The early songs are the ones that came to me by force in the years that my parents bought the records, eight-track tapes, and eventually cassettes that were played in our home and in their cars. Our eternally long road trips to Bakersfield, where my brother and I whined and fought and just generally suffered and caused suffering were framed, ironically, to the perky beat and lyrics of Anne Murray’s “Snowbird.” During that phase of life, all I could hope was that my brother would make like that snowbird and spread his tiny wings and fly… the hell away from me.