I got my driver’s license late. I was homeschooled so there was no peer pressure. Instead, the urgency I felt was of the general and practical sort; a slow burn, frog-in-hot-water type of feeling, you understand. Public transportation served me well, so too did my rollerblades and bicycle. By the time my dad—on whom I’d relied for trips of a utilitarian sort—was hospitalized for kidney failure, I had an entelechy—that is, the actualization of a latent epiphany: It’s time to get your license. I barely passed the test. There I was, twenty-six years old and able to drive to the store on my own. I could have been doing this for a decade.

I cut my teeth in the mid-nineties on the Doobie Brothers and the Eagles, Wings. These bands would carry me through, up and out of my incubation in 90’s country. I discovered Creedence Clearwater Revival in the early 2000’s and shortly thereafter my first-ever favorite band: Collective Soul. Owing to the miserable situation in which I found myself (no internet), it was a godsend I had a coworker who was also a fan. He burned me a CD with all their music on it. I had already developed a pathological habit, bordering on divination, to the radio. I hoped for certain songs and prayed for others. I knew who was on at most times and had my finger on the pulse of what was new. The songs I heard day and night were a musical pastiche which I then reassembled in my own way. I began developing what I call my A-List Playlist—very simply, my favorite songs. I later acquired an iPod Touch that was the ticket out of the hoarded mess of my parents’ divorce. Along with my license, of course.

I remember a trip to Wal-Mart with my dad. I was in my early-twenties. In my hand was a Blue Öyster Cult album. I scanned the back to see if it had “Burnin’ For You.” Just prior to checking out, he suggested I “call a moratorium on this music thing.” I left without it. Incredulous at such an uncharacteristically overweening statement, I couldn’t help but protest inside that it was my father whose records I discovered and subsequently subsumed into my psyche. It was he who told me I could interpret a song any way I wanted. He who showed me I could turn any song into a love song to God. He initiated me into the music that I would make my own and that served as a springboard for what lay beyond. Growing up, I decided to keep his copy of The Captain and Me and just buy him a new one. Several years later, the track with which I would inaugurate my new iPod—glomming onto our neighbors’ wifi—was none other than “Burnin’ for You.”

I discovered Rush when he went to the hospital. Songs like “Marathon,” “Closer to the Heart” and “Prime Mover” found space in my A-List Playlist, along with “Limelight” (all-time fave), “Subdivisions,” “Tom Sawyer.” If you know the first few seconds of any of these, then you know. You know what good music is and maybe you’ll rejoice with me when you hear them.

With nothing better to drive than my dad’s beat-up green Legacy, I decided to record a mix tape that offset the thick loam of circumstances, newspapers, dirty clothes and other detritus that marked my home life. Though I was somewhat embarrassed while motoring around in his shabby vehicle, my spirit was soaring because of the music. I had nothing to show for the last ten years except my songs and so I played them as loud as I could. I had a lot of catching up to do.

A decade has come and gone and by this time you might ask, What about your hearing? What about a noise ordinance or the fact that other people may not share the same taste? The Doppler effect? Or this one, this came to me the other day: Do you really think someone wants to hear what you’re listening to? I confess I’m a little sheepish at times. I confess I’ll take my phone out when I’m stopped at a light and see what’s coming up next, maybe shuffle a song around. Question my motives for making someone take part in my rock and roll fantasy. And I confess I have this rule where I turn it down to 37* if I pull up next to a car whose windows are down, just so you know.    But my answer to all the sciamachy, all the objections I mentally field, is this: Yes. But have you heard the instrumental to War on Drugs’ “Up All Night”? When he lets out a howl after the near-orgasmic buildup of sound? It’s transcendent. And the solo to “Pain” capitalizes on it. How about Ed Roland’s “COME ON! COME ON!” from “There’s a Way”? The intricate, acrid instrumentation on “Freewill”? These notes beg to be passed around. The euphoria I felt having been released from the sessile situation in which I finally found myself is still very much alive and emoting vicariously through these tracks. And to be honest, I don’t really know how loud it is. Perhaps there’s a deeper psychological issue here.

But that’s why I do it, I suppose. To overcome the misery and despondence I lived through having put my plans on hold while my family dissolved. My dad never recovered from kidney failure—he respectfully declined one of mine. I play it then, for him. I play it purely for celebration’s sake. I play it to show you what good music is and what it can do. I play it because I can and because there are no bad songs in my phone. Hearing someone bump a song with the windows up is sad; all that wasted bass. I do it, then, to share. I believe music wants to be shared and enjoyed. Ten years on I’m as passionate about it as I’ve always been—because I know. I know what it can do. I know the depths from which a good song can raise you and I’ll never forget. And if the sun’s out and it’s not too cold or inclement, you’ll hear one of those if I drive by. I hope you enjoy it as much as I.

*My current car stereo’s volume goes up to 45.

Josh Ingram lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, Shawnah. When it’s not raining, he likes nothing more than to drive around his little town with “Let’s Go” on full blast.