Why I Was Listening to Elvis While Everyone Else Was Listening to the Radio
When I was growing up, I was a little bit unusual.
Not in some dramatic, tortured-artist sort of way. I had plenty of friends, got along well with people, played sports, and did all the normal kid things.
But my musical tastes were definitely a little different.
While most of my friends were listening to whatever was currently popular on the radio, I was obsessed with Elvis Presley.
Later, I became equally fascinated with The Beatles.
By the time I was around twelve years old, my brother and I probably owned fifty Elvis albums (the collection was always considered “ours”; we’re brothers!). I had every Beatles album I could find in the stores. I loved oldies music in general. Buddy Holly, Fats Domino, The Beach Boys—it didn't really matter. If it had that sound and that feel, I was interested.
That didn't mean I ignored contemporary music completely.
I caught the Michael Jackson Thriller bug just like everyone else. Every now and then, a newer artist would grab my attention.
But those were exceptions.
Most of the time, I was the kid listening to music that was already decades old.
My friends thought it was a little strange.
Not bad strange.
Just unusual.
And every once in a while, they gave me a hard time about it.
The funny thing is, some of those same friends unknowingly taught me one of the most important lessons about music.
When I was around twelve years old, I started playing baseball for my school (prior to that, organized baseball was run by the local park and rec association). That meant bus rides to away games, and on those bus rides, somebody was always singing something.
Sometimes it would be songs I recognized.
Sometimes it would be songs I didn't.
One thing I remember clearly is hearing teammates break into songs like "You Really Got Me" and "Oh, Pretty Woman."
I never said anything, but I remember thinking:
"Wait a second. These guys like to tease me about listening to old music, but here they are singing old songs."
It didn't make much sense to me at the time.
A few years later, it finally clicked.
They weren't singing those songs because they were fans of The Kinks or Roy Orbison.
They were singing them because Van Halen had recorded them.
Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fit together.
And once I noticed that pattern, I started seeing it everywhere.
The artists I was discovering and falling in love with all seemed to be pointing backward.
Van Halen talked about earlier influences like the Dave Clark Five and Cream
Led Zeppelin had roots.
Motley Crue recorded a version of "Helter Skelter."
The Beatles talked about Elvis.
Robert Plant and Jimmy Page loved about Elvis.
Every trail seemed to lead to another trail.
The more I learned about music, the more I realized that nobody appears out of nowhere.
Every great artist was influenced by someone.
Every branch had roots.
What I didn't realize at the time was that I had accidentally started my musical journey near the roots.
I wasn't trying to be different.
I wasn't making some statement.
I wasn't trying to prove that older music was better than newer music.
I simply liked what I liked.
But because I spent so much time listening to Elvis, The Beatles, and other early rock-and-roll artists, I already had some context when I started discovering the music that came later.
When people said Elvis changed everything, I understood why.
When people said The Beatles changed everything, I understood that too.
And when I started listening to bands like Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, and Motley Crue, I could hear pieces of those earlier influences hiding beneath the surface.
Looking back now, I think those early years gave me a deeper appreciation for music as a whole.
I got to experience the branches.
But I also got to spend time with the roots.
And I think finding the roots first made the branches a lot more interesting.