It was a classic rock station, not given to hot hits and fast-rising new releases. For certain acts, though, they were clearly willing to make exceptions. "Twenty years since their last album," said my car stereo, "here's a new one from Steely Dan."

And before I had time to process that remarkable statement, there it was. Not much doubt about it either. As Donald Fagen sang, "How about a kiss for your cousin Dupree," it was as if a magic phonograph needle had somehow discovered some new grooves on an old copy of "Gaucho." That 1980 album had looked to be Steely Dan's swan song, although Fagen and collaborator Walter Becker had always been coy about possible new projects and had even staged a reunion tour. Now, the DJ informed me (in what must have been a welcome break from introducing "Misty Mountain Hop" for the gazillionth time) that the Dan was back with a new CD, "Two Against Nature."

Good thing it was late and the rain-slick roads were nearly empty, because I experienced a violent, sudden attack of time displacement against which my airbag and seat belt were helpless. Never mind drunken driving and excess speed -- how many accidents are caused by Proustian disorientation? Someone must keep stats on this stuff.

Another car radio -- this one an optional feature in a fire-engine red Plymouth Duster -- had crackled to life with a similar message back in 1976. I was parked on a leafy country lane with a case of beer and my buddy Gavin. We were just two troubled, fun-loving teens gearing up for Friday night. It may even have been the same night that Gavin and I jumped on the hood while another guy gunned the car down the street for a block before inexplicably panicking and slamming on the brakes, causing us to shoot off the hood and onto the asphalt like customers at a very poorly designed waterslide. But that might have been another Friday night. They all sort of ran together.

Back then, too, the DJ had announced a new Steely Dan single. On that occasion, though, the event was not unexpected -- just eagerly anticipated in a way that doesn't correspond with anything I can think of in my present life. The new song was "Kid Charlemagne," from Steely Dan's soon-to-be-released fifth LP, "The Royal Scam."

In 1976, it was still the era of Top 40 AM radio, which traded sound quality for the infinite possibilities of distance. AM was the Internet of its time -- a pipeline to the beyond. Unlike clear, quiet, short-range FM, that crackling AM wave might be coming from almost anywhere, bringing something you had never heard before. Gavin and I cranked up the volume and leaned into the fading signal. A smoking guitar solo began and then the station faded away. We waited through static that seemed interminable. Gradually the song faded back in -- still with the guitar solo. Gavin and I looked at each other and whooped. This was going to be hot!

"Kid Charlemagne" never even turned into a hit, though the album became another solid smash for the band embraced by smart-ass '70s teens who fancied themselves a cut above the rabble. Your bands were your identity. As far as my peers and I were concerned, Steely Dan was what separated us from the animals (who preferred Bachman-Turner Overdrive).

Now, with high school 2.5 decades in the past, here's a new Steely Dan single; a brand new flag for a battle that ended about the time of the senior prom. My reflexive enthusiasm feels a throwback to an earlier age like the adrenaline rush that once fueled escape from tigers and now merely eats away your stomach lining on the freeway. It's hard to know whether Steely Dan still holds any genuine musical interest or merely the tug of comfortable familiarity.

I've sometimes entertained the notion that if I dropped acid today I might instantly return to my 17-year-old LSD world -- that the land of my late teens is waiting, like Narnia, on the other side of a chemical wardrobe door. As I drove down that empty street listening to Fagen's voice over that signature jazz-funk beat, I experienced a little of that magical transport. I remembered a few things I'd apparently mislaid.

Steely Dan represented an urban sophistication that we in the sticks couldn't know firsthand. The stuff of Becker and Fagen's songs had not yet happened for us, but man, it would be so cool when it did. Fagen himself took up this theme on his 1981 solo LP "The Nightfly" (considered by many to be, in effect, the last great Steely Dan album). In songs like "Maxine" and "New Frontier," he sang about excited kids with romantic visions of future lives. "Well, I can't wait," "New Frontier's" protagonist enthuses, "till I move to the city."

Neither could I. And while I didn't exactly end up on Manhattan's Upper West Side, the urban life when it arrived did seem to have a glossy sheen -- perhaps an illusion built up during long basement sessions with beer and headphones, but a persistent one nonetheless. It was fun to be a city guy, just as Fagen had predicted.

But the path from youthful wonder to middle-aged monotony is well-worn. Innocent excitement rarely survives contact with the mundane facts of life, and despite the obnoxious popular enthusiasm for retaining childhood qualities well into adulthood, if your 41 is just like your 17, pal, you've got problems.

So when I heard that song on the radio, I wasn't prepared for the feeling that took hold. It was nostalgia, sure, but a particular kind -- I remembered the future, the way it looked and felt when I was 17 in 1976. Fagen sang about that idea too, in his hit song "I.G.Y." ("International Geophysical Year"): "What a beautiful world this will be/What a glorious time to be free."

As for the nostalgia element, based on the snappy "Cousin Dupree," I think the Steely Dan sound has aged rather well. Anyway, if a brand new record can awaken for me a dormant thrill of possibility, I'm not going to kick. The high school identity politics may be out of date, but a renewed sense of wonder is always welcome. The city really can be a cool place. I'm glad to be reminded of it.

Gotta get that album, man.