When the Grease Hit the Fan

The first time I bought a record because of peer pressure, I had to walk the two miles home from the record store to play it on my stereo for the first time. I was in junior high, walking past Rocky Mountain Records and Tapes (God Rest Their Corporate Souls). My friend nudged me in the door and there we stood in front of a large cardboard standup proclaiming the worldwide dominance of Fleetwood Mac's "Rumors." I was informed by my friend how cool that record was, and his sister played it all the time and it was cool how all the band members were dating each other or breaking up or something like that and his sister was really cool about the way she played music late at night - and a whole lot of other things that made it clear just how cool "Rumors" the album really was.
"So, do you have that record?"
At this point in my life, I owned a great many albums. I had acquired a great many soundtracks to movies that I was fond of, and I had begun to explore the works of Elton John from the beginning of his career. I was fortunate to have an older brother who was more than happy to share his musical tastes and opinions with me. My first Pink Floyd album, "Wish You Were Here" came from him, as did "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" (a double album of Elton!). I felt pretty comfortable in my preferences, and my fondness for art over pop was becoming more defined by the day.
Still, junior high is all about bowing to the whims of the crowd. I laid my $7.99 on the counter and then carried the record home. I was very conscious as we walked to switch hands and positions on the bag as I walked, not wanting it to be warped before I got to hear it all the way through. When we got back to my house, we went straight to my turntable and dropped the needle on side one. I confess that there was a lot to like on "Rumors." I could hear the effort to make a group of thoughtful pop songs. I could hear the remnants of a great blues band being hijacked by California/Arizona songwriters. I could hear my individuality slipping away.
Some years later, I received the soundtrack to "Grease" as a gift. It was the summer that everyone on the planet owned that album. I had an immediate reaction to its popularity and so I slipped to the back of the soundtrack collection and tried not to think about it. This was at the height of the disco/punk schism, and I found myself aligning with the folks with safety pins in their cheeks. Then one night during a high school party, someone made the mistake of putting that record on. I heard just three chords from the opening and I was around the corner, dragging the needle across the record as I then turned on the unsuspecting crowd in my room and told them in no uncertain terms was that ever to be played again in my presence. Several weeks later, someone decided to test my resolve. This time I didn't just take the vinyl off of the turntable, I folded it in half. Grease shrapnel went everywhere. There was a prolonged silence.
A quarter century later, I look at my CD collection and try to imagine a single one of them that I have remorse for buying. There are a number of guilty pleasures - maybe even an abundance of them - but they're all mine.