“Hey hey mama, said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove…”

And then the riff. That guitar riff that will be burned in my cerebral cortex for all eternity. When we were fifteen, my best friend Joe and I came up with the brainstorm to start a rock band with him on guitar and me on bass. I was flat-out terrible – Joe could play circles around me within the first few months, but by the skin of my fingertips, I managed to keep up and we were soon rocking our sophomore year high school talent show (second place behind a group of jocks who re-enacted the Saturday Night Live “Da Bears” skit verbatim. Suburban white kids, man).

In our minds, we were true rock and roll heroes. Joe was turning into a natural on lead guitar; in later years with his band Fooled By April and even up to today, he’s simply the most gifted guitar player I’ve ever seen. Even at that early stage, it was a joy to just listen to him play… until he discovered that riff. “Black Dog” by Led Zeppelin was the first song Joe could play perfectly. This would have been fine, except he chose to play it ALL THE TIME. Between every song at rehearsal, while watching This is Spinal Tap in his basement for the fifty-third time – it was the all “Black Dog” channel. All “Black Dog,” all the time.

By the twelve thousandth time he ran through the riff, I’d finally had enough. I unplugged his amp, turned to him and snapped, “For the love of all that is holy, will you please stop playing that fucking riff? Please?”

Of course, Joe responded the way any fifteen-year-old would: without a word, he plugged back in, cranked the volume to 11 and let ‘er rip with the most passionate rendition of “Black Dog” since Jimmy Page was snorting blueberry pie filling off a 13-year old girl’s pelvis. I hadn’t heard anything yet. Now that he knew it annoyed me, Joe played “Black Dog” every spare moment of every day, in every imaginable key, speed, and harmonization. There wasn’t silence in my life any more – just “Black Dog.” I’ll tell you, you haven’t wanted to poke your eardrums out with a sharpened chopstick so badly until you’ve heard the minor-key high-pitched “Chinese” version of “Black Dog” grinding through your brain. It’s been almost fifteen years, but when I hear that riff, the muscles in my body still clench involuntarily like I’m about to be in a ten car pile-up. Thanks, Joe – you’re a real pal.