Think of 15 albums that had such a profound effect on you: they changed your life or the way you looked at it. They sucked you in and took you over for days, weeks, months, years. These are the albums that you can use to identify time, places, people, emotions. They might not be what you listen to now, but these are the albums that, no matter how they were thought of, musically shaped your world.
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1. Kenny Rogers — Greatest Hits
My parents' Oldsmobile had several cassettes in heavy rotation, including Neil Diamond, Don Ho and Elvis. Kenny Rogers was the one I looked forward to. Every song was a story, and I spent hours imagining what all of the characters were like, and what they would do once the song was over. I knew every word to every song on the album, and could probably still belt out "Coward of the County" if someone asked.
2. Huey Lewis and the News — Sports
It says something about my early life that the most rebellious act I could think of was listening to an album (courtesy of Hans) that included both a song about drugs and one in which the lead singer almost said the word "ass." In later years I developed more of an appreciation for Huey Lewis — I really liked his laid-back, I'll-do-whatever-I-want attitude — and still fantasize that I'll run into him one of these days while walking around Mill Valley and challenge him to a game of pool, just like on the album cover.
3. The Kinks — Come Dancing With The Kinks: The Best of the Kinks 1977-1986
I ordered this cassette from Columbia House (remember the "19 Albums for a Penny" offer that appeared in "Parade" magazine, where you filled in the little gold box for your bonus album? It was a great deal for a kid in a town with no record store) because I liked the song "Come Dancing." That song turned out to be merely the gateway drug: the whole album was like the "1,001 Nights," with every song transporting me into another world, from the gas crisis of the '70s to a lonely lover in the Australian desert to a sad sack dreaming of Superman. It's continued to be a part of my life ever since — the last song I played as a college DJ was "Better Things."
4. Pink Floyd — The Wall
I think every American male my age has his own story about The Wall. Mine came in bits and pieces: roller-skating to "Another Brick In The Wall Part II" as a child, hearing snippets of "The Trial" on a mixtape Josh made for me, and finally having my mind blown by the awful majesty of the film with Bill. I don't really listen to "The Wall" these days — I never picked it up on CD — but like so many things that happened to me in high school, I wouldn't be the person I am today if I hadn't lived through it.
5. They Might Be Giants — They Might Be Giants
I saw the video for "Don't Let's Start" on Dr. Demento's Top 20 Most Demented Video Countdown — two nerdy, nerdy guys playing guitar and accordion while giant, sepia-toned cardboard heads rolled across the background — and knew immediately that I had never heard anything like it, and that this was going to change my life. I finally found the album in a Newport, Rhode Island music store the following summer. I've met quite a few TMBG fans since then (and even developed a few instant crushes on women who said they loved them), but somewhat selfishly, I always think of them as "my" band.
6. Indigo Girls — Nomads Indians Saints
Andy, Jason and I were still getting to know each other when we biked from our college dorm to Audio Wizard in Mount Vernon to pick up copies of this album. I had fallen in love with the band two summers previous (literally; Andy had to take me aside and explain to me why Emily Saliers would probably never be interested in me). We brought it back to Kenyon and listened to the whole thing without saying a word. Hearing it now still makes me think of the smell of cut grass in September, of leaning back in an Adirondack chair and staring at every star in the Ohio sky.
7. Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers — Hard Promises
It's hard to explain now, but during the summer of '92 I really believed that Tom Petty was singing to me — or at least singing about my life — on every track on this album. I listened to the cassette over and over during the last great recession, and while it didn't solve any of the problems I had at the time, it made me feel better to think that someone, somewhere understood them.
8. Various Artists — Mash It Up, Vol. 3
I'd heard ska before — Julia had introduced me to English Beat and the Toasters while we were in college, and I'd even taken her to a Skatelites show at the Paradise — but I wouldn't have called myself a fan until Dave played this compilation during a trip to the Caribbean. A few weeks later, I went to see the Allstonians and Beat Soup play at a beer-stained Dutch oven of a club called Local 186, and I was hooked. I spent the next two years going to two and three shows a weekend, spending nights on Kristen's floor and dancing for hours in smoke-filled bars and lounges. I've heard that Beat Soup and the Allstonians might be reuniting for a show in April; I've seriously considered flying east just to see them one more time.
9. John Hiatt — Walk On
Katy gave me this CD during my first trip to California, and I put it on while my dad and I were working on his boat. We didn't say much — he tinkered with the engine while I waxed the hull — but afterward he asked me who the singer was (which made sense: a gravelly-voiced vocalist going on about dogs, trains and the West is my dad's cup of tea exactly). It's something we've shared ever since. It's also my favorite album to listen to while hiking.
10. Dar Williams — Mortal City
It takes a great album to survive the demise of a relationship. After our breakup, I had no desire to listen to Ellis Paul, Patty Griffin or any of the other folk artists my ex-girlfriend had shared with me. But I couldn't stop listening to Dar Williams, maybe because she didn't take herself that seriously — or because the first track on the album, "As Cool As I Am," became an anthem that helped convince me to keep going.
11. Otis Redding — The Very Best Of Otis Redding
For a few short years, WERS-FM broadcast a show called "The Soul Bucket" on Saturday nights. The DJ, Matt the Swinging Cat ("gonna make your knees freeze like Swiss cheese, your brain insane like Novocaine, your bladder splatter like pancake batter, your liver quiver at the bottom of the Chaaaaarles River...") introduced me to singers like Solomon Burke, Louis Jordan, Garnet Mimms and Barrance Whitfield. But no one quite reached me — then, or ever — the way Otis Redding did: if it's possible to experience a religious conversion through music, then that's what happened to me the first time I heard "That's How Strong My Love Is."
12. The Sheila Divine — The New Parade
I'd only heard one Sheila Divine song before Brad talked me into seeing them at T.T. the Bear's, so I wasn't prepared for the experience — like having a locomotive barrel into my frontal lobe. I don't think either of us missed another of their shows until that last glorious concert at the Paradise. I rarely hear them these days, but when one of their songs comes up on the iPod, as happened this morning at the gym, I'm pumped up for the rest of the day.
13. Tom Waits — Closing Time
I spent five years teaching and advising the student newspaper at what had been my high school. After one of our layout sessions for the paper ended — they sometimes ran past midnight — and the last student had pulled out of the parking lot, I'd throw on "Closing Time" (which Trish had copied for me during my first trip to San Francisco) and listen to that grizzled voice echo through the halls while I walked around the empty school, shutting off lights, locking doors and enjoying the moment alone.
14. Death Cab For Cutie — Plans
Sometimes an album can be a lifeline. Steve sent me copies of dozens of CDs a few years ago when I was going through a very rough time. I put the Death Cab album on one night while playing games with some friends. I don't think I took it out of the CD player for weeks, except for those times when I wanted to listen to it in the car. It was exactly the right disc at the right time.
15. Chris Isaak — Baja Sessions
I had a hard time adjusting after moving to California, and one of my consolations was digging through the used CD bins at Amoeba Records. I picked up "Baja Sessions" for its cover of "Sweet Leilani" (a throwback to my Don Ho days). It's since become my symbol of everything I like about California: the relaxed rhythms, blend of cultures and sheer bravado feels like recorded sunshine to me. Nam took me to see Chris Isaak at the Fillmore for my birthday last year, and hearing him sing "Two Hearts," his cover of Roy Orbison's "Only the Lonely" and yes, "Sweet Leilani" was the best present I could imagine.
Here are the runners up: The Police — Synchronicity; Crowded House — Crowded House; The Beatles — The Beatles (White Album); Sinead O'Connor — I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got; Bob Dylan — Blood On The Tracks; Peter Gabriel — Us; The Samples — No Room; Counting Crows — August And Everything After; Morphine — Yes; Kevin Connolly — Little Town; Bim Skala Bim — Live At The Paradise; Dave Matthews/Tim Reynolds — Live At Luther College; Lucinda Williams — Car Wheels On a Gravel Road; The Postal Service — Give Up; k.d. lang — Hymns of the 49th Parallel; Guster — Ganging Up On The Sun; Steve Earle — Washington Square Serenade.
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