I went through a huge Tom Petty phase two years ago and I haven't completely recovered from it. While obsessing over all of those great songs and records, I discovered that he did a book of sorts. It wasn't an autobiography, per se. Instead, he agreed to a series of interviews with Paul Zollo in which the two of them discussed pretty much every song and every record he'd done to that point. It was a great read for Petty fans as it took you inside the records and the songs and to an extent inside the mind of Tom Petty.

One thing that stuck out for me in that book was when he talked about being approached by fans. He said people would come up to him and tell him he'd written the soundtrack to their lives. I like that phrase. I understand it. Music is merely entertainment for some people. For others it's even less than that, to them it's a commodity, or just an accessory for whatever image they're trying to create. For me, it's all of the above and more. Sure, I've used music as an identity trinket and there's nothing wrong with music that entertains but for me it goes further than that and when it gets inside you, songs, albums, and artists become a part of your life because they're a part of your memories.

I can't say that there is one single artist who has written the soundtrack of my life, but there are a handful of artists who have contributed sizable chunks to it. I didn't realize how many memories I have attached to songs and albums by Toad the Wet Sprocket and Glen Phillips until I was able to book Glen to appear on my BlogTalkRadio program. As I prepared for that interview, I listened to the records and started cataloging memories. Here are just a few of them:

• 1992: "Walk On the Ocean." Toad the Wet Sprocket. Even though I was still firmly ensconced in my high school hair metal foolishness, I was already a sucker for great harmonies having been permanently altered by listening to the Beatles on oldies AM radio. They had my attention.

  For the next 16 years, these songs would stick to me like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth. When I'd talk about music with friends, I'd often get asked who my favorite band was. I never answered with Toad the Wet Sprocket, yet I often traveled with their CDs. They probably never climbed to the rank of "favorite" band, but were always in the category of favorites.

  October 1994: Driving through the Rocky Mountains, moving back to Seattle to strike out on my own for the first time, slaughtering the harmonies to "Something's Always Wrong" from Dulcinea for miles, miles, and miles. I did strike out. I lost the girl, went broke, and moved back home. There were a lot of somethings that were wrong. I still love that song.

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