The first time I saw Son Volt live was in 1996 at the 40 Watt Club in Athens, GA, my hometown. It’s a perfect riff without sounding “riffy,” like so much other rock music that was around. I am unquestionably passing the old Piggly Wiggly as “Route” is firing up, with those loud, warm, beautiful, guitars that knock you over. In my 1995 Ford Ranger, on the way to Cedar Shoals High School, I can tell you which lyric from “Trace” plays at every fire hydrant, every gas station, every four-way stop. Instead, I paid $9.99 for what must have been a million spins. Farrar would be driving a guitar-shaped Cadillac, thanks to me alone. Then “Tear Stained Eye,” and “Ten Second News,” and “Loose String.” If they paid by the stream back then, Mr. Then I heard “Drown.” Then “Windfall” (!). But I had insecurities and peer pressures and parties where everything was either AC/DC, Bobby Brown, or Garth Brooks. My dad loved Uncle Tupelo, but like the early Lucinda Williams and Steve Earle albums he played me, it sounded “too country.” My folks introduced me to everything you would play a kid to “teach” him good music. So, Son Volt’s first album, “Trace,” was my true introduction to Farrar’s music, his lyrics. I had been too young, or too immature to “get” Farrar’s previous band, Uncle Tupelo. Jay Farrar’s music has held court in my soul since I was 16 years old, a junior in high school-still processing the death of Kurt Cobain, wondering if respecting my parents was uncool, growing my hair out a bit, maybe finally getting some attention from girls, worried about my skin.
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