People always ask what kind of music I like.
It’s like asking someone, “Which oxygen was your favorite?” Music isn’t wallpaper or a snack. The songs you hear at the right time don’t just entertain you — they move into your head and rearrange the furniture.
I’ve realized there are two artists who can absolutely derail my day. Not because they’re sad, not because they’re nostalgic. Because they accidentally left fingerprints of who I became.
The first is Steve Poltz. Well… technically, the Rugburns first. I found the Rugburns back in junior high, which is a wonderfully awkward period of life. You’re old enough to develop opinions but too young to realize nearly all of them are ridiculous. You’re trying to become a person using whatever scraps you can find: a movie quote, a T-shirt, one cool older cousin, and a band nobody else in your school has heard of.
For me, one of those building blocks was the Rugburns.
Steve Poltz somehow figured out how to write songs that could be hilarious and heartbreaking at the exact same time. One minute he’d be singing something completely absurd; the next, he’d sneak in a line that hit you square in the jaw before you even realized he’d wound up. That’s a rare gift. Most people spend their lives deciding whether they’re going to be the funny guy or the sensitive one.
Steve looked at that choice and said, “Nah… both.” That felt revolutionary to a teenage boy.
Growing up, we’re quietly taught that emotions should be rationed out like ketchup packets. Use sparingly. Don’t cry. Don’t care too much. Definitely don’t let anyone know you write and feel. Meanwhile, Steve Poltz was over there making vulnerability seem like the coolest trick in the room. He made it okay to laugh at myself at a time when I was worried I needed to have an ego.
He made it okay to care. He made it okay to be weird, and that’s a pretty decent philosophy for getting through life.
His solo career only deepened that feeling. The songs got wiser without losing the childlike curiosity. Somehow, he became even more himself, which is probably the hardest thing anyone can pull off.
There are people I’ve met over the years who remind me of Steve — not because they look like him or sound like him, but because they aren’t afraid to be emotional one second and completely ridiculous the next. Guys like Spanky (Steven McFarland) and Buddy Bolton, who were always silly, caring, and empathetic. They stood up for things even when it wasn’t their fight. They were some of the first guys I saw push back against sexism, homophobia, and racism, and they were straight white dudes.
Those are my people. Life’s too short to trust anyone who’s serious or tough all the time.
I’ll be driving on some completely ordinary, boring day — probably to Lowe’s or PetSmart, because that’s where middle age takes you — and one of his songs comes on. Suddenly, I’m not driving anymore.
I’m seventeen. Or twenty-two. Or living in New York. Or sitting in somebody’s apartment laughing until two in the morning. It’s amazing how a little melody can ignore every law of physics and time travel without any effort.
Steve also has one of my favorite creative habits: he writes constantly. Sometimes on the fly, sometimes in songwriting challenges where everyone throws ideas around just to see what happens. Imagine if accountants did that. “Okay, everybody… you’ve got twenty minutes to invent a funnier tax code.” The world would be a different place. Instead, musicians do it, and occasionally one of those spontaneous songs ends up changing someone’s life. Mine included.
A Few Songs That Never Really Left Me
- Tree Hugger — One of Steve’s sweetest songs, managing to be both whimsical and profound. It’s a reminder that kindness isn’t weakness and that looking at the world with childlike wonder is actually pretty smart.
- Gold’s Gym Guy — Classic Steve: finding humor in everyday characters while making them feel completely human. Funny on the surface, but underneath it’s a reminder we’re all just figuring it out.
- Me and Eddie Vedder — Only Steve could write a song about a rock star that feels less like celebrity worship and more like talking to a drunk old friend at the end of the night.
- License Plate Eyes — One of those songs that sneaks up on you. Every time I hear it, I’m transported back to when my kids were newborns.
- You Were Meant for Me — Most people know it as a Jewel song, but Steve co-wrote one of the defining tracks of the ’90s. Vulnerable without being sentimental, and timeless because of its simplicity. I’ve always had this strange feeling that, when I’m gone, this is the song people will think of when they think of me.
- Wrong Town — Beautifully restless. It captures that feeling of wondering if you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, or if life took a left turn somewhere back in Ohio. I feel that every time I walk into a comedy club on the road.
- Folk Singer — Steve poking fun at himself and his tribe. Change “Folk Singer” to “Comedian” and it works even better.
- I Want All My Friends to Be Happy — If I had to explain Steve Poltz in one song, this is it. Sincere, hopeful, and heartbreakingly honest. Let’s laugh and be good to each other.
Then there’s Townes Van Zandt.
He’s a completely different experience. I didn’t discover Townes as a kid. My wife, Angie, and I discovered him together.
That’s an entirely different kind of memory. We started watching documentaries, listening to every album we could find, following the breadcrumb trail that led us to Steve Earle, Keb’ Mo’, Guy Clark, and Blaze Foley. Good music introduces you to more good music, like it’s quietly saying, “If you liked this, wait until you meet my friends.”
Townes wasn’t background music. He was conversation music. When Angie and I lived in New York, we’d put on a Townes record and just talk. No phones. No scrolling. No notifications informing us someone we met once in 2005 posted a picture of a sandwich. Just music and conversation. Hours of it.
Now, whenever I hear Townes, I don’t think about the lyrics first. I think about us. Tiny apartments, cheap wine, and dreams that hadn’t happened yet. We’d sit there arguing about what the songs meant while one of the greatest songwriters who ever lived quietly narrated the evening.
Townes could be dark. Really dark. But darkness isn’t the same thing as hopelessness. His songs acknowledged that life hurts without pretending it isn’t still beautiful. Growing up moving out of Ohio as a teen and traveling the world alone, I understood that kind of lonely ache while still seeing the beauty around me.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always believed comedy works the same way. The best comedians and the best songwriters are standing in the exact same place; they’re just holding different instruments. One gets laughs, one gets tears. The really special ones manage both.
Every time Steve Poltz comes through the speakers, I’m reminded of the kid who needed permission to be vulnerable, ridiculous, and sincere all at once. Every time Townes Van Zandt comes on, I’m reminded that the richest moments don’t happen like a movie — sometimes it’s just two people sitting in a room, listening.
I guess that’s why certain music makes me emotional now. I’m not mourning the past. I’m grateful I got to have one worth revisiting. And if a song can still make a grown man pull over because he’s smiling too hard or trying not to cry… that’s not nostalgia. That’s proof it mattered
