The story behind my Spotify playlist
On the first page of The Accident Report, stoner reporter Ronald Truluck is driving to work, smoking a joint, and listening to “Ramblin’ Man” by the Allman Brothers on his car radio.
You may be wondering, why did I choose that tune? Aren’t there better songs by the Allmans?
Yes, there are many. For my money, “Blue Sky” is their best. I also love “One Way Out” and “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed.” But Ronald Truluck drives a 1966 Ford Galaxie 500 with an AM radio. The better songs rarely made it onto AM, whereas “Ramblin’ Man” did. It was the band’s highest charting single, rising to No. 2 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 in the fall of 1973. That’s why it leads “The Accident Report” ‘s Spotify playlist.
I’m explaining this to impress you with the deep research I performed in writing my book. I was a reporter at a small-town paper in 1974, but The Accident Report is not a collection of half-baked memories. It’s a historical novel, like War and Peace and A Tale of Two Cities. I had to verify stuff. I knew I absolutely had to have an Allman Brothers song in there because the Allmans were a crucial part of the North Carolina youth zeitgeist of that time. But which song? Thus, the deep dive into Allman Brothers’ chart success.
The second song on the playlist is “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” by Steely Dan. As I sit here in 2026 my first thought is, shouldn’t there be a comma after Rikki? Also, I’ve never met anybody who spells their name that way. Why is this song significant? In May 1974, I drove my brother’s car down to Thomasville, North Carolina, for a job interview at the newspaper. As I rolled down the town’s main drag, that song came on the radio and I thought to myself, I will remember this moment and this song forever because my life is about to change. My college days are behind me. “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” is a nostalgic song about an old girlfriend and when I heard it, I got nostalgic for things that hadn’t happened to me yet. I got the job.
I have one Fleetwood Mac song on my playlist, “You Can Go Your Own Way,” but I could have included a dozen. That band provided the social soundtrack for every future Boomer in the United States. Same with The Eagles. I was dating a girl and knew we were about to break up. We were driving in my car and The Eagles’ “Best of My Love” came on the radio. I told her that song summed up our soon-to-end relationship. She said, “Huh?” proving that tender emotions associated with popular music are entirely subjective.
The longest song on my playlist is the live performance of “Do You Feel Like We Do” by Peter Frampton, clocking at over 14 minutes. I listened to Frampton warbling through his guitar’s “talk box” hundreds of times while passing a bong. I listened to it last night and wish I could get some of those minutes back. It’s the most indulgent, boring, pointless song on my list. I no longer feel like they feel.
One musician earned two spots on my playlist. Stevie Wonder was omnipresent on radios and record players in my world of the mid-1970s. I picked “Boogie on Reggae Women” and “Pasttime Paradise” but could have gone with twenty other songs. I still listen to Stevie. He is a genius.
Ditto Miles Davis. Most of my friends in the 1970s were rock and pop fans. If I put on a jazz record when they visited, everybody except my Black buddies would leave. Therefore, I mostly listened to Miles when I found myself at home alone, being contemplative. I’m partial to his small group stuff from the 1950s and 1960s, exemplified by “On Green Dolphin Street.” Of all the musicians on my list, Miles has held up the best.
