I was watching a YouTube video the other day about speakers.
Nothing dramatic. Just one of those reviews where someone is talking about modern systems versus older gear. But somewhere in the middle of it, something clicked—and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about specs or cabinets or frequency response anymore.
I was back in the late 1970s.
Back in 1977, I remember putting on a Ted Nugent album—Cat Scratch Fever. The title track. I cranked it all the way up, right to the top end, and damn near blew the windows out of the house. That wasn’t just loud. That was moving air. You could feel it in your chest. The system didn’t flinch. It just delivered.
And that led me to another memory.
In the late ’70s, I used to go to concerts in Orlando at what was then known as the Tangerine Bowl. Big holiday weekends. Four acts most of the time—a local band, a regional band, a national up‑and‑coming act, and then the headliner.
One concert in particular stands out. July 3, 1977.
We saw a nameless band, then another nameless band, then Jimmy Buffett, and finally The Eagles.
We arrived early—around 10 in the morning when the gates opened. We got settled around the 30‑yard line, center stage. At that point there was no sound coming from the stage. Roadies were still setting things up. Just quiet and anticipation.
Then they threw the switch.
They started playing some Fleetwood Mac.
And when they did, I could literally feel the sound hit my chest and push me backward. I wasn’t knocked off my feet—I was sitting up on my knees—but I bent like a road sign on springs in a high wind. That wasn’t metaphor. That was physics. Sound had weight.
That same weekend, I was there with a close female friend. After the concert, we camped overnight at a nearby KOA. Her parents were there too, with a group of their friends. So they put me in one tent, and my date for the weekend—well, she stayed in the camper with mom and dad.
Smart move.
The next day we spent the entire Fourth of July at Disney World. By the evening, we sat on a little slope near the Polynesian Resort and watched the fireworks. We smoked a joint. Not a wild party. Not out of control. Just two teenagers enjoying life.
It felt slower then. Less confusing.
No phones. No documenting the moment. No pressure to perform or escalate or prove anything. You just showed up, experienced it, and carried it with you.
That YouTube video about speakers wasn’t really about speakers after all. It was about remembering a time when sound had weight, experiences had texture, and freedom existed alongside common sense.
I don’t think the past was perfect. But I do think some things were clearer.
And once you’ve felt sound move you—literally—you never forget it.
I’m Wayne, and that’s my world view. What’s yours?
