last record before they went to the next.

Also, it was no coincidence that whenever a new record came out, your favorite band was launching a new tour. And where they played was also connected to whether their music sold well in that area.

Local radio stations were promoting the show, and usually had a prize package with front row seats and backstage passes to meet the artists.

Over the noon break, students would sit around the high school lunch area and talk about which band had the next album coming out.

John: “Zeppelin is releasing In Through The Out Door soon.”

Stanley: “And they’re supposed to tour, but I don’t know if they’ll make it to Shreveport or not.”

For Stanley, me, and all of the other Ashdown, Arkansas, music officianados, the Shreveport area was our main destination for concerts. Some of the first big-name artists we saw were at Hirsch Memorial Coliseum in Bossier City, Louisiana.

The entire vibe of that era was unique. We’d listen to the radio to hear new music and to learn when a concert was scheduled.

Rolling Stone Magazine was an excellent source for music information for rock acts. Country acts had TV shows and Nashville publications.

For those of us who grew up in that era in the South, musically, we liked a little bit of all of it.

To see Peter Frampton at Hirsch, we took my buddy Scotty’s VW Beetle. I sat on the passenger’s seat and my girlfriend at the time sat on my lap. The backseat was reserved for large quantities of 8-track tapes.

The proof that we liked a little bit of all of it was right there. We alternated listening from Joe Walsh, Boston, David Allen Coe, and of course, Peter Frampton.

Today, there is little left that resembles how music used to launch and arrive. The radio stations have been replaced by Spotify. YouTube and other sources have taken Rolling Stone’s spot.

There was a unification of a generation when radio, magazines, and concerts kept us all on track to make sure we knew when a band’s music was being requested, promoted, and they were playing a show. One of the best ways a new song could get a boost was to hear the local DJ ask a caller what song they wanted to hear.

DJ: “Hey what song is it I can play for you on KMLA?”

Caller: “That new Eagles song, Hotel California!”

The technology of today has pushed (or allowed) people to become silos. There’s little shared experience when it comes to music.

You no longer go to work or an event and ask someone if they’ve heard the new Eagles song on the radio. Or wonder if everyone there will be able to carpool to the concert with you. Sometimes, we’d all pitch in to help a buddy get a ticket because he had to put brakes on his Firebird or was struggling in some other way.

Today, we can all talk to each other instantly, but what do we really have left to discuss in this arena? Odds are, if you were asked about the next album or concert of a favorite artist of yours, you’d look it up on your phone.

Before cell phones, we didn’t need to look it up. We all just knew.

Hirsch Coliseum is still around. Mostly, they play minor league hockey there. The days of the the person next to you at the concert reeking of 70’s herb, your favorite live band, and a great musical time are pretty much gone.

But the memories remain. Including the recollection that my leg didn’t wake up for two days after Bonnie got off my lap, and when we went inside, Frampton came alive.

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By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com