He's Not Petty

So, last night, because my friend Fatty (who knows of his nickname and is not offended, probably because he's not really fat) is an astute ticket buyer, I was seated in the fifteenth row for a Tom Petty show. (Thanks, Superfat. You rock.)

Tom Petty has been one of my favorite singers for . . . my whole life, I think. It's like I was born knowing the lyrics to all the songs. Tom has comforted me during the rough times. He's celebrated my big moments. He's been with me on summer nights, cruising around with the windows down, volume loud enough to just drown out my singing. Tom understands when I feel like a loser or an outsider. And he understands when I just feel really damn lucky to have the life I have.

I love the jangly guitar, the consistently rhyming lyrics, the basic truths. I love the southern nasal drawl. I love the out-and-out rock. I love his criminally underrated Heartbreakers. I love how approachable and normal they all seem. I love that he loves his job.

I have now seen Tom four times live. Every time has been unbelievable. Last night didn't disappoint. Electrifying. Highlight of the night for me was when he sang "End of the Line," from his days with the Traveling Wilburys (a supergroup that never really became a supergroup...another awesome thing about Tom). I could have died happy. I'm still happy from those four minutes. Sometimes you just have to escape, and I can do that with Tom.

I'm learnin' to fly . . . but I ain't got wings.

Everything just feels all right when Tom's around.