People, mostly audiophile friends of mine, talk about the first album that blew them away with such passion and detail. They talk about precisely what was going on when they first heard it, how it physically moved them (goosebumps), and seemed to change the elemental composition of their brain and thoughts. Some even take this revelation to the metaphysical, saying they’ll now operate in a totally different way from henceforth, and every encounter and experience will be measured (especially musically) against this new bar.

Jealous of their passion and, quite honestly, feeling left out of these conversations (which is even more embarrassing since I’m a musician; I mean, how can I truly love music if I can’t talk about this?), I essentially tricked myself into an Abbey Road story. That is to say, I dug deep for a memory of an album – any album at all – that I specifically remember hearing for the first time and had some feeling – any feeling at all – about it. So I talked about working as a busboy, at about 14, when one of the cooks tossed on Abbey Road. Somewhere before Here Comes the Sun, I turned to him to say, “Wait. This is The Beatles?” See, I’ve heard The Beatles. The lads who did cheesy love songs like Love Me Do and Hold Your Hand. But not these Beatles. So I bought the record, then The White Album, then Revolver, and then obsession kicked in.

I figured this story was plausible enough. It must be what they were all talking about. I just didn’t react quite as extremely as they had. Yeah, that’s it.

Fastforward about 15 years and I’m searching for old blues stuff at second-hand stores and garage sales constantly. (Delta blues is my current obsession.) When I find one, I head home, toss it on, and plop on the couch. I’m sure you can picture it: one leg arched up, the other dangling off the arm rest, one arm laying flat, and the other draped across my closed-eyes face, just to ensure no amount of light gets beyond the eyelids. Then it happened. This thing so many others had spoken of.

At first I removed my arm and opened my eyes. Soon my head was rotating toward the turntable, as if to look at it in disbelief. Then somehow – I don’t remember how I got there, I was too busy concentrating on the music – I made my way to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the player like a kid under the tree Christmas morning. I was pouring over the record sleeve, learning whatever I could about this music so as to better understand what was going on.

The record was RL Burnside’s First Recordings. Thankfully I listened to the record on a Saturday, because no amount of plans or errands were going to move me from that floor. I swear, I must have listened to that first side about 20 times before I even worked up the courage to flip to side two (“What if it’s not as good, and it ruins the whole experience?,” I psychotically told myself.) I just sat there, in absolute awe, while tracks like Goin’ Down South pulsed through me. And when you’re an extroverted drummer, that means it’s not just internalized pulses. I was pounding the floor with closed fists, stomping feet, and tapping with whatever stick-ish devices were around my immediate vicinity (the remote worked just fine).

And because it was a re-release, there was an extensive biography contained within. BONUS! So at some point I read it, and got sucked in deeper. Apparently the guy who made this music had everyone on-edge at all times. He’s the kind of unexpected crazy that means firing a gun, out of nowhere, in a packed bar. And in at least one instance muttering before a song, “The devil … that’s who I’ve been serving.” An adrenaline freak who during a recording session thought it was a riot when a hurricane and freak circumstance essentially ruined everything, and in turn recorded some of the best material in his crazy-ass career. The kind of guy you hear about, but never meet. Like Hunter S Thompson … or Paul Bunyan.

I don’t know if you’ve had the “the-album-that-changed-you” experience yet. Or, like me, if you’ve convinced yourself of a thinly veiled lie of your own conception. If you haven’t, consider yourself lucky. I envy you. All you have to do is find new music, and keep on listening. Eventually, you’ll find it. You’ll have that almost indescribable feeling, get obsessed, and never think the same way again.