Learned more from a three-minute record...

Speaking of radio, "Little Steven's Underground Garage," which is always great and a true bright spot on the dial, was especially noteworthy last weekend. In the first of a three-part series, he and special guest Bruce Springsteen discussed their influences, along with the first records each bought.

For Little Steven, his first purchase was "Tears on My Pillow" by Little Anthony and the Imperials, while Springsteen's was a record of Dusty Rhodes (wasn't he a professional wrestler?) doing Elvis covers. "Meet the Beatles" was the first album for each.

For me, it was the Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand," although as Springsteen mentioned on the show, I also was attracted to novelty records. "The Twist" and "Limbo Rock" were Top Tens for me, and I was fortunate because my 10 years-older-than-me brother had many of the most boss 45s.

When he was out of the house, I would go into his room and play some of them quietly and stare at them like they were all various pieces of the Holy Grail. I was especially enthralled by the Sun label. It's bright yellow illustration of a rooster was striking, and even more prized because of the wondrous sounds I heard when I put them on the turntable. Elvis, of course, but also Billy Lee Riley, Roy Orbison and Jerry Lee Lewis.

At the time I didn't know I was holding history in my hands. But I knew these were significant; they felt real, and had some primoridal sound that suggested a larger world outside of that tiny bedroom. I played these records and looked at them for hours, and I was lucky -- my mother never told me to stop, only to be careful with them. I like to think I treated the records with the museum respect they deserved. The time spent in that room turned out to some of my most important education.

By the time "Rubber Soul" (my first album) came out, I had cajoled my parents into my little record player, on which I played my own tiny, but ever-growing, record collection until I wore out the grooves. I went to McCrory's every week with my paper-route money to check out new releases, hoping for a Beatles picture sleeve each time.

I've gone on about this before, but this is why today's music seems so disposable. It's downloaded, from somewhere in the air, and it feels like it could all go away in one quick breath, or click. And if it's new music maybe it wouldn't even matter.

A few weeks ago I was looking through my old albums that I don't really play anymore. Each jacket has a story, a memory, and sometime provokes a question: What the hell was I thinking with this Uriah Heep album?

But I can't part with them; each is a mile marker: some good, some bad, some great, some embarassing, some indispensible. When I hold my very worn copy of "Sgt. Pepper's," I'm 12 years old, listening to life-changing music while my parents are downstairs and my brother is studying across the hall.

And life is full of promise, and not so complicated.