Featured Essay: Feelin’ Good Vibes

by Joe O'Donnell

In 1986, my father laid it down: Get a job, this week. Perhaps a paper route like many other boys had? I just couldn’t see it; first, it was so typical, and second, you had to get up at the crack of dawn—even in the dead of winter. 

I discussed the issue with my friend Hughie, who was one of the only boys in public school who had been kind to me in the past.  After enjoying Fribbles at Friendly’s restaurant in Sherwood Plaza, a strip mall off Route 9, we walked a few doors down to the Good Vibrations record store, the place where I felt most at home. Good Vibrations was a thirteen-store chain in Massachusetts owned and run by hippies and their selection was top-notch. As I perused the twelve-inch maxis, I suddenly realized that I could solve my job dilemma by working there. I summoned all my bravado and approached the punk behind the register and asked for an application, filled it out on the spot, and handed it back.

 Fifteen minutes or so later, Joan, the store manager, a thirty-something (or maybe she was in her fifties?) hippie lady with brown hair parted in the middle and down to her butt crack, appeared in front of me with my application in hand. Forgoing a hello, Joan addressed me. “I can’t hire you, you’re not even sixteen,” she said decisively. 

“I’ll be sixteen in five months.” I countered quickly. She wasn’t convinced, and so I delivered my first-ever pitch: “I know everything about music, I know this store better than my own home, and I am here every day, so I might as well be of some use.” She just looked at me with the fatigue of a Deadhead who had been stoned one too many times. 

I began to beg. “Please hire me; if you don’t, I will have to be a boring paperboy.” She smiled and hired me that day at an impressive $3.65 an hour. 

My coworkers were all older than me, which I loved. Laura, the assistant manager, was eighteen, with platinum-dyed spiked hair like Billy Idol, though her favorite singer was Adam Ant. She had just returned from a trip to London that had heavily influenced her look and her outlook. She always wore big black punky boots, a T-shirt, and vest. I found her to be worldly and smart. She also took a liking to me and got me up to speed quickly. She’d make fun of my age by spelling out swear words in front of me. Everyone laughed but me. It didn’t really matter, as Laura could do no wrong in my eyes—I idolized her. 

Matt was the heavy-metal guy of our crew, who spoke in a Cockney accent even though he was from Worcester. He wore full makeup and leather every day, including tight pants with a massive bulge straight out of Spinal Tap. Sarah, a teenaged Black girl who worked at Vibes that summer before she headed to Ithaca College and would return on holidays. She and Laura had been neighbors and friends since childhood. 

There were some albums we all agreed were amazing: Savage by the Eurythmics, Shelter by Lone Justice, Welcome Home by ‘Til Tuesday, and of course Crowded House’s self-titled debut. Matt, however, never veered from his metal obsessions, and I heard Megadeath, Iron Maiden, and Cinderella so many times I could play all their songs on air guitar. Matt really lost his shit when Capitol Records asked for our cooperation in breaking in a new band called Poison and their debut album Look What the Cat Dragged In by doing an in-store album signing. I thought they looked scary and sounded uglier than that, but politically I needed to work it. My number-one obsession and comebacks queen Tina Turner was on Capitol and making friends with the promo guys could mean tons of free Tina swag for me. 

A few weeks later, Poison rolled up in a white limo to the store’s back door and trash dumpsters. Matt was so excited his accent kept slipping in and out. The band had two requests: unlimited Diet Pepsi and a fan on their faces to keep their hair blowing back at full volume. When they walked in, I couldn’t help but compare their pockmarked faces and shredded hair to the airbrushed drag queens from their album cover that was plastered all over the store’s walls. These guys were dirtbags. After they signed autographs for their fifteen or so fans, we went out back by the limo and Laura and I smoked a joint with them. I decided they were pretty cool, after all, but I definitely didn’t think they would become the hottest band in the world—which they did, and in just a few weeks.

After the in-store event, my rapport with the A&R guys at Capitol Records grew considerably. Pulling up in their Capitol Records truck, they came in to put up some Tina posters promoting her new album Break Every Rule. I was shaking in anticipation. I could see Joan talking to them and then pointing at me. The guys laughed and one of them approached me. “I hear you’re a big Tina fan.” he said. 

“I am her biggest fan,” I politely corrected him. 

“Well, we have a truck full of Tina stuff in the truck, want to come out and grab some for yourself?” 

“Sure! Thank you!” The two of us walked out to the truck, which had a massive glittery green Capitol records logo on the side. Opening the back doors of the truck, I felt like Geraldo at the Al Capone vaults but unlike him, I hit the jackpot. All I could see was Tina, Tina, Tina! 

“Take whatever you want, kid.” he said. Walking back into the store with my arms full of posters, window decals and counter displays, I thought Joan might burst into proud tears—but she maintained her composure. The guys then mentioned they were having dinner with Tina that very night and they would say hi to her for me. I felt faint thinking I could make any kind of connection with her. 

A week later, they were back and handed me a gorgeous 8 by 10 glossy of Tina signed “To Joe Love, Tina." I was breathless as they explained how they told Tina about what a whacked fifteen-year-old fanatic I was, and that she replied that she loved her younger fans the most because they didn’t care about her age or about all that Ike Turner baggage. I was still gobsmacked hours later, when we closed the store at 9:30 and Joan drove me and my Tina ephemera home in her pea green VW bug. I put my feet on the dash, as there was no floor on the passenger side, while I talked her ear off about Tina.

Working at Good Vibrations emboldened a comeback of my own. It took me out of my bedroom on weeknights and weekends; gave me some pocket money, which I always blew right there in the store, and most importantly brought me new friends. Older friends, cool friends who weren’t virgins, who always had pot, and knew everything about music. 

Slowly, over many nights, I started to share a little about myself—not that there was much to report. I began to live for these conversations as I became part of an intangible chemistry where several peculiar personalities came together and blended so effortlessly.

The truth is, they saved me. 

Joe O’Donnell was born and raised in Massachusetts before finding his true home in San Francisco. His professional career peaked prematurely when he became the manager of a suburban record store on the East Coast in the 1980s before finding his niche in marketing, brand creation, and creative direction. Often described as “just too gay,” Joe has spent decades in therapy, which ultimately led him to pick up a pen, thanks to a dare from his therapist. He has just completed his debut memoir, Another Generation Ruined, of which this is an excerpt. You can find him by email and IG. The playlist for AGR can be found here.