Among the Wildflowers
There's a reason why music from The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin has endured for decades: It's really fucking good. Classic rock, or "dad rock" as I've taken to calling it after years of being playfully teased for listening to oldies stations on the radio, just have that timeless quality in a blend of luck and magic usually fueled by soaring guitars, a groovy bassline, and a propulsive drumbeat. They're bands I would listen to riding in the back of my dad's old, blue 1980 Toyota Corolla, the vinyl covers flaking off revealing the aged, yellow foam padding underneath. They're bands that my father had old records of that would crackle from the turntable he had had since college that warm static flow emanating off the wood panel walls throughout the basement.
And the first person I knew by name to guide me through that magical mystery tour into the great wide open that is rock and roll, damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead was a man by the name of Tom Petty.
In complete contrast to what was on MTV at the time, Tom Petty was the musical working class hero that hadn't existed since Bruce Springsteen ditched Nebraska and got jacked for Born in the USA. With a hangdog face and deep, sad eyes, Petty looked and sounded like a guy that had seen some shit and had a story to tell but, at the same time, that sense of world-weariness was usually accompanied with a battered smile that indicated everything would be alright by the end.
Petty had made his debut with his trusty band, The Heartbreakers, when my father started college but they didn't really hit the big time in the US until my dad was a couple months out of college training to be all he could be with the army. While my dad started to fall out with contemporary pop radio (Being stationed in Korea didn't help there, I'm sure), he still kept up with Petty who reached the height of his powers and cultural relevance in the following decade.
And that's when I come on the scene.
Before I was listening to The Beatles (That introduction is a whole different story for a whole different day) or Elvis or anything, it was Tom Petty, either with The Heartbreakers, his supergroup side project The Traveling Wilburys (Kind of wild that I was introduced to George Harrison through The Wilburys before The Fab Four), or running solo.
The first track I remember hearing was off his solo debut, Full Moon Fever, my father listening to a cassette of the album in the car. The opener is Free Fallin' the perfect introspective driving song without any angsty baggage as Petty's weathered voice is matched by dreamy guitars and backing vocals. Even though Petty was crooning wistfully about Los Angeles, it all felt just as applicable to the Falls Church neighborhoods my father was driving me through. The following track, is the more upbeat I Won't Back Down, with Petty joined by his fellow Traveling Wilbury George Harrison. By track three (Love Is the Long Road) I would get bored only to be reinvigorated by Runnin' Down a Dream, the perfect track to get a toddler bouncing up and down in the backseat to that dirty main riff.
Next up from the nascent years was actually a Traveling Wilburys number, End of the Line, which closed out their second and final album which was ending its promotional run just as Full Moon Fever began. Petty takes point on the verses while the rest of the band takes the choruses and really exemplifies what Petty's sound was across all his acts: Straight-up Americana, not leaning too heavily into country, western, southern rock, or traditional rock and roll (Whatever the fuck that is) while heavily influenced by all of it with a rollicking rhythm and guitars fitted with steel instead of nylon.
That sound was a product of Petty's look in an era where rock stars teased out their hair and wore spandex like Van Halen and Def Leppard, Petty usually stuck to jeans and a black leather or tan suede jacket; comfort was the goal, not flash. The Heartbreakers and Wilburys emulated this because none of those guys had anything to prove; they let the music do all the talking for them.
As I got older, I had kind of forgotten about Petty but, going into high school, I picked up the guitar and remembered my old gateway into rock and roll and found that Petty tunes were usually remarkably easy to play; Free Fallin' is only three chords! I quickly learned all my favorites from Learning to Fly and You Wreck Me to Refugee and American Girl; my appreciation for Petty having been resurrected as I could now play along with old childhood hero.
Fastforward to last week.
Taking a train to New York, I tend to listen to a lot of Americana and blasted Springsteen, The Band, and, of course, Petty as I watched the East Coast from the familiar streets of DC to the forests and fields of Maryland to the burned out brick buildings of Philadelphia and finally the refineries lining Northern New Jersey before settling back in Penn Station.
As I exited out into Manhattan, I check my phone and saw a breaking story about Tom Petty having died. At first, I kind of shook it off, still caught up in the thrill of being back in New York. But as I sat down from walking through Midtown, it all hit me and the world became a poorer place for losing him but richer for having remembered all he accomplished from that tiny warehouse studio in Van Nuys.
He will be missed.
And the first person I knew by name to guide me through that magical mystery tour into the great wide open that is rock and roll, damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead was a man by the name of Tom Petty.
In complete contrast to what was on MTV at the time, Tom Petty was the musical working class hero that hadn't existed since Bruce Springsteen ditched Nebraska and got jacked for Born in the USA. With a hangdog face and deep, sad eyes, Petty looked and sounded like a guy that had seen some shit and had a story to tell but, at the same time, that sense of world-weariness was usually accompanied with a battered smile that indicated everything would be alright by the end.
Petty had made his debut with his trusty band, The Heartbreakers, when my father started college but they didn't really hit the big time in the US until my dad was a couple months out of college training to be all he could be with the army. While my dad started to fall out with contemporary pop radio (Being stationed in Korea didn't help there, I'm sure), he still kept up with Petty who reached the height of his powers and cultural relevance in the following decade.
And that's when I come on the scene.
Before I was listening to The Beatles (That introduction is a whole different story for a whole different day) or Elvis or anything, it was Tom Petty, either with The Heartbreakers, his supergroup side project The Traveling Wilburys (Kind of wild that I was introduced to George Harrison through The Wilburys before The Fab Four), or running solo.
The first track I remember hearing was off his solo debut, Full Moon Fever, my father listening to a cassette of the album in the car. The opener is Free Fallin' the perfect introspective driving song without any angsty baggage as Petty's weathered voice is matched by dreamy guitars and backing vocals. Even though Petty was crooning wistfully about Los Angeles, it all felt just as applicable to the Falls Church neighborhoods my father was driving me through. The following track, is the more upbeat I Won't Back Down, with Petty joined by his fellow Traveling Wilbury George Harrison. By track three (Love Is the Long Road) I would get bored only to be reinvigorated by Runnin' Down a Dream, the perfect track to get a toddler bouncing up and down in the backseat to that dirty main riff.
Next up from the nascent years was actually a Traveling Wilburys number, End of the Line, which closed out their second and final album which was ending its promotional run just as Full Moon Fever began. Petty takes point on the verses while the rest of the band takes the choruses and really exemplifies what Petty's sound was across all his acts: Straight-up Americana, not leaning too heavily into country, western, southern rock, or traditional rock and roll (Whatever the fuck that is) while heavily influenced by all of it with a rollicking rhythm and guitars fitted with steel instead of nylon.
That sound was a product of Petty's look in an era where rock stars teased out their hair and wore spandex like Van Halen and Def Leppard, Petty usually stuck to jeans and a black leather or tan suede jacket; comfort was the goal, not flash. The Heartbreakers and Wilburys emulated this because none of those guys had anything to prove; they let the music do all the talking for them.
As I got older, I had kind of forgotten about Petty but, going into high school, I picked up the guitar and remembered my old gateway into rock and roll and found that Petty tunes were usually remarkably easy to play; Free Fallin' is only three chords! I quickly learned all my favorites from Learning to Fly and You Wreck Me to Refugee and American Girl; my appreciation for Petty having been resurrected as I could now play along with old childhood hero.
Fastforward to last week.
Taking a train to New York, I tend to listen to a lot of Americana and blasted Springsteen, The Band, and, of course, Petty as I watched the East Coast from the familiar streets of DC to the forests and fields of Maryland to the burned out brick buildings of Philadelphia and finally the refineries lining Northern New Jersey before settling back in Penn Station.
As I exited out into Manhattan, I check my phone and saw a breaking story about Tom Petty having died. At first, I kind of shook it off, still caught up in the thrill of being back in New York. But as I sat down from walking through Midtown, it all hit me and the world became a poorer place for losing him but richer for having remembered all he accomplished from that tiny warehouse studio in Van Nuys.
He will be missed.
