Golden Sunday

I woke up this morning to Engelbert Humperdinck. The next-door-neighbor--still whoozy perhaps from last night's drinking spree--was singing along to "Quando Quando Quando." Engelbert and the neighbor are just about the perfect introductions to yet another "Golden Sunday."

As far back as I can remember, Sunday sounds have always been like this: lazy, hazy, at times crackly, hinting of needle scratches and age. It's as if Sundays offer a chance for the DJs to raid their arsenal of nineteen-forgotten songs, of re-living memories of barn dances and the stuff that are in our parents' memory banks. Sundays are for Tom Jones and Matt Monro, Perry Como and Doris Day, Frank Sinatra and Elvis the Pelvis.

How many of us practically grew up to the oldies but goodies because of Golden Sundays? A, my twentysomething rocker of a friend, is just as familiar with the Fab Four as she is with Pong Pagong, her childhood hero. J at 16 can sing along to Paul Anka and JLo on the Videoke Channel. I myself knew the lyrics of Frank Sinatra's songs even before "Duets" came out.

Gonden Sundays bring back "musical" memories: I remember Dad's stack of 45s and LPs, and I vaguely remember red and green vinyl records. These we played on a portable attache-case like turntable and eventually, on the Akai Stereo. When older cousins came to live with us, we were introduced to the music of AMB Junior, Cinderella and the Hotdogs. We "swung" to VST and Company. And when we were in high school (okay, when I was in high school and the sisters were in grade school), we had Candy Candy, Lea Salonga's Small Voice album and Stars on 45.

Still, I have always thought of Sundays as the day for playing the music of "my folks." Until I heard Janet Jackson singing "Let's Wait Awhile." Yikes! They're now playing our songs on Golden Sunday! Aarrgghhh!