This week I’m celebrating my Eagles anniversary, the approximate time of year that I started listening to the Eagles, two years ago.
The Eagles were the first band I truly loved. Glenn Frey, Don Henley, Bernie Leadon, Randy Meisner, Don Felder, Joe Walsh, and Timothy B. Schmit were the first band members whose names I learned. Desperado and Henley’s Building the Perfect Beast were the first records I bought. They’re the reason I learned who Jackson Browne is.
I remember the distinct feeling of being glad I didn’t know the lyrics to any of the Eagles’ songs when I started listening to them, because that meant I could appreciate their music, uninterrupted by my compulsive habit of singing along when I do know the words. I remember hoping that I’d never learn the lyrics, so I could always bask in the glory of music I swore I’d never heard the likes of before. Of course, I learned all of the words, to almost all of the songs, but even now I often find myself quiet, listening, totally awestruck.
The Eagles changed my life. I mean that, genuinely. I had listened intermittently to The Beatles and Fleetwood Mac and Creedence Clearwater Revival, but it was the Eagles who truly opened my eyes to an entire era of music I needed in my life.
All that to say, they’re still my favorite band, and I can’t believe it’s been two years since I listened to them for the first time.