Ten Records That Rocked My World

My first musical memory is connected to my babysitter, a fourteen-year-old girl who introduced me to the Beatles. When she dropped the needle on a 45 version of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" and those electric guitar chords popped out of a tiny fabric-covered speaker, my world was forever changed. Her suitcase-style record player was a treasure chest that, nearly fifty years later, still richly rewards me. More than Mad magazine, Barnabas Collins, or even girls, popular music, especially rock-and-roll, defined my youth and shaped my personality. Of the 1,500-plus albums I have owned over the years, the following ten titles give a sense of the person I became.

A Charlie Brown Christmas

Vince Guaraldi scored my early childhood. A Charlie Brown Christmas debuted on CBS when I was in first grade, and like that first Beatles single, the piano-centered signature piece, "Linus and Lucy," was instantly etched in my memory bank. Who can hear that boogie woogie rhythm without picturing the Peanuts characters dancing like zombies? And is there a more rollicking melody than "Skating" or a more melancholy holiday tune than "Christmastime Is Here"? I did not buy the CD soundtrack until I was in my twenties, but it remains the only Christmas album I play year-round (much to my wife's annoyance). I didn't realize it when I was six, but Guaraldi introduced me to the world of jazz; years later I discovered the extent to which he was influenced by Bill Evans and how Guaraldi, in turn, informed the musical voices of Liz Story and George Winston.

In the Court of the Crimson King: An Observation by King Crimson

What a title, what a kaleidoscopic musical experience, what an album cover. It still amazes me that I actually bought this LP when I was only ten years old. Of course, I would never have chosen the album on my own. My oldest brother Don took me to a boutique / record store called The Sow's Ear and placed the record in my hands. A sampling of song titles—"21st Century Schizoid Man," "I Talk to the Wind," and "March for No Reason"—tells you all you need to know. I never felt compelled to take psychedelic drugs; listening to my most adventurous music provided enough of a trip. Consider the following lyrics from "Moonchild": "She's a moonchild / Gathering the flowers in a garden, ... / Drifting on the echoes of the hours." If that doesn't warp your head, nothing will. In the coming years I plugged into King Crimson's exquisitely titled Lark's Tongues in Aspic and Starless and Bible Black, the latter taking its title from a Dylan Thomas poem. Crimson eventually led me to the Moody Blues, ELP, Jethro Tull, and Pink Floyd. More than anyone, it was brother Don, lead guitarist in a band named Gilmore, who had the most profound influence on my musical tastes. His record collection featured the likes of Spirit, the Collectors, and Ten Years After.

Abbey Road

Settling on only one Beatles album was a great challenge. I love every LP the group recorded, from the incomparable Rubber Soul and Revolver to the admittedly second-tiered Yellow Submarine and Let It Be. Abbey Road, however, was the first Beatles record that was my own, not part of my two brothers' collections. I received it as a Christmas gift in 1969, the year it was released, and no piece of vinyl was ever played more on my modest JC Penney stereo. The first side of the album, with its disjointed selection of songs, hits only one sour note, the sadistic "Maxwell's Silver Hammer." Otherwise, it's hard to pick a favorite among "Come Together," "Something," and "Oh! Darling." Even Ringo's self-penned "Octopus's Garden" is a joy. Side Two is a mostly uninterrupted suite of unfinished melodies that somehow sound great together, and no Beatles song is more beautiful than George Harrison's "Here Comes the Sun."

I have never grown tired of the Beatles' music. Their albums are in constant rotation on my iPod, and when their catalogue was remastered in 2009, I eagerly snapped up both mono and stereo boxed sets. I still get excited when "new" releases appear. I have pre-ordered On Air—Live at the BBC, Volume 2, which hits the shelves later this month. Of course, "hits the shelves" is a deceptive phrase since very little music is still sold at brick-and-mortar stores.

Jerry Jeff Walker

Jerry Jeff's self-titled LP, his Decca debut, may not be his most popular record—that distinction belongs to ¡Viva Terlingua!—but Jerry Jeff Walker is a better record. For one thing it includes two of my favorite Guy Clark songs, "That Old Time Feeling" and "L.A. Freeway." I also have a great association with Walker's own "Hill Country Rain." Years ago my older brother Tom, my best friend Tim, and I visited the Armadillo World Headquarters in Austin to see the progressive country band Greezy Wheels perform. While we were sitting under the covered Beer Garden between sets, "Hill Country Rain" played over the P.A. system right when it began to rain. I heard Jerry Jeff in concert on three occasions in the 1970s, and one of those times he was actually sober. I am pleased to report that he gave up alcohol long ago. Jerry Jeff led me to performers unlike any I had heard before—Michael Murphey (before he added the Martin to his name) Willie Nelson, Willis Alan Ramsey, Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen, and Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys.

Don Juan's Reckless Daughter

This isn't Joni Mitchell's best album, not by a long shot, but it was the first one I bought and has remained a sentimental favorite ever since it was released in 1977, my first semester in college. My sister-in-law introduced me to Mitchell's music, and I quickly realized that Joni was the greatest female guitarist and songwriter of her generation. Several musicians who were influenced by Mitchell—Rickie Lee Jones, Shawn Colvin, Sheryl Crow, and Patty Griffin—subsequently became some of my favorite artists. Don Juan's Reckless Daughter also introduced me to bassist Jaco Pastorius and saxophonist Wayne Shorter, both of whom were in the jazz fusion band Weather Report at the time. Don Juan finds Mitchell at the height of experimentation. The style of the album is difficult to pigeonhole. It's part folk, part rock-and-roll, part jazz, part overblown improvisation (the sixteen-minute "Paprika Plains" fills the second side of the double album). While the production values have not dated well, the songs still sound new, and I am always surprised by the places her melodies go. As Mitchell herself says, in a cartoon bubble in the artwork, "In my dweems we fwy."

Look closely at the cover of Don Juan's Reckless Daughter. The black man on the left-hand side is actually Mitchell herself. That detail hints at the sly nature of this album. My advice to any serious music collector is to pick up every one of Mitchell's nineteen albums.

Breakfast in the Field

Michael Hedges' debut recording, released in 1981, is often called New Age music, in part because it was released on Will Ackerman's Windham Hill record label, but it's not an accurate description. I'm not sure how to categorize Breakfast in the Field—it captures a unique style of acoustic guitar by one of the best players in the last thirty years. Listen carefully and you will hear echoes of Joni Mitchell and Stephen Stills, whose unique sounds Hedges has managed to blend. The album is a mere thirty-four minutes long, but every track is a winner—from the quiet "The Happy Couple" (which sounds overdubbed, though it's not) to "Funky Avocado" (made all the more funky by the addition of Michael Manring's fretless bass lines) to the title track (which sounds like it was written and recorded in a single two-minute take). Breakfast in the Field continues to be one of the most frequently played albums in my collection. Sadly, Hedges died in 1997 when his car went over a cliff in Northern California.

That's the Way of the World

I had heard Earth Wind & Fire's music on the radio for years (their recording of "Got to Get You into My Life" has to be the best cover version of a Beatles song, even if it appears on the wretched 1978 disco-inflected soundtrack for the film Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, starring the Bee Gees), but I did not pick up their albums until a college friend introduced me to several of their albums. From 1974's Open Our Eyes to 1979's I Am, the group could do no wrong; every one of the albums during that period is a winner. That's the Way of the World gets my vote as their best LP because it includes my favorite single, "Shining Star." The real power of Earth Wind & Fire is in the infectious nature of their music. I cannot listen to them without being in a good mood. The tight vocal arrangements (and unbelievably high harmonies), the intensity of the horn arrangements, and the collective energy of the band cannot be suppressed. The only thing difficult about listening to Earth Wind & Fire is keeping the volume down; I always want to turn the stereo up louder than I should.

Five Leaves Left

Nick Drake did not become widely known until the song "Pink Moon" appeared in a 1999 Volkswagen ad, but I picked up a copy of his debut, Five Leaves Left, in the mid-1980s. It's a good thing I started with this album and not the overproduced follow-up, Bryter Layter. Otherwise, I may have given up on him and not gone on to the elegant Pink Moon album, the last recording released in his lifetime. In addition to Drake's acoustic guitar, Five Leaves Left features Danny Thompson on double bass and Richard Thompson on electric guitar. Actually, it was the latter performer (original lead guitarist for Fairport Convention) who led me to the enigmatic Drake. I have followed Richard Thompson's career for more than thirty years and have seen him in concert four times. Try as I might, I still can't make sense of Drake's lyrics, but that doesn't make them any less fascinating. In "River Man," for instance, he says, "Going to tell him all I can / About the plan / For the lilac time," adding, "If he tells me all he knows / About the way his river flows / I don't suppose / It's meant for me." His cryptic words only add to his mystique and the mystery surrounding his death at age twenty-six.

Kind of Blue

Imagine that you are walking into a Manhattan street at midnight. A late winter storm has blown through, so you turn your jacket collar up. You hop into a cab and coast through the rainy streets of a still bustling city. The music that plays in your head is "Freddie Freeloader," the second track on Kind of Blue. I'm not going out on a limb when I assert that Kind of Blue is the best jazz album ever recorded. I defy anyone to name a tighter recording, a more influential release, or a more precise example of American jazz at its peak. What is most amazing is the fact that the five tracks that comprise the album were recorded in only two days in March and April of 1959. From the first time I played the LP, I knew it was something special. The cool rhythm is set by Bill Evans' piano, Paul Chambers' bass, and Jimmy Cobbs' drums, and over that John Coltrane and Cannonball Adderley improvise on saxophone. Miles Davis' trumpet, playing with and without a mute, is your cabbie, so there's no need to buckle up. You'll be fine.

My copy of Kind of Blue makes up the fourth disc of a six-CD set of Miles Davis and John Coltrane's Complete Columbia Recordings (released in 2004).

The Orchestral Music of Debussy, Album 1

The greatest gift my first wife ever gave me just might be The Orchestral Music of Debussy, Album 1. Up until that time my knowledge of classical music was limited to what I had played in high school band. Debussy was an eye-opener. The composer wrote The Children's Corner for his four-year-old daughter, Chou-Chou. The six-movement piece celebrates the innocence of childhood play, and like most of the pieces on the album, it was written for piano and orchestrated later. As much as I enjoy Debussy's orchestral works, his original compositions for piano are even more powerful. Over the years I have continued to add CDs of his music to my collection. His Complete Works for Solo Piano were recorded by Alain Planès on a piano similar to the one Debussy used to write his music. This 5-CD set, released in 2009, is now my favorite collection of the composer's music.

Like so many other albums I have owned over the years, The Orchestral Music of Debussy, Album I, opened many doors for me. There are many French composers I have discovered since (including Maurice Ravel, Erik Satie, and Francis Poulenc), and my appreciation for serious music is still growing, even as I continue to listen to those records that defined my youth.

The Last Paperboy

I started my first paying job at the age of twelve. That's when I became a paperboy, delivering the Amarillo Globe-Times, the afternoon newspaper in my hometown, something I did for nearly four years. Other than in my current position as a community college teacher, it was the longest period I ever held a job.

I loved being a paperboy. It gave me a sense of freedom and taught me what it meant to work independently. As long as I delivered the papers by suppertime, I could go at my own pace. I spent my time walking outdoors, something I still enjoy doing, and met a lot of interesting people along the way. It doesn't sound like much, but my paper route provided enough money to buy the things that gave me the greatest pleasures—the latest Doobie Brothers album, a Jolly Rancher Fire Stix, or a Dr Pepper. It also allowed me to go to the movies with my friends on Saturdays.  I even managed to put a little money into a savings account.

The hardest part of being a paperboy was collecting money from my customers. While most people paid on time, a few put me off, but I eventually learned how to guilt them. I explained that whether they paid or not, I had to turn over a set amount of money to my route manager, and any monthly subscription that I failed to collect would come out of my own pocket. It always felt strange to count up the money I had collected, $100 or so in cash and checks, and then hand most of it to someone else.

At Christmas I got bonuses—tips, gift certificates, and occasional small gifts. One of my customers drove a delivery truck for Mac Tools, and one year he gave me a personal grooming kit. Every item was stamped with the Mac name (in that uniquely curved logo the company still uses). To this day I cannot clip my fingernails without thinking of the Mac clippers that customer gave me.  Too bad I have forgotten his name.

Oddly, one of the best parts of the job was delivering papers on Sunday morning, the one day of the week when the morning and afternoon editions were combined. Between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m., my route manager would drop two bundles on the corner. Because my bedroom was at the front of our house, I usually heard the familiar thump thump just before he drove away. The Sunday paper was much larger (hence, the two bundles instead of the usual single one). It happened that my route was on my own street, and I lived exactly halfway along it. This allowed me to divide the delivery in two, loading up half the papers in my bag.

On snowy mornings I used to wrap the papers in the relative warmth of the garage. That way I could wear gloves on the route and go more quickly. There was something peaceful about walking quietly through people's front yards and gently tossing a paper onto their porches. The solitude appealed to me the most, that and the soft sound of the paper sliding over concrete and stopping at the door. Even on the coldest winter mornings, I took great pleasure in stepping through a crunchy layer of snow and hearing the repeated sound as my boots broke the surface. Every so often I'd look back at my footsteps, always arcing, never in a straight line.

Then, there was the art of the fold, knowing how to set up an even rhythm—fold, wrap, toss; fold, wrap, toss. There was a correct way to hold the paper, from the fold with the bottom side facing down. To do otherwise would be to go against the natural crease of the paper. I always folded into thirds—right side first, followed by left, and then a fold down the center. With that final fold I rolled a rubber band off my left hand, twisted it over once with my right, and then readied the paper for the toss. I can still feel the sensation of newsprint on my hands, which turned black within minutes of starting the route.

The first year I was a paperboy, my older brother Tommy also had a route, one street over. On Sunday mornings, after delivering our papers, we often went to Dunkin Donuts. I loved the sleepy feeling of walking in the dead of night for no other reason than to drink a cup of coffee and to gobble a hot glazed donut. By the time we headed home, the first hint of twilight appeared in the east, but as long as we made it back before sunrise, we could safely crawl back into bed and—if we were lucky—ditch Sunday school.