“If you ask me, you are both off the mark. Last night was about two people ruled by very powerful superegos, tortured by them, who found a chance, however misguided, to break through and rediscover their ids together. Call me an old softy, but that’s how I see it.” – Frasier
The Boy and Pugsley dancing in the rain, which makes my id sing.
I’m not sure exactly when I first heard a Tom Petty song. Where I grew up was media vacuum. On TV, we had three channels, plus PBS® (Who watched PBS©? Nobody.). Unless it was nighttime, we only got two radio stations, and both of them were AM stations. One played country music, so, for me it might as well not have exisited. The other played a complicated mix of top 40 from four years previously, news, and an hour of mariachi music at lunchtime. It signed off (shut down) at 11PM.
But at night . . . at night the mighty KOMA blasted out 50,000 watts of rock and roll at 1520 on the AM dial, the ionosphere conducted the signal hundreds of miles and back toward earth and over the mountains to my house. It’s probable that I first heard Tom Petty on some cool summer night (down to 50 ˚F most summer nights). Maybe it was “Don’t Do Me Like That.”
But Tom was always a bit older than I was, both in age and in the issues he raised in his musical themes. Me? I gravitated toward metal, mainly hairy metal, Ozzy™. Mötley Crüe®. The Scorpions©. Despite the previous list, what I liked wasn’t all hair metal. I liked “normal” music, too.
I ended up on a strange quest: I’d heard a song, once, and I’d try to tell people what it sounded like, and say intelligent things like “it goes Da Da Dadum dadum de-da dum Ohh-Aiii-Uh . . . Uh.” The record store clerk would nod knowingly, and point to a cassette or album. It would turn out to be Judas Priest™. Which I really, really liked. Or Molly Hatchet©, which was kinda okay. I would dutifully buy the tape or album, zip home (first on my ten speed, later in my pickup) and then listen to the album. Normally, in the first song I would know if it was the same singer. Always the answer was it wasn’t. But these mistakes were beautiful – I can still remember sitting on the couch on a dim, overcast day, the clouds pregnant with snow that had yet to fall, blasting “The Hellion” and thinking . . . “okay, life is really cool.”
Imagine that this song played every time you entered a room. I imagine Google® is working on that.
Again, none of them were the band I was looking for. I think I spent $300 or so on every single album that featured leather, scantily clad females, and Spandex® that I could find. For reference, I had all of these as either cassettes or albums. Album cover copyrights belong to their respective corporate overlords.
Funky font? Check. Picture that looks like something the disturbed kid drew in art class? Check.
Satan? Check. Priest in glasses being thrown into a pit of fire? Check.
Hmmm. I don’t know about you, but something screams, John Wilder, BUY THIS ALBUM NOW!
Spandex®? Check. Leather? Check. Canadian? Check. But . . . they’re dudes. I bought this on cassette, so, thankfully, the picture was tiny.
Swords? Check. Giant flying leathery chicken? Check? Leather . . . on a girl this time? Check.
Wow. Just . . . wow.
I never could figure out what sort of naughty thing they were supposed to be doing. In the day. At a drive in. With both feet out the window. Probably ripping the labels off of pillows?
Until . . . like Columbus I discovered what was already there (and broken up by the time I found them): Led Zeppelin. True Fact: Christopher Columbus first discovered Robert Plant picking onions in a Nevada prison camp, and introduced him to Jimmy Page at a ballet class, but would take no credit because he wanted Led Zeppelin to do disco music.
So, I listened again to Zeppelin. “Yeah, it might be that guy singing?”
It was. It was this song:
This was the song. Yay!
But I’d have to special order the album, since they didn’t have Led Zeppelin III in stock.
Nope. Too much commitment.
As you might have been able to tell by the artists and album covers above, my musical tastes were driven by my id.
If you don’t remember your Freud, he broke the brain into three bits:
- The Super Ego, which, like your dad, is for criticism and moralizing.
- The Ego, which is the organized human who lives on the main floor and deals with society in a realistic manner, and
- The Id, where all base instincts (Sex, PEZ® and Rock and Roll) live in the basement of your brain.
I listened to a lot of rock that was id driven. And why not, I was working on a multi-decade winning streak. Sad songs were for people who occasionally lost stuff. But Tom Petty’s music was deeper. It spoke to the conflict between the Super Ego and Ego, an intellectual and emotional conflict I really didn’t have. I was riding high on year after year of success, slaying dragons and charging the castle. Why would I question anything? Party on, dudes!!
It wasn’t that Tom and I didn’t get along – he was no Bruce Springsteen or Johnny Depp, who are both dead to me. They know why.
Really, it took life kicking me in the teeth more than once to move me from the normal reckless abandon that I attacked life with to a person who asks the kinds of questions that Tom Petty discusses in his songs. I still recall having a conversation with The Mrs. when I began to realize that I liked Tom Petty:
Me: “You know, the older I get, the more I understand Tom Petty.”
The Mrs., shaking her head, raising her voice a little: “Can’t hear you . . . blow dryer on.”
But now Mr. Petty is speaking to me again – he died.
It’s not unusual for rock stars to die young – it’s like we pick an unstable, talented personality and then shove massive amounts of cash at them. I’m just surprised that 90% of them aren’t dead by 30. Just my luck that after the apocalypse the Twinkie®, the cockroach, and Johnny Depp will still be around.
But Tom Petty won’t be around, even though The Postman (movie) promised me that he would be. His death hit me (oddly) harder than I’d anticipated. He hadn’t been my life’s soundtrack, though I’d clearly been listening to him more recently.
He made it to 66. According to the CDC, 83% of white non-Hispanics will make it to 67. Only 1% of 66 year olds die. If you make it to 66, your mean life expectancy is to make it to 86. So, from this data, he died early. But he didn’t look out of shape. Far from it – he’d just finished a part of a concert tour comprised of 50 dates in five months, which can take a toll on 26 year olds, though I presume at 26 it’s the Jack Daniels® and late nights and not the (presumed) warm tea, oatmeal cookies and obligatory cellophane wrapped butterscotch hard candies that old people like that filled the Heartbreaker’s dressing room.
Though Mr. Petty was quite a bit older than me, I guess his death hit me like it did, because even at 66 it seemed he should be too young to die, just as his voice entered my soundtrack with a greater frequency and volume. It makes me feel that much more mortal, and therefore more committed to getting into the best shape possible now so I can be in the 50% that make it to 82 years.
Tom Petty inspired millions in many ways – through emotional ups and downs. He inspired artists everywhere that they could pick up a guitar and play and that their music would, like his, give them a slice of immortality. And guys like me who want to keep runnin’ down our dreams. I think this is the part where I get the dragon, right?