My parents implored Santa to do something about it, and the following Christmas I got a portable cassette recorder.

Over the years to come, I would make many tapes on that machine and the several that would follow when they inevitably broke. But the very first tape I made with that first tape recorder it is an interesting artifact. On Side A, there’s a few moments from Christmas morning: me goofing around and Dad’s voice commanding me to bring something to him; me giving a couple of inventories of my haul from Santa. Then there’s an extended cut from the next day, when Dad thought it would be hilarious if we secretly recorded Sunday dinner at my grandparents’ house, and so we conspired to hide the tape recorder on a nearby shelf. In the moment, it was funny, for we played it back about an hour later to our astonished family (at one point my grandmother, hearing herself say something kind of harsh, did a spit-take worthy of Danny Thomas). Now, with half the people at that table now dead, it’s a precious artifact. It’s the only recording I have of my great-grandfather’s voice.

Side B, though, has a time capsule of a different sort. After I got home from Sunday school, I turned on the hand-me-down cabinet-model stereo in my room (which didn’t have a cassette deck, alas), placed the tape recorder next to the speakers, and recorded the last 45 minutes or so of that week’s “American Country Countdown.” That’s interesting in a lot of ways. In the previous installment I talked about country music being what I grew up with, so the eleven songs that led the week’s chart are a good idea of what the typical week in my fourth-grade life would have sounded like.

For the uninitiated, “American Country Countdown” was the country music version of “American Top 40.” Like AT40, it most often aired on weekends. It was hosted by the super-cool Bob Kingsley, who had one of the best radio voices I’ve ever heard (seriously, listen to some of this for a little bit and I dare you to not keep listening), and who was so good at telling you the little stories that gave you a glimpse into the artists and their hit songs. As the best DJs could, back when radio was an art form, Bob had this way of making you feel like you were a couple friends spending a few hours together on a weekend morning. (I came to appreciate this even more about a decade later, for one of my responsibilities working Sunday mornings at the radio station was playing “American Country Countdown.” By then it arrived at the station as a package of four CDs. Each segment within an hour was a separate track, and I’d pause the CD player after each track to do our local breaks. At the start of 1993, our program director figured out how to integrate the “Countdown” discs into our automation, and that was the beginning of the end of my young radio career. But, I digress.)

I wish I could say my recording was perfect, but it’s far from it. (I keep hoping the complete show will surface someday, either through one of the video/audio sites or that I’ll happen across the LPs on an auction site; regardless, if anyone reading this has the whole program, please let me know, for I’m interested.) It’s straight off the speaker, and that means you get background noise. My folks were wanting me to get finished so we could go over to my grandparents’ house for lunch (where Dad and I pulled our prank). You can hear me opening and closing the door to my room, and my voice calling out to my folks, trying to buy time. (I was a completist, even then.) At one point you can hear me trying to sing along to the David Frizzell song. On the other hand, I had the foresight (or laziness?) to keep the commercials and IDs intact, and those speak not only of a bygone era in radio production but also of local businesses that are gone with the wind.

But, what are we waiting for, right? Let’s get into the songs that led Billboard’s Hot Country Singles chart for the week of December 18, 1982. (The full rundown is visible here, if you like. There’s some stuff on there that’s pure gold, and some stuff that didn’t age well, but that’s the nature of time capsules, no?)

Up five notches (as Kingsley would say) to number 11 is Johnny Lee and Friends, with an enhanced version of “Cherokee Fiddle.” For some reason, I loved this song a lot as a kid, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the chance to capture it on tape was the reason I wanted to record this program. One of Johnny’s friends on this version is reportedly Charlie Daniels. Say what you will about Charlie (and I have about his later years), but the man was a musical genius, and without peer on the fiddle.

At number 10, up three notches this week, is Rosanne Cash with “I Wonder.” It’s…well, only vaguely country music (to borrow a line from William Poundstone, curved lines and considerable imagination must be used). It’s closer to “Linda Ronstadt with Nelson Riddle” than “Loretta Lynn with Conway Twitty.” On the other hand, it’s Rosanne freakin’ Cash, who is awesome and is welcome to do whatever she wants.

Number nine is one of the first George Strait songs I remember, that’s now a deep cut. “Marina Del Rey,” up two notches this week, has George pining over a beach weekend he’s just spent with a mysterious lady. It’s lovely, evocative, haunting. George Strait knows how to select good songs and interpret them just right; in this one, you feel both ecstasy and ache. I can’t think of a bad George Strait song, but without question this is one of his best.

Bob leads into this week’s number eight song (up one from last week) by mentioning that David Frizzell (brother of Lefty) plays a bit part in the new Clint Eastwood movie Honkytonk Man. (As did several other real-life country artists, including beloved Marty Robbins in a scene made even more poignant by the fact that Marty died one week before the movie’s release.) It wasn’t David Frizzell’s first go-around with Eastwood, for he had contributed to the soundtrack for Any Which Way You Can. Clint helped make Frizzell’s first solo album a reality, and it’s from that album that we get “Lost My Baby Blues.” Frizzell’s voice was perfect for songs about getting drunk after getting dumped. (The same album also gave us the immortal “I’m Gonna Hire A Wino To Decorate Our Home,” without question the greatest song title in history. Young me missed the point of the song, loved the over-the-top mental imagery, and bought the single.)

Continuing that theme is Merle Haggard, whose “Going Where The Lonely Go” advances five positions this week. It’s a typical solid song from Merle Haggard in the early ’80s. He was reliable, one of the human gods on the country music Olympus of my childhood. Like Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and George Jones, Merle Haggard had just always been there, reliable as my dad’s Chevy truck.

Reba McEntire, some time before she became a Southern-fried queen of all media, is up four notches with “Can’t Even Get The Blues.” Even in this early track you get a glimpse of the exasperated Southern-fried sass that would become her trademark.

Hank Williams Jr. gets topical with this week’s fifth-place song, “The American Dream.” Bocephus takes on professional athletes signing million-dollar contracts (one wonders if Nolan Ryan’s ears were burning), well-dressed televangelists mooching for donations (“they want you to send your money to the Lord, but they give you their address”), and Democrats complaining about Reagan’s budget cuts, all while the rest of us are making hard choices about what we can afford. Hank was a few years away from fully embracing the outsized Bocephus character of “All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight,” but for those who knew his albums’ deeper cuts, nothing to come stylistically or politically was really that much of a surprise. The post-chorus bridge incorporates the first line of “Hail to the Chief,” which is reprised at the end with Hank saying “Hail to the chief.” (The version we get here ends with that, but another version has Hank pausing for a moment before laughing and saying “Hail, yes. Heh-heh-heh!”)

My brother, then in his mid-teens, was becoming a full-blown Hank Jr. fan about this time; the macho Southern outdoorsman aesthetic of Hank’s music really resonated with him, and a few months later Mom took him to see Bocephus when he performed at the (now-demolished) Greenwood Civic Center. He also had all of Hank’s albums, and when he would do the driving he’d play Hank’s cassettes, and I thus got exposed to a lot of his late ’70s and early to mid-’80s work. Some of it is cartoonish, some of it has not aged well at all, some of it is outright gross (seriously, “Fat Friends” should never have existed), some of it goes places you wish it hadn’t, but if you know where to look there’s some really nice, sensitive and sometimes outright gorgeous stuff in there.

Kenny Rogers was white-hot in the early ’80s and it seemed like everything he touched turned into a best-seller. In his lead-in, Bob mentions that Rogers attributes much of his success to having an ear for good songs that he knows will become hits. That continues this week, as “A Love Song,” written by Lee Greenwood, is up four. Mom didn’t like Kenny Rogers and thought he acted like a conceited showboat, but even as a kid I could appreciate that he was a reliable hitmaker with mass appeal, and even if I wasn’t necessarily a fan I couldn’t deny that some of his stuff was just plain good. (“Love Will Turn You Around,” which he had taken to #1 earlier in the year and was used as the theme to Six Pack, may be slickly-produced, but…my word, that groove. It’s a particular favorite.)

Number three this week is John Anderson, up three on the charts with “Wild and Blue.” Lots of fiddle, lots of steel guitar, lots of John’s twangy, yodeling voice encompassing the ache and frustration at the song’s heart. It’s a great version of a great song, but within about three months it’s going to be lost in the super-colossal shadow of a breakout hit from the same album.

Aw, son. Jerry Reed’s up two this week as “The Bird,” one of his reliable comedic turns, moves into second place. Reed leaned so much into his goofy comic persona with his songs and on-screen appearances, but, my word, the man was an outright genius with a guitar.

Bob leads in to this week’s number one song by telling us that for his hit songs, Earl Thomas Conley – who, from Bob’s description, sounds like kind of an introvert – gets inspiration from things that he’s learned in his life. Each song is, in a way, Conley saying “Well, if you liked that, here’s another side of me.” It’s something that Conley expects will be happening the rest of his life. With that, up one notch to take this week’s title is “Somewhere Between Right and Wrong.” And wherever that may be, this song makes it sound like a rockin’ good time.

And after the fade-out and Bob’s closing remarks, my efforts to stall for time with my parents gave out and the recording abruptly ends.

Many more tapes were to come in the months and years ahead. I have many of them, and sometimes I’ll listen to them. The sound isn’t the greatest, but the memories are vivid. I’d never dare let anyone else listen to them, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. It doesn’t seem like it really was that long ago, and it’s strange how these sounds can bridge the decades I’ve lived, and yet some of the things I captured – like these eleven songs – make me glad I got to experience the times I’ve lived.

I also grew up in a tiny, cloistered rural town, raised by a conservative family. The music our parents listened to was always country music. Which was fine, and there’s so much of it I love deeply, but it also meant I missed a lot that was happening in other genres because I never really got to explore. My first exposure to a lot of hit songs was through Weird Al Yankovic’s parodies. I missed a lot of what my peers were experiencing. I didn’t discover R.E.M., for instance, until I was in my first year in college and Out Of Time had been out for a while. We also didn’t have cable, so “music television” to me was whatever was on that week’s Hee Haw. I didn’t have MTV until my first apartment in graduate school, and by then MTV wasn’t MTV any more. To this day, if somebody is watching videos from yesteryear, there’s this aching sadness, the feeling that I missed out on an entire era.

It also meant I discovered some acts just a little too late. In 1993, the group 10,000 Maniacs had a huge hit with its version of “Because The Night,” recorded during the MTV Unplugged special. It was played to the point of becoming audio wallpaper. I didn’t really know anything about the group, aside from when David Letterman would ask Paul Shaffer if all 10,000 of the Maniacs would be there. Lack of familiarity meant I didn’t pay attention to musical guests, which meant I missed out on these four guys performing upbeat rock music while their frontwoman, who twirled a lot, sang bookish lyrics about Very Serious Topics in an accent and cadence that defied description. But when I got interested, I got interested, and then captivated.

The joke was on me, though, for the band and the singer had gone their separate ways. That didn’t stop me from making up for lost time. I bought all the CDs, which prompted lights to go on in my head (“Oh! That’s who did that song about the days you’ll remember!” And yet when you hear it a year and a half after it was a thing, there’s that ache again, the ache of the thing you missed out on). I even went to independent music stores (remember those?) to hunt down bootleg CDs of live performances and demos and expanded singles and anything else I could find. The day Natalie Merchant’s first solo album hit the stores, I went to the Musicland (remember those?) at our little local mall and gladly paid the list price for the CD. After all the anticipation, I found it…well, different. Beautiful, yes, but it’s sorta difficult to dance to songs about earthquakes and deceased wives and a seven-year relationship that ended in betrayal and that sort of thing. (Although “Jealousy” is a lot of fun, especially the single version.) But even if it wasn’t what I expected or exactly my cup of tea, I seethed at the snide review in Rolling Stone. How dare they!

Be that as it may, Natalie intrigued and influenced me. Along with early R.E.M., her music has been the soundtrack of my life, providing joy when things were good and solace when life was difficult. Her off-stage work, including volunteering her time and resources for educating young people, nudged me into volunteer work and very likely toward my own career in education. In many ways, her example made me want to heed my better angels. She has shown how to accept advancing age with wisdom, and her example is why I don’t dread the silver I’m starting to see in the mirror; if she can do this, so can I. And I remain captivated by her art. To this day, if one of her songs comes on while I’m in the car, I’ll sing along. (Dick Smothers once told an interviewer, “In my head, I sing like Sinatra. The problem is, nobody can hear it.” Replace Sinatra with Natalie Merchant and you have what I’m up against, and it’s why I don’t sing unless I’m alone.) And knowledgeable readers have no doubt noticed my habit of working her lyrics or phrasings into my writing. For so many reasons, I remain loyal to her.

What of the Maniacs, though? Well, when the record label opted to go with Natalie and not the band, they had to find their own way, and I lost track. But they kept going. Sometimes they’d release some new stuff; sometimes they’d play some gigs or go on tour. Over the years, as with any family, changes have happened: comings and goings, things that did and didn’t work, the whole thing. The band has had different lead vocalists, different guitarists…over four and a half decades, stuff will happen. Saddest of all was the death of lead guitarist Robert Buck in 2000; his distinctive guitar work added so much to their music’s character. But despite the challenges, the band’s still with us. They’re not selling out arenas or appearing on the big-name talk shows, but they are still playing, still touring when they can, and have a devoted fan base that will buy the tickets and fill the house and sing along and dance and have a wonderful time. And in return, the audience will get a couple hours of music performed by artists who are playing their hearts out and sure do look like they’re having fun doing it. Their fans love them, and they love us, and…well, ’tis sweet to be remembered.

I’ve never been much of a concert-goer. Some of it is that music is a very personal thing to me, and I still bear scars from when people have ridiculed my musical preferences. That’s exacerbated by the logistical hassles of getting to and from the show, the antics of other concertgoers, and all the other things that could go sideways and ruin the experience. And growing up cloistered meant I just never got in the habit of going to things. Even when I moved away to graduate school, and there were at least three venues in town that routinely brought world-class entertainment, I couldn’t break the habit. (And it cost me. Not going to see Tori Amos at the Township in 1997…oh, that remains a regret.) At some point, it became kind of a stupid point of pride. The closer I got to my 50th birthday, the more stupid it seemed.

In late 2022 I found out that Natalie Merchant would perform in Greenville. She’d not had much cooking the last few years (and there were reasons), but she had a new record coming along. With what she’d meant to me for so long, and with her being so close to home, it would be ridiculous not to go. In a way, it would be a way for the me of nearly three decades before to have a moment, to thank her for what she’d meant to me. On the day tickets went on sale I splurged and got the best seat I could, which was pretty close to the stage. I thought, “Okay, I’ll do this, close that chapter and move on with my life.”

Oh, boy, was I mistaken. If anything, that night in April 2023 reminded me of so much that the years had let me forget. It was a sweet, profound evening. (And although she has an image as a very serious person – and yes, she can be – she was not only very charming, but at several points was a hoot. Hearing her imitate The Count from Sesame Street was not on my bingo card, but it happened.) It was one of the best things I’d done for myself in a long time, and it made me glad I heeded the voice that said “this is ridiculous. Go.” And happily I re-upped in the Natalie Merchant Marines, this time for the duration.

A year or so later, while goofing around the social media feeds, I came across a group dedicated to the Maniacs. When I saw a couple of the band members commenting from time to time, I had to join. There was a radio documentary series that told the story of the band’s formative years, and I devoured each new installment. There was talk of new touring dates. I was hoping that maybe they’d come to Athens for a show at the 40 Watt, a trip I’d gladly make. But imagine my surprise when the August 2025 swing included the Newberry Opera House. Yep, a venue about a mile from where I work. The day tickets went on sale, I leapt. Front-row center? Sold American.

Throughout the summer the little envelope with my ticket sat on the counter, a bittersweet reminder since the show would be on the last day before I had to go back to work. Life went on, though, and soon that day was here. From my collection I got out a T-shirt from the “Our Time in Eden” days, one I’d found in a record store in the mid-’90s. I never imagined wearing it to a Maniacs performance, but…30 years on, here we go.

I was at the Opera House early enough. It was a reasonably pleasant evening, and I sat outside with some of my fellow patrons who were waiting. Out the corner of my eye I saw my colleague Warren driving past and figured he must be here for the show, too. Sure enough, he was, and I walked up to meet him. With him was his longtime friend Will, who was wearing a Maniacs T-shirt, and I knew I was among friends. (Since this post went live, Warren has written his own account of the evening, and I’m very happy to recommend it. You can also visit Will’s most enjoyable blog here.) The three of us talked for a couple minutes and then headed on in. While Warren and Will went to the will-call window, I walked over to the merch table for the obligatory souvenir. Instantly I fell in love with a T-shirt based on the Maddox Table trademark, and closed the deal on one in no time.

There was some kind of delay in starting the show, but in time the band members took the stage. Having known them mostly from pictures taken in the ’80s and early ’90s, it took a moment to place them. (The guitar player in the back took me a minute before I happily realized, “Holy crap! John Lombardo!”) But the moment the show started, age vanished. They played with a vigor and joy that was timeless. So many of the little things I remembered from countless playings of their first five CDs were there, as emotionally powerful as the original. If I’d closed my eyes, I’d be back in the early ’90s.

Of course, there had been two key personnel changes since 1993. Mary Ramsey has been the most enduring lead vocalist. She has made the lead role her own, and you fall in love not only with her vocals and her stage presence, but with her charming, down-to-earth, funny vibe. She is also an amazing violinist, which not only adds to the songs but gave us an extended solo at one point that was electrifying.

Ben Medina was playing lead guitar tonight, and although his guitar work sounds so much like Robert Buck’s, it’s still his own. He’s a true craftsman. What’s more, it’s fun watching him play, as this peaceful look comes across his face and he is one with the music. It added to the joy of the evening.

And what an evening, with songs spanning the band’s career. Most of the selections were from the band’s catalog up to 1993, along with a couple newer songs and some covers. “Because the Night” also made an appearance, of course, and Mary invited us to join in the chorus (and added a sweet “Because the night…belongs to you!” before the instrumental interlude).

Some of the songs were surprises, and I wasn’t expecting “You Happy Puppet” to be in the set, especially in this neck of our deep-red woods. It was a wonderful tour of the band’s catalog, and as Dave Letterman would say, they tore the roof off the place. There were people dancing in the aisles and at their seats. It was pure joy. Later in the show, bassist Steven Gustafson drifted from the stage to one of the wings, playing and swaying along with folks dancing nearby. The energy and love in the house was going both ways, and it turned into a big party. So many people were so happy. It was so beautiful to see.

As it happened, keyboardist Dennis Drew was celebrating his birthday that day. Steven had us all join in a chorus of “Happy Birthday,” and then said it was a tradition that if a band member had a birthday, they got to sing. So Dennis sang a song that’s been written for next year’s album, a really neat song about life in a small town. It fit so well with our own small town, and given that the band’s hometown is a good bit like our town and a few others nearby, smaller working-class cities that have had to adapt to changing times, it was especially apt.

For me, the evening was one song after another that I knew by heart, that I’d sung along with countless times over the decades, and it was so much like being in the car with my iTunes playlist going that it was oddly comforting. I happily sang along, although with the sound system in front of me I was mercifully inaudible. But I was caught up short during a break between songs when I heard several people in the audience start to sing lyrics that were strange to me, but somehow hauntingly, vaguely familiar. I felt once again like that kid who missed out on something. Mary picked up the lyric, then the band launched into an otherworldly cover of The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven.” And once again, as I watched the band perform this song I didn’t know as if it was one of their own, and as I heard the others in the audience sing along, I was simultaneously mesmerized by the glory of the moment and saddened anew by what I’d missed back in the day, this great secret I’d missed, and it ached.

All too soon it was over. The band left the stage, and Steven said they’d see us in the lobby. I met up with Warren and Will, and on the way out we compared notes about what we’d seen. In the lobby we chatted for a little while longer, talking about the Maniacs and other topics, and then the guys set out to find something to eat. I was thankful I had bumped into them, for it made me so happy to share this evening with friends who got it, to whom I didn’t have to explain it.

By that time some of the band members were in the lobby. Now, I have a “don’t bother people unless there’s a need” policy, especially when it comes to well-known people. Some of it is upbringing, some of it is respect, and some of it is shyness. (You can understand why I didn’t last that long as a reporter.) In my mind, I’d wrestled with what to do if I bumped into any of the band members. I finally decided to just see what happens.

As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. The band members I saw were happy to sign autographs, pose for pictures, and mingle. Steven Gustafson was nearby when I was talking with Warren and his friend. He was signing a record for someone, and chuckling a bit about the aches and pains of being in a band while you’re getting older. I waited my turn, then gathered up my courage and thanked him for coming. He shook my hand and thanked me when I thanked him for all the joy he had brought me the last few decades. It was a very sweet moment. Dennis Drew was nearby. “You were sitting in the front row!” he said with a big smile. “How did we sound?” (“You were great!” I fan-girled in response.) We shook hands and I thanked him, too. John Lombardo was on a bench, and I went over to thank him. He shook my hand and was very touched when I shared what their music meant to me, and we had a brief but very warm visit. It made a beautiful evening more so.

I didn’t see the others, and although I’d have liked to have spoken with them, I figured it was a good enough evening. I needed to get home anyway. I kind of floated back to my car, still quite unable to believe I’d actually met three members of this band I’d loved so long…and glad to find out they were just a group of folks who love to make music and have fun doing it, were fortunate enough to make it this big of a thing, and the fun is what keeps them doing it. After this night, I hope they keep having fun for a long, long time.

For about three hours I’d laid all the problems and perils of my life, not to mention the world at large, aside. But now it was all waiting: the headlines, the chores, the meetings waiting for me next week. And against it, I would have to process this fantastic experience I’d just enjoyed, and since nature afflicted me with the power and pain of experiencing things very deeply, that kind of decompression can be an ordeal. But it was a bargain I’d gladly make again.

I hope the Maniacs will come back to town, and I hope I get to meet them all again, but I have no way of knowing if that’ll happen. I may never get to see Natalie Merchant again, and I doubt I’ll ever meet her (and I’m sure if I did, I would get out maybe three words of gibberish before hilariously fainting dead away). But, if nothing else, I can go the rest of my life knowing I’d had a moment to thank three of the folks whose artistry added joy to my happy moments and soothed me when times were hard, who have provided so much of my life’s soundtrack.

Others I’ve said have said it more eloquently, but I’ll say it again, and from my own experience: when the performers who mean something to you come around, give yourself the gift of going to see them. Buy the best tickets you can. Buy the T-shirt. Enjoy the show. And if you get the chance to thank them in person, do it. Let them know what their work has meant to you, while you have the chance. Don’t be one of the “well, I coulda” types. If you don’t…well, you’ll regret it.