🎸 Turn It Up!

Because silence is overrated—and this life was meant to be played at full volume.

They say smell is the strongest sense tied to memory, but I'd argue it's music. Because while a scent can stop you in your tracks, music grabs you by the soul and drags you all the way back. A single chord, the crack of a snare, or a thunderclap of guitar fuzz can collapse time in on itself and drop you square in the middle of a summer you thought you'd forgotten.

For me, music didn't just accompany memory, it stored it. Like a second bloodstream, it carried everything I ever felt but didn't have words for. I didn't grow up with a Walkman or earbuds. I had a GTO with a trunk full of speakers, an 8-track player that needed finesse and quick reflexes, and enough Columbia House tapes to rattle the bolts loose. I didn't just like my music loud, I engineered it to rattle the dash, shake the door posts, and make the rearview mirror dance like it was keeping time.

The Boys Are Back in Town

And it started early. I was fifteen in 1976, learner's permit in my back pocket, though nobody in Picher paid much attention to that. That summer, I remember washing the car in our gravel driveway, hose kinked and unruly, the AM radio battling cicadas for airspace. Casey Kasem's voice came through like a prophet: "Coming up next, a band out of Dublin, Ireland, known for their twin-guitar attack and the soulful vocals of Phil Lynott: get ready for Thin Lizzy... because the boys are back in town."

And then it hit—the opening riff, bright and defiant. For a split second, time turned liquid. I was soaked in dish soap and ambition, skin browned from a hundred chat pile laps, suddenly imagining stadium lights and walk-up songs before they were even a thing. That wasn't just a hit song, it was a moment. One that lodged itself deep and permanent.

Guitar Gods and Thunder Gloves

Of course, that wasn't the first time a guitar had rearranged my insides. Boston's debut album was practically scripture to me. Tom Scholz didn't just play guitar; he built them, layer by layer, riff by riff, until you could hear the physics of passion in every note. "More Than a Feeling" could drop me into a trance within two notes flat. That song sounded like memory felt.

I loved the big anthems—songs that grabbed you by the collar and screamed in your face, then hugged you after. Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love," Purple's "Smoke on the Water," and Clapton's "Layla" all earned rewinds in the GTO. Jeff Beck's guitar didn't just speak; it barked, wailed, and whispered.

Santana? His solos felt like prayers wrapped in velvet lightning.

And David Gilmour... Lord help me. His Pink Floyd work was so hauntingly beautiful I could barely listen to it without squirming. Those minor keys twisted and contorted me like Harry Houdini in an underwater tomb.

I could never make it through Dark Side of the Moon in one sitting. It was genius, sure, but for me it was like diving too deep and forgetting how to breathe.

And it wasn't just the guitar gods who left a mark.

To this day, I still turn up the radio just to catch Phil Collins' masterpiece of a drum fill in "In the Air Tonight." It's not just iconic, it's primal. A heartbeat with thunder gloves on.

And no one, no one, will ever top the triplets of John Bonham on "Good Times Bad Times." That wasn't just percussion. That was prophecy. The Gorilla in my chest beat his chest in time.

8-Track Surgery and Executive Thunder

I got so good at ripping 8-tracks before the monster inside could eat them, I could hear the faintest pitch warble before disaster struck. That's something today's streaming kids will never know: the joy of saving your prized Columbia House tape like diving for your shorts after cannon balling without a plan.

And yeah, I hosted an executive meeting once, 500 leaders packed into the Renaissance Plaza in Omaha, and personally picked the walk-up music for each speaker. Every track? Guitar riffs. Nothing soft, nothing safe. I wanted their hearts thumping in their chest before the first word was spoken. When you open with Heart's "Barracuda" or Sabbath's "Iron Man," people listen. That wasn't just showmanship. That was strategy with a backbeat.

First Concert Magic

But nothing in my musical memory bank tops REO Speedwagon at Memorial Auditorium in Joplin. My first concert. I still remember the storm warning that flashed across the stage just as they opened. Big sound. Big hair. Big feelings. I didn't know Tina was there too that night, until years later when we pieced it together. Same show, same electricity. We just hadn't found each other yet.

But we found each other soon after.

You'll Accompany Me

The summer of 1980, I was driving a red-and-white '76 Monte Carlo with a factory-installed 8-track player—in-dash, no less. Uptown cool. That night I picked up Tina for our first real date, I had Bob Seger's brand-new Against the Wind album loaded up. We weren't blasting it. We were soaking in it. Subtle piano, clean acoustic, a gentle drum line that seemed to breathe through the Monte's cavernous interior like our own private concert. I remember thinking: this isn't just background noise, this is a moment.

We wore that tape out over the next year. Played it a thousand times. But one song always rose above the rest.

Track two: "You'll Accompany Me."

That one didn't just hit—it held. I remember the night I told her it was ours, parked outside her house on North L Street in Commerce. I don't recall what we did that night or where we'd gone, but I remember that slow-building lump in my throat when I finally said it aloud. It wasn't quite a proposal, but it carried the same weight.

We'd sit and talk, letting the song speak what I couldn't say yet. And when the porch light came on, neither of us moved. We just listened. Let the music carry it for us.

Years later, Haleigh came home from a trip to Seoul with a gift in hand: an unopened Against the Wind on vinyl. I felt like a kid again as I peeled off the plastic, dropped the needle, and waited for that telltale hiss. And when track two played, we just looked at each other. Hands met. Eyes misted. And in that moment, forty-five years collapsed into one long, steady note of belonging. If you've got a song with your soulmate, you know. Nothing connects like music.

Ridin' the Storm Out

Fast-forward to last summer. I was flying from L.A. to Atlanta, seat 2D. Across the aisle in 1C? Kevin Cronin. Lead singer of REO Speedwagon. I recognized the profile instantly: still sharp, still upright, like a man who knew the value of good posture and a well-worn falsetto.

About 45 minutes outside Atlanta, we hit the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. The kind that makes you clutch the armrest and re-prioritize your life. The plane dropped and twisted, lightning flashing outside like stage lights at a concert gone sideways. I watched Kevin from the corner of my eye and couldn't help but grin.

When we landed, he was a few people ahead of me in the aisle. I caught up to him in the terminal, nerves still buzzing. And I said it. Like a junior high idiot at his first backstage pass. I blurted it before I could stop myself:

"Hey Kev—it was nice ridin' the storm out with you."

He gave me a look. One part smirk, two parts what-have-I-done-to-deserve-this. But I was grinning like a teenager in a Cheap Trick tee, and that was enough for me. Because music makes fools of us all, in the best way.

Passing It On

I passed that foolishness on to my kids. Zac painted his face like Gene Simmons when I took him to see KISS in Nashville. Black wig, tongue out, full regalia. He's 6'5", so he stood out like a firework. We were stage left when Gene spotted him and made a beeline to our side of the platform and played a whole solo just for us. Don't tell me he didn't remember me from Tulsa in '77. That concert I wasn't supposed to go to. The one I lied to Mom and Dad about. The one I had to see.

Haleigh only spent one semester with us in Omaha before heading back south where her blood didn't freeze, but while she was there, she took the single greatest college class ever invented: Rock History. That's my girl. She knows every riff I know, and a few I don't. When it came time to choose her wedding walk-in song, she picked "Canon Rock" by Funtwo. A reimagining of Pachelbel's Canon in D on electric guitar. It shredded. Of course it did.

Full Volume Forever

That's what music does. It doesn't just score our memories, it builds them. It pumps life into quiet rooms and reminds you who you were before the silence crept in. It's what I turn to when I'm tired, when I'm lost, when I need to remember. And I do remember. I remember it all.

The smell of ozone at a summer concert. The feel of vinyl in your lap as you peeled off the plastic and slid it into the turntable. The thunder of a kick drum vibrating the floor. The gleam of chrome, sun-kissed and humming, as the engine turned and the opening riff hit just right.

I still love it loud. Even with hearing aids—thank you, Miracle Ear, Phonak, Resound, and Oticon—I still turn it up. Because silence is overrated. Even if it rings different now, the rhythm still finds its way in. And this life? It was meant to be played at full volume.

So, if you ever see a guy in an old GTO with the windows down, air guitar in full swing, eyes misty but smiling like a boy with a pocket full of quarters and a jukebox to himself—don't worry.

He's not lost. He's just catching a ride on the soundtrack of his life. And he's got it turned up.

🔊 Still Ringing

Music isn't just sound—it's the memory keeper. The time traveler. The amplifier of who we still are underneath it all.

These aren't just stories from my youth. They're signals—broadcast from a small town called Picher, across years and miles, into the bones of anyone who ever let a riff raise the hair on their arms. If you've got a song that's still yours, you know exactly what I mean.

🤘 Shout-Out & Signal Boost

I probably wouldn't have shared this chapter if not for a nudge from a kindred spirit: Lori Christian, a.k.a. Rock and Roll Girl. Her raw, punchy tribute to the Divinyls reminded me that music memoirs still have power—and that memory has a rhythm worth listening to.

If you're into rock and roll storytelling with a cool, off-the-mainstream vibe, go check out her Substack. She's doing something interesting over there—and if you grew up with music in your bones, you might just feel right at home.

📣 Help Me Launch the Memoir

This story is part of a full memoir I've poured my heart into: Barefoot and Bulletproof: The Dirty Little Glover Boys. If it made you laugh, wince, or remember your own song—please consider subscribing and sharing this post. Word of mouth means everything.

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📬 Reply or comment if this hit you in the gut—I'd love to hear the song that brings your story back to life.