I remember the first time that I heard it I shut it off almost instantly.  After only fifteen seconds worth I was long gone. I was equal parts confused, awed and inspired and I was thinking maybe I had gotten more than I bargained for.  That was the moment I became a true music fan.

It was just over twenty years ago that I was a sophomore in high school.  I was ambitious and curious to a fault; always peering around corners. I had my interests and one of them was music.  Actually, music wasn't so much an interest as it was an anchor. Like any good sixteen year old I was impressionable and wanted to be part of the scene.  So much happening all around me and there was so much that I wanted to be a part of. I needed something to latch on to help me make sense of it all. That was when the music started to play.

Growing up, music was always playing in my house and when it was, it meant fun.  Sometimes it was just with the family and sometimes it was with friends.  No matter what the occasion, when the music played we focused on the fun and the good times rolled. Those times left deep impressions on me. The music was synonymous with the feeling that everything was was going to plan, everything was going to be alright.  Getting lost in the sound was good for the soul; I still feel that way today.

So, I was sixteen and in search of the scene.  I remember being at a party...a "senior" party. These parties were the big time. These people had a good two, three year head start on "cool" and I was dong my best to play the part without playing the fool (which, unfortunately, happened more times than not that year).  In between lurking in the shadows, trips to the keg and staring hopelessly (hopefully) at the hottest chicks the school had to offer, I was hanging out by the stereo. There was a pile of mix tapes on the table that kept getting popped in the player throughout the night.  With all that was going on, I couldn't really focus on the sounds, but I could tell that the music was setting the pace of the party.  Fists pumped when the first riffs of a familiar song kicked off.  Back slaps and bear hugs occured when songs swelled and swooned.  Crowds swayed when they sang out the choruses in unison.  The good times were rolling.

There was one guy who seemed to own the stereo. Come to find out, he owned all of the tapes. He was playing tunes and he was in charge of the pulse and knew that he had his finger on it.  The sequencing of the songs was perfect.  One, two, three songs in a row brought the crowd up with some hard charging favourites and then set it down easy on a familiar sing-a-long. It was obvious to me that this guy knew what he was doing.  My tastes at the time were in transition. As a music listener I was the equivalent a headless chicken running in circles.  That fact hit me like a runaway train the next morning when I played the mix tape I stole.

Most likely it was the ambition/curiosity cocktail I spoke of earlier (or maybe it was just the beer), but I knew I had to get some of what he had...so, I stold one of his tapes. Yes, when no one was looking I randomly ripped one of the tapes out of the pile and shoved it in the inside pocket of my jean-jacket.  It wasn't until the morning that I remembered that I had it.  I remember pulling that tape out and looking at it.  One side said, "Side A" and the other said "Side B" and nothing else (the "A" and the "B" were circled.  I'm not sure why that was, but every mixed tape I ever made after that had a circle around the "A" & "B").  It was so unassuming and uneventful to look at; I had no way of knowing what would happen next.

I stepped up to my tape deck and slid that sucker into place.  It was almost rewound to "B" so I finished the job and started from there.  After 15 seconds worth I was long gone.  I quickly poked the stop button and said out loud, "what the hell is this?!".  It started out slow and quiet, but had the impact of a thousand screaming guitars on full blast.  There was so much texture and space in the music and it all just seemed to fall into place(!?). The twangy acoustic guitar.  The thumping, plodding drum.  The methodical pulsing piano...that rose up into a melodic and quick crescendo. The vocal...yes, the vocals. The seemingly out of sync harmonies strained and wobbled in an unthinkable way. But...it was the lead vocal that caused me to hit the stop button.

I knew that as soon as I heard what he was saying that he was speaking the truth.  I had no idea what he was talking about but I believed him...wholeheartedly.  To this day, I don't think I have heard a more truthful and honest vocal than what comes up from inside Levon Helm and comes out of his mouth. When he said that he "pulled into Nazareth" I didn't know if he meant Nazareth in Israel or Nazareth, Pennsylvania...and I didn't care.  I believed him. I also believed that he was "feelin ' 'bout half past dead".  What? Why? That was more than I could handle and that is when I hit stop.  I had to contemplate what just happened. Why did I believe this guy, who was he, why was he on the ropes, and what were those sounds?!

The song was "The Weight" and it was being played by The Band and that was the day I became a true music fan. I went on to listen to that song again and again and again that morning; I concentrated on the music; I focused on the words; I listened to the sound of Levon and Danko's vocal trade-offs.  What really struck me though was the story they were telling/playing for me.  This is where I really got hooked and this is what still hooks me to this day.  The stories that are being told through the music, the back-stories of those who made the music and my own stories that are created from these musical experiences are what turns me on. That is what makes the music come alive for me. It is why I listen and why the songs, lyrics and people are inextricably linked to my being. 

What was on the rest of that tape is lost to me.  All I really remember is that exact moment when The Weight came strolling out of my speakers and how it made me feel. After that I started to go searching other the sounds and stories. I had a few Stones albums and prior to that moment I listened to them on face value. I just assumed that the sounds and stories were Mick & Keef's...little did I know.  I read up on their influences and found my way to Clarksdale, Mississippi and the West Side of Chicago where I found Charlie Patton and Otis Rush.  And then on up to Detroit Michigan where I boogied with John Lee Hooker.  Then I hopped a few Greyhounds on down to Memphis where I looked in the front window of Sun Records and caught a glimpse of Johnny Cash playing the boom-chicka-boom for Mr. Phillips. I stuck out a thumb to help get me to 926 East McLemore Avenue in South Memphis, home of Stax Records, where I listened in on Booker T. & The MGs back up Otis Redding on hit after hit.

I've spent a lot of time in these places and I am a better man for it. And like the bluesmen, country singers and folk troubadours before me, I'm pulled by the lure of going around in search of the sounds and to share my stories.  If you want to know where I have been, have a look: Judd's Juke Joint
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This is dedicated to all of those characters in my many stories created through a lifetime of going around and finding and listening to music. You know who you are. Thanks.

Check out Part 2 of this story: The Ballad of the Music Fan and the Stolen Mix Tape (Part 2): The Road Goes on Forever...

Check out Part 3 of this story: The Ballad of the Music Fan and the Stolen Mix Tape (Part 3): Sometimes you can't make it on your own...