My All-Time Greatest Albums, part one 

When music publications tossed out their All-Time Greatest Albums lists, it was a fun read and a good timewaster, the top of the list heavily weighted with the usual suspects of classic rock legend and radio playlists: Beatles, Stones, Dylan, Hendrix, along with the obligatory, sometimes begrudging nods to black music (Marvin Gaye, Sly), punk (Clash, Sex Pistols) and grunge (Nirvana). 

Often, before drifting off at night, I’ll draw up my own list of greatest albums and it’s utter predictability is boring enough to put me right to sleep: “Okay, tonight #1 goes to Pet Sounds and we’ll drop Revolver to #2, something from Neil Young should be at #3 … and … and … zzzzzz.” 

With the understanding that the music you love when you’re young always seems more exciting, more essential, I came up with a truly personal All-Time Greatest Albums list. 

Remember How Great, Volume 1 and 2

These were my mother’s records, issued in 1961 and 1962. If you’re familiar with the Now That’s What I Call Music series (the McDonald’s hamburgers of music with billions sold), its roots, and that of all compilation albums, start here. 

Available at the time for $1, plus 10 Lucky Strike cigarette packs (not to mention countless trips to the doctor, the hospital and finally hospice), this commercial for the records clocks in at 1:26, practically the equivalent of a half-hour long infomercial by 1961 standards. 

What worked best for the albums was the range of music, from vanilla pop standards to soundtracks for a drive through Harlem. Nearly everything on the two volumes is from the 1940s and 50s, although this version of St. Louis Blues by Louis Armstrong on Volume 2 was recorded in 1929. It has an intensity that totally changed my mindset of Armstrong as that harmless guy with the trumpet and the handkerchief on Ed Sullivan. In my late teens I played this over and over. 

What else was on Remember How Great? Tequila by the Champs, Jumpin’ Jive by Cab Calloway, The Tennessee Waltz by Patti Page, a slice of Wonder Bread that I inexplicably liked -- and that I later realized was the inspiration behind Neil Young's underrated The Old Country Waltz.

When my mother moved, the records disappeared before I could make off with them, but they’re all over eBay, leading me to think that this series was a fairly big seller. I’m also sure that if everybody owned a stereo like the one belonging to my parents, with its needle resembling a roofing nail, they all survive with plenty of pops and crackles.

More to come.