This song is so steeped in memories for me.  My parents had this album and it was in heavy rotation at our house.  I hear this song and I can picture my dad, with his long sideburns and cut-off jeans, playing frisbee in the front yard with my Uncle Keith, while my sister and I caught grasshoppers and hung out in the plastic swimming pool and ate popsicles.  Or playing hotwheels in the living room on a Saturday afternoon in the winter, taking breaks when we heard the furnace click on to sit in front of the register vent with a blanket stretched across our laps and tucked under our legs, ballooning up as the air came out of the vent, then running back out (now with warm feet) to keep playing when it shut back off.  The records were stacked on the turntable right after breakfast and would play through until lunch, as my dad went about the business of being a dad on a Saturday morning.  The click of the changer, the whoosh of one vinyl album coming to rest upon the one spinning below it, then the crackle as the needle seated itself in the groove just before the music began to play.  For some reason, there was always the background scent of wet wallpaper — my parents were always either stripping wallpaper off or putting new wallpaper back on. 

All that, just from hearing this song.

Interesting history of BS&T on AMG. It's worth a read to see how they disenfranchised themselves from their fan base by alignining themselves with the "establishment".

William, Where is the long version?

This song is so steeped in memories for me.  My parents had this album and it was in heavy rotation at our house.  I hear this song and I can picture my dad, with his long sideburns and cut-off jeans, playing frisbee in the front yard with my Uncle Keith, while my sister and I caught grasshoppers and hung out in the plastic swimming pool and ate popsicles.  Or playing hotwheels in the living room on a Saturday afternoon in the winter, taking breaks when we heard the furnace click on to sit in front of the register vent with a blanket stretched across our laps and tucked under our legs, ballooning up as the air came out of the vent, then running back out (now with warm feet) to keep playing when it shut back off.  The records were stacked on the turntable right after breakfast and would play through until lunch, as my dad went about the business of being a dad on a Saturday morning.  The click of the changer, the whoosh of one vinyl album coming to rest upon the one spinning below it, then the crackle as the needle seated itself in the groove just before the music began to play.  For some reason, there was always the background scent of wet wallpaper — my parents were always either stripping wallpaper off or putting new wallpaper back on. 

All that, just from hearing this song.

This song is a mess.