I had gone to my favorite hangout, Java Joe's to hear some fine acoustic music performed by a couple from Australia called The Betts. It was their first full bill at this venue, having played here before at open mike nights. Four people at a table off to my left were talking over the music, which distracted me enough to finally overcome inertia and reluctance, and go over to say a few choice words to them about respect for the performers.

It was not the first time that my musical solitude had been intruded upon by inattentive or inappropriate comments from the house, though such behavior is very rare at the local coffeehouses, especially at Java Joe's.

During the past summer, a Lilith Fair California venue had been a particular minefield of crowd noise, enough for Jewel to say irately before one of her songs, "You know, this would sound much better if you stop talking." Once, at a Tori Amos concert, she had stopped playing in mid-chord, looked up toward the far reaches of the balcony, and said in her best prima donna diva persona, "You want to talk. I'll wait until you're finished." After two seconds of silence, she resumed without dropping a note.

I often wondered, what, if any are the boundaries between having a good time, and concert etiquette? Are there any standards? When did all the shouting begin? I mentioned my puzzlement to a friend, who sent me copies of recent newsgroup messages by Tom Neff and Richard Flohil. They had some good ideas, tracing the evolution of recording fidelity past vinyl and tape to the present digital perfection. Along the way, they mentioned Sinatra, the Beatles and Elvis, and the advent of fandom, swooners and screamers. It all got me to thinking about my own personal musical odyssey, and other threads and influences. Let me tell you about some of them.

Growing up in New York in the pre-digital age was culturally enriching, especially in a household that put a premium on awareness for the arts, and expressed it in season tickets to the NY City Ballet, trips to Broadway shows, and the Sunday New York Times strewn around the apartment as part of the week-end ritual. Still, those were primitive times. There was no TV. AM radio took its place as the electronic hearth, for music of the big bands, but mostly for those weekly shows, the Great Gildersleeve, Jack Benny, Amos & Andy, the Green Hornet, and all the rest that we listened to transfixed, watching the characters in the theater of our minds. Music was on 78 rpm vinyl. I took blurry, black & white photos with a Kodak Brownie camera that used 110 roll film.

Milestones happened. I saw my first Broadway show, The Moon is Blue, with Barry Sullivan in the wry, comedic lead. You could laugh when everyone else did, even if you didn't understand why. Off-Broadway, the Fantasticks opened, and through the decades maybe never closed, soon followed by Three Penny Opera. "Try To Remember" merged with "Mac the Knife", forever etched in memory. You could touch the performers if you stretched out your arms, and feel the air move when they spoke. Words were holy, like prayers. The equation was a simple one: they talked, sang, acted, emoted, we listened, entranced. Sports were the only exception. At Knicks or Rangers games at Madison Square Garden, or that temple of endless broken dreams and green forevers in Brooklyn called Ebbets Field, you could scream until you were blue in the face, without hesitation. Spectator participation had its limits. The static of AM radio gave way to the monaural perfection of FM, from Alan Freed to WBAI, from folk to free thinking. I took tiny black & white photographs that were peeled, still wet, from the back of a Polaroid Land Camera.

School days passed slowly, but there were treasured moments. Once a girlfriend and I rode our bicycles in Central Park, and later spotted Milton Berle coming out of Lindy's deli with a group of people. We raced over, for there was no bigger or brighter star anywhere. "Uncle Miltie" was gracious. "Hey kids", he chortled, "have you ever heard of Elvis Presley?" Of course, we were hip! "Well, this is Colonel Parker, his manager. Elvis is going to be on my show next week!" We were polite, but unaware that great tides of change were about to happen in music. Records were now 45 rpm singles with big holes in the middle and titles like ShaBoom ShaBoom, Earth Angel, FM had gone stereo, there were 12-inch LPs with nearly an hour's music on them. I saw Eddie Fisher perform live at the Paramount movie theater, with young girls fainting in the aisles. My favorite artists were Peter, Paul & Mary, the Kingston Trio, Judy Collins, and Joan Baez. I took Kodachrome color slides with a tiny 35mm Zeiss Contessa range finder camera.