47 photos that show what life looked like in 1977

The principal in the tie is letting it happen. He knows there's nothing left to enforce. Three kids hit the door first, and the rest of the school is right behind them. Summer started the second that bell rang.

Gene Simmons backstage with his mother, Florence, in 1977. She wore cotton in her ears at his concerts but never missed a show. A Holocaust survivor who schlepped a guitar home on the subway so her son could practice, she turned her Long Island living room into an unofficial KISS museum and needlepointed a portrait of him breathing fire. She looks completely delighted. He looks like her kid.

White three-piece suit, boutonniere, tinted aviators, and a gold flame Corvette decorated for the wedding. She's already in the passenger seat, ready to go. He stopped for one more photo. This is the car they drove to their honeymoon and the outfit he was buried in, probably.

Opening day of Star Wars at Mann's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, May 25, 1977. The line stretched around the block and kept going. Nobody who was in it that day ever forgot it. The movie hadn't changed everything yet. It was about to.

Chris Farley, age 13, on the Lakers youth hockey team in Madison, Wisconsin. Number 6, Louisville Slugger stick, and a smile that already had too much going on behind it. He played hockey, then football, then discovered comedy. The rest is obvious.

Leonard Skinner, the Jacksonville gym teacher who sent Ronnie Van Zant and Gary Rossington to the principal's office one too many times for long hair, holding the latest album from the band they named after him. He didn't particularly like rock and roll. He came around a little.

Tents, cars parked in the grass, a lake through the trees, and a Saturday that had no plans beyond this. The kind of afternoon that didn't need organizing. Everyone just showed up and it became a party.

Lemmy, Fast Eddie Clarke, and Philthy Animal Taylor in 1977, the year their debut album finally came out after nearly getting shelved. Two of the people in this photo were not in the band. All five of them look like they were having a better night than you.

Anthony Daniels, between takes on the Tunisia set of Star Wars, propped under a beach umbrella in the full C-3PO costume. The suit took two hours to put on, was secured with four screws, and weighed 60 pounds in the desert heat. The umbrella was not optional.

A father and his newborn in Mexico City, both in matching flower crowns outside a cathedral. The baby has not yet formed an opinion on any of this. The father has enough expression for both of them.

A man at his basement bar in Philadelphia, 1977. The wood paneling, the red and green stools, the fully stocked shelf behind him. He built this room or knew someone who did, and either way he earned his spot on that stool.

January 19, 1977 — the only day in recorded history it has ever snowed in Miami. Someone wrote the date right on the hood so nobody would ever forget it. Nobody has.

Joan Jett, 18 years old, somewhere on the Sunset Strip in 1977. The Runaways were already two albums in and touring the world. The leather jacket has more going on than most people's entire wardrobes. She looks like she has somewhere to be and is in no particular hurry to get there.

She looked up from the paperwork exactly long enough for someone to take the photo. The look says she has seen everything this office has to offer and has opinions about all of it.

Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher in a promotional shoot for Star Wars in 1977. Two months earlier nobody knew their names. By the time this was taken, everything had changed.

A dad in a parking lot somewhere in Utah, one kid on each arm, all three of them losing it. Both sons scored that day. He is not holding it together even a little, and nobody expected him to.

A bread deliveryman on a winter morning in Quebec City, both arms full of baguettes, standing in the slush like it's the best job in the world. It might have been.

Fourteen people crammed into someone's living room for a 21st birthday in 1977. The guy in the cable-knit sweater is giving a thumbs-up. Someone found a can of Pabst. Nobody is performing for the camera because nobody thought about the camera until someone pointed it at them. 

Five siblings in a field, fall light coming through the trees, everyone in their best. The kind of photo that gets framed and stays on the wall for forty years. Somebody's mom is the second from the left.

Four guys, a canoe loaded past sensible, and a plan to paddle from northern Ohio to New Orleans. The one in the red bandana has clearly appointed himself the expedition's morale officer. They look like they have absolutely no idea what they're in for, which is probably why they did it.

Mark Hamill, Carrie Fisher, and Harrison Ford in the Denver Post lunchroom on June 14, 1977, on the press tour for a movie that had just changed everything. Hamill is wearing a shirt for Fire Sale, another film he had out that year (it did not do as well). Ford has a can of Welchade Fruit Punch. Nobody in this room knows yet what the next few years are going to look like.

Orphan Annie, Denver, 1977. Five people, one band, a bridge, and the whole decade behind them. They played the bars and clubs, and somebody's dad was in the middle of all of it.

Full denim, brass belt buckle, white turtleneck, standing in front of a VW Bug in Los Angeles like he owns the block. He already had a better style than most adults in 1977.

A handstand on a skateboard, rolling through the neighborhood in a yellow jersey and bell-bottom jeans, no helmet, no audience required. He knew exactly what he was doing. The shadow on the pavement is doing its best to keep up.

Ken Westerfield in 1977, Frisbee in hand, dog at his side. By this point he'd already helped invent the sport, set world records, and organized tournaments across North America. He looks exactly like someone who spent the seventies throwing a disc farther than anyone thought possible and had no complaints about it.

Bryan Cranston and his brother, one winter stop on the two-year motorcycle trip across America they started in 1976. They worked carnivals and cafes to stretch the money, slept in hostels and missions, and kept going. This is what that looked like from the outside: two guys freezing in a parking lot next to a beat-up RV, looking like they were having the time of their lives.

He's holding a Polaroid of somewhere they've just been, she has a film camera on her hip, and there's a wall full of hats behind them. His other hand on her shoulder like he's been doing that for years already. Two people who clearly had a whole life ahead of them and absolutely no idea.

Somewhere in an arena in 1977, Rumours is playing at full volume and this kid in the Adidas shirt is working up the nerve. The woman in the halter dress has already clocked him. The whole summer is riding on the next thirty seconds.

Demi Moore, then still Demetria Guynes, fourteen years old, years away from anyone knowing her name, flipping through records at Tower Records on the Sunset Strip. The LP in her hands is Jean-Luc Ponty's Imaginary Voyage. Good taste, 1977. 

Three kids in leather jackets on Boylston Street, Boston, walking through the slush like the cold is somebody else's problem. Behind them, King Kong is playing, and In Search of Noah's Ark is up next — a double feature that could only happen in 1977. The bowl cuts are identical and fully committed.

A girl on her yellow-and-white banana-seat bike, plaid shorts, white t-shirt, no helmet, no hurry. The whole neighborhood was the route and the destination at the same time.

Two kids in matching Casper the Friendly Ghost costumes standing in the candy aisle of their grandpa's store, October 31, 1977. The plastic masks, the snap-front jumpsuits, the orange jack-o'-lantern buckets — all of it regulation issue. They are standing in front of more candy than most kids saw in a year, and they still had to go door to door for it.

Bill Murray at Elvis Presley's funeral in Memphis, August 1977. He crashed it — hopped a flight on impulse, showed up just as public visitation was ending, and talked his way onto a bus in the funeral procession the next day. The carnation boutonniere is doing the heavy lifting for the dress code.

The New York Post is propped up against the mirror. The headline says "Millions Mourn Presley." He's shaving anyway, because the morning still comes. Life in 1977 meant finding out the news like this. A headline on the sink, the world changed before breakfast.

The Space Shuttle Enterprise spent 1977 strapped to the back of a modified Boeing 747 for a series of approach and landing tests, drawing crowds wherever it went. The 747 still had its American Airlines paint job. One of these kids has a skateboard and her arms crossed. Neither of them looks particularly impressed, which is its own kind of impressive.

A woman running a one-room gas station in Knott County, Kentucky, sitting in the doorway with her sewing while she waits on the next customer. Two pumps, a dirt lot, bottles stacked along the wall. She has everything she needs and nowhere else to be.

Three kids, three bikes, and a Farrah Fawcett poster that somebody just acquired and isn't quite sure what to do with yet. A perfectly ordinary suburban driveway in California. This was a whole afternoon.

A line of volunteers raising their right hands at an Army induction ceremony in Los Angeles, 1977. Two years after the fall of Saigon, these were the first generation to enlist into a fully volunteer military. They showed up in tank tops and flip flops and flared jeans, which is to say they showed up exactly as they were.

The kid is losing his mind in the best possible way, one hand in Dad's, one hand in Eeyore's, screaming with joy in a Mickey Mouse shirt at Walt Disney World. Eeyore looks as surprised as anyone.

Nobody knows her name. The hair alone tells you everything you need to know about 1977. She has a Union 76 pin and an expression that says she has seen every kind of motorcycle and every kind of rider and is not easily impressed.

Three kids on a slushy Philadelphia street, one of them on roller skates, using a wooden chair as a goal. The cars have to wait. The game doesn't stop for weather or traffic and never did.

The Nevele was one of the last great Catskill resort hotels, and this lobby is the whole argument for it. Sputnik chandeliers, a kidney-shaped fountain, gold velvet sofas, and a carpet that demanded your full attention. A few guests were sitting around in the late afternoon, in no particular hurry. The decade had good lobbies.

Five friends on a suburban street in San Diego, leaning on a car like they've been doing it all summer. The outfits are a complete education in what 1977 looked like from the outside: tied tops, high-waisted jeans, a floral shirt, a cardigan, and one peace sign thrown for good measure. They knew exactly what they were doing.

Plaid blazer, white turtleneck, white trousers, and a full basket of eggs. He is holding a pink sugar bunny out for inspection, and his expression makes clear he has opinions about the whole situation. He dressed for this occasion, and the occasion had better appreciate it.

The tailgate is open, the ski boots are still on, and lunch is whatever was packed that morning. The station wagon was the whole operation, gear hauler and changing room and dining room all in one. Four kids and a parent who has seen enough runs for one morning.

The cashier in the KISS shirt is listening. Her colleague has already clocked the situation and formed an opinion. The customer in the white dress has something to say and the patience to say all of it. A transaction is happening here, and it is not about merchandise.

Tables stretched down the middle of the street, a checkered tablecloth, Heinz ketchup, a box of Lladró porcelain somebody brought outside for the occasion, and enough food for the whole block. The woman standing is serving. The woman at the end of the table has her eye on the photographer. Summer in Brooklyn looked like this.