Seven years ago Moog Music announced that the company was honoring the 50th anniversary of the Moog Modular at Moogfest and that legendary company’s engineers had spent three years reconstructing Keith Emerson’s iconic Moog Modular System.

“Using the original documentation as well as circuit board and art files for nearly every original Moog module, Moog Engineers have painstakingly recreated the original Emerson Modular System. The new Emerson Moog Modular System is comprised of handcrafted Moog modules built from the original circuit designs and are true recreations of the originals, utilizing the same hand assembly methods used in the Moog Music factory in Trumansburg, NY in 1969. The modules in the new Emerson Moog Modular System are built just as the originals were, by hand-stuffing and hand-soldering components to circuit boards, and using traditional wiring methods. Even the front panels are photo-etched aluminum (a rare process now), which is the classic and durable, look of vintage Moog modules.”

I missed Moogfest, but in the summer of 1970 I worked with a long-legged slim brunette in a NET&T office on Franklin Street. My father was a top electrical engineer for Ma Bell.

Linda spoke with a lilting English accent and had a haughty laugh. I thought both were was fake, but she was an upper-class beauty from Concord and people from that town had class. Every guy in the office wanted a piece of her.

The twenty-six year-old divorcee had a high-class wardrobe. Her clothes were purchased on Newbury Street and her perfume smelled of France. She was no hippie girl, but we flirted for a week and smoked joints on the roof.

“You know I have a daughter?”

“Yes, and an ex-husband.”

“Let’s not talk about ‘him’.”

It was a beautiful spring day and I obeyed her wish, especially after she touched my hand with feline cunning. I had no idea what she saw in me other than youth, so when I asked if she wanted to see a free show of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, I was surprised to hear her say with a smile, “Yes.”

“It’s my birthday.”

“How old?”

“18.”

“Too bad, I thought I was robbing the cradle. but do us a favor.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell your father. He wouldn’t like it.”

I understood, because my father had warned me to not date any of the women at the office, and said, “I’ll tell him nothing.”

On May 29, 1970 Linda arranged for her mother to babysit her young daughter. She made no mention of ex-.

After work we walked over to Boston’s Hatchshell. We bought two bottles of Zapple wine. I don’t remember the flavor. The opening act was the blues artist John Hammond. Linda wasn’t familiar with their music.

The two of us shared the wine.

Swweeeeet,” she said during DROP DOWN MAMA and then touched my lips. “Bet they’re sweet too.”

“Of course they are.” I didn’t tell her I was a virgin.

Edgar Winter came on second. The albino organist was Johnny Winter’s brother. I had seen the pale-skinned guitar with BB King at the 1970 Newport Jazz Festival, but Edgar played with White Trash out of Texas. I liked their LP ENDURANCE.

Linda played with my long hair. We smoked a joint. I touched her back. She was wearing a bra. Girls at my college had burned theirs and refuse to shave their legs or armpits. Linda shaved both. I liked the touch of her bare skin.

“I’m old-fashioned in many ways,” she murmured in my ear. “But not all of them.”

She had quaaludes.

We dropped them and made out on the grassy lawn.

No one around us said anything. This wasn’t Woodstock, but many of us were still hippies.

The sky grew storm during his set and a windstorm lashed the audience, as Edgar performed their hit TOBACCO ROAD.

Everyone expected rain, but the gales diminished and the night grew calm for his encore of SAVE THE PLANET.

I opened the second bottle of wine and torched a joint. Linda was getting high for the first time. She giggled with pleasure. It was very likable coupled with the 714s. The stage crew assembled an enormous sound system centered on a massive Moog synthesizer. I was familiar with Keith Emerson from his years with the Nice.

I had one of their LPs.

“What’s that?” asked Linda.

“I think it’s a Moog.”

“An electronic synthesizer?” demanded a longhair.

“Supposedly he spent all his advance money on it.” I had never seen one before.

No one had, but we had heard the LP. As the band took the stage, I turned to Linda and said, “Listen.”

The trio to proceeded to pummel the audience with a performance of their entire album. The crowd swayed to TAKE A PEBBLE. Linda stripped off her bra. I groped her breasts. We wandered over the the bushes. I told her again that I was a virgin.

“Not for much longer.”

Emerson, Lake, and Palmer encored with AMERICA and HANG ONTO A DREAM. Greg Lake was the rock heart of the band and Palmer the core of beats. Emerson existed on another world.

Linda and I made love in the bushes.

Twice.

We lasted almost a year.

We never took any photos.

Words.

Memories.

Zapple.

Weed.

The Boston Hatchshell.

Emerson, Lake, and Palmer.

Sex.

It was a very good birthday and I wished Linda the best.

Wherever she is.

She was a beautiful woman and a good mother.

RIP Emerson Palmer.

And the band.

You helped me lose my virginity.

To hear TAKE A PEBBLE please go to the following URL