"Hootie is so damn good." I wrote that in my short-lived diary on a Monday in September of 1994. I was 16. I had just started my junior year of high school and was going through a rather vicious stage of adolescence. It was the same boat load of trauma lots of kid dealt with: feeling alone, "loving" some girl who wants nothing like that with you, being misunderstood, melodramatic tendencies, etc. And like many of those kids, I ran to music for comfort and hope.

Sure, I was swept up in the Nirvana craze a couple of years earlier. Yeah, I blasted my ears with a cassette version of Nevermind on my paper route. And I wore that goddamn shirt with 'Sliver' written on the back without having any idea what 'Sliver' was ("An early 7' inch," barked the true fans). But, for me, Hootie and the Blowfish spoke to my teen spirit in a more straightforward, understandable way.

While Nirvana broadened musical boundaries for me, Hootie sang the simple truth of my messed up kid heart. Their music is unadorned garden-variety rock, for sure. But to a boy who was literally sick with growing pains, phrases like, "Even with the pain, there's a remedy and we'll be all right" were mantras I needed to hear. Hootie sounded like I felt. My first steps in writing were of me scribbling Hootie lyrics in my school notebooks, and then adding my own melodramatic words. It's a like a starting a rock band: you do covers until you learn how to do it yourself.

I played songs from Cracked Rear View every morning before school. I had my favorites, my lifelines, and they were sprung from my stereo religiously as I waited for my turn in the bathroom. "Let Her Cry," "Look Away," and "Hannah Jane" all eased my nerves and created in me a feeling that I just didn't get from any other source at the time.

I loved Darius Rucker's voice: Emotive, deep, soulful, and passionate. Even today, I respect the man's pipes. He can sing. Unlike the angry gruff howl of the likes of grunge throaters, Rucker's bluesy singing was uplifting to me. It was the voice of a broken heart that conveyed a sadness that I so easily related to. I found it beautiful.

I have always been more of an introspective type; always drawn to things of sadness and downcast rather than things of anger and aggression. Which is why my favorite movies are sketches of tragedy like Leaving Las Vegas rather than any movie that would feature a Marilyn Manson song on the soundtrack.

This introspective, downer rock would prove to be my bread and butter in terms of what type of music I would seek out as I grew out of my love for Hootie. And when did that happen? I know I didn't one day just wake up and march off to the local record store with the Hootie CD looking to trade it in for a Red House Painters record. But that's kind of what happened.

I acquired a very elitist attitude toward music come my last years as a teenager. I wanted the music I listened to, to be mine. I didn't want to listen to what some rich preppy prick from my school liked, so I turned off my radio, scoffed at any popular band and subsequently, turned to "hating" my once beloved Hootie. It was my way of rebelling against all the fakeness and the slickness of the populous and its affinity for equally fake and slick music. I delved into the elegant melancholy of American Music Club, the aforementioned Red House Painters, the black soul of the Afghan Whigs, and a host of others. I would spew vitriol all over whatever was popular that week. Music was my solace, my little piece of happiness, and I didn't want to share it with anyone. It had carried me through the awkward times with a wave of hope, and I held it tight.

Today, I am pretty well-adjusted and have softened and mellowed in regards to many things. And I've had some great girls actually dig me. Anyhow, I still love music but I care less about the fact of a band being on the radio than if they are any good. While I believe wholeheartedly that the music that really matters doesn't usually get played on the radio, turning up there doesn't always mean I'll write them off. Heck, I even find myself singing along to top 40 fluff sometimes.

Hootie and the Blowfish were an important early step toward creating my taste in music. They helped to steer me away from the sludge of Alice In Chains and Soundgarden toward a more vulnerable, moody side of music. A side that I've come to fully embrace.

But I'll admit, I can remember a couple times in college where I would throw on my roommates copy of that once cherished record and think about that place in the past where the words "Look away she said...Oh, God, I love her..." would grip my heart tight. You never truly fall out of love with things you once held dear. And when they play Hootie on the radio, you know I'm singing every word.