I had four siblings, including a brother who was 11 years older than me. Developmentally, he probably meant the most to me. I started learning how to drum from him. He was killed in a road accident while working, so I inherited all his drum equipment when I was 10. I had this determination to pursue it, because it was this arcane stage of grief. I did that like crazy until somebody heard me play in junior high and said, “Hey, I play guitar. Would you like to play?” You pick up one other person, play in a few bands, and then end up playing in a band for nine years that makes your name, you know?

My godfather was an artist, a hippie rebel rock’n’roller. He was my corruption. He gave me an example of someone who could be articulate and knowledgeable, but not a sap. He and my oldest sister—she became an art teacher—were examples of people who were living life as artists. In my sister’s case, I was the cherished younger brother. There was 12 years between us. She was entering professional life as I was becoming aware.

I have another sister who is six years older than me and not really much of a factor. I have a brother that’s three years older than me—a real good guy. But my two oldest siblings ended up having the most effect on me. I’ve always felt old around people my age.

My oldest brother and sister were collecting 45s starting in the early ’60s. I had an open ear for everything out there. We were one of those families that had more gas station Christmas albums than anything, but we had tons of singles. You were sophisticated and had an expensive hi-fi if you were one of those album-buying people. And that was an investment; lawyers’ wives would have a record collection. Everybody else was rocking to the 45s. Until I was a teenager, it was just the RCA Victor AM/FM-and-record player console cabinet. It sounded great, actually.

The night my brother died, we were kicking the soccer ball very hard against the trellis, playing in the backyard, when this cop showed up and said he needed to speak to my parents. He asked me where they might be located. It was a Tuesday night, so they were bowling with the church league. This friend of the family came over and was playing cards with my brother and I. It’s getting to be 8:30 or 9 o’clock, and, in October, it’s already kind of dark. My oldest sister came in and broke the news to me.

It turns out my brother had been involved in this accident. He was working for a Dakota County road-and-bridge crew, and the other person in the cab was looking out of the passenger-side window to make sure that all of the somethings had been done to the other somethings. He wasn’t paying attention, and there was a guy driving on the wrong side of the road at a high rate of speed. They ended up swerving into each other, and my brother had massive whiplash, so he died immediately. He was 21.

What is ironic is that he had just been given a permanent deferment from the draft for Vietnam. This was ’71, one of the big draft years. He had been told that he didn’t have to go under any circumstance the very day he died. I don’t know if I had any strong appreciation for irony at that time, but, chances are, that caught my attention.

Later on, the insurance company for the other guy was playing dirty, and they actually put the minister for my mother’s church on the stand. This guy got up there and said he didn’t think my brother’s life was worth very much—that he was a negative influence on society, because he was a draft-dodger. No, he was like any other 21-year-old in 1971. He grew up right in the thick of those turbulent times.

They tried to trample over the image of my dead brother, and that made me resent religion. I can’t really describe my attitude to it before, but that told me these people are fucking hypocrites. The minister was one of these “super Scandinavians.” There is a piousness that Scandinavian clergy have in this area. You find some real wonderful people, but you also find some J. Edgar Hoover people. Rednecks were just like rednecks today: They’ll strike out at inappropriate targets.

My brother had been giving me instructions with his drums for eight months or so. It was the very basics—the first three pages of the book, just barely scratching the surface. It was the single snare drum, the orchestral approach. When my parents could see I was playing drums and fulfilling this love of my dead brother, they gave me freedom I didn’t deserve, freedom of movement. As long as I was out playing the gig, I could get away with murder, really. Mind you, they’re going through the stages of grief, too.

But when I think of the freedom I had compared to my so-called peers, I had a lot. And I gravitated toward it.