On my sixth birthday, I punched in N-6 on my dad’s jukebox. N for my name and 6 for my new age. I had no idea what song would play. I carefully pressed the buttons, one and then the other. I knew that if the buttons were pressed at the same time, the machine got confused. And I knew that I was dead meat if I broke that thing. It’s a Seeburg V200, pink and green. The cabinet is all chrome and it looks like a Cadillac grille. In glowing orange lights underneath the row of records, it reads “Two Hundred Selections.” That was the big draw of the V200 when it came out in 1955. A hundred records, two hundred selections.

If I close my eyes, I can hear the EXACT sound that the big rotating title drum makes. The most satisfying clunk.  I remember standing on my tippy toes to watch the select-o-matic pluck the record from the row, like a cormorant swooping into the water to snatch up a single glittering fish from its school. I suppose it’s abnormal to grow up with one of those remarkable machines in the house. I was lucky enough to grow up with parents who had money and who were also really weird. My entire life it’s been smack in the middle of the kitchen, begging for me to blast something and dance while the rest of the house is asleep.

I’ve always been a music obsessive. It’s something I inherited from my dad, who I reluctantly admit may be even more obsessive than me. On any given night, if I’m not out seeing live music, I am in bed scrolling Wikipedia as if it’s the bible itself while looping the same song over and over. And don’t start dogging on Wikipedia, that’s my gaddamn flesh and blood you’re talking about. When I was in school, it was torture bringing myself to finish even ten pages of assigned reading, but I assure you I can feverishly burn through every article in the “references” tab of a Wikipedia page faster than you can say “Go to sleep, it’s 3am.” Why do I do this? Do I keep myself awake learning about random shit every night just so I can feel like I’m better than you? Yeah, kinda. But also because I just can’t help it.

photo courtesy of Nora Kenny and Soggy Anvil Records.

The Seeburg in the kitchen still has the same record in the N-6 spot as it did when I first punched it in. “Think It Over” by Jimmy Donley (don’t look up his life story if you’re in a good mood, he was unfortunately a terrible guy). It’s a beautiful swampy ballad from 1962, released on Chess Records. Chicago REPRESENT. It’s an aching song, but it’s still good to dance to. The lyrics, painting the picture of a heartbroken man begging his woman to stay with him, are funny to imagine affecting a six-year-old. But I was affected. That might be the first song I became obsessed with. I played it over and over, and very often. There was something about it that sunk its claws into me, the way all my favorite songs do. I just found a Jimmy Donley LP for the first time last week! SCORE!

From there, I moved on. Elementary school me, armed with my older brother’s iPod, found The Beach Boys, Blondie, and The White Stripes, among others, and began listening compulsively. I got my first guitar and began writing. In middle school, I kept exploring, and began acquainting myself with the local indie scene. By the end of high school, I’d memorized the discography of The Kinks, The Zombies, The Everly Brothers, and NRBQ. Each day, every day, I made a conscious effort to consume new music. That practice is still the center of my life. This is starting to sound disgustingly pretentious. Sorry, that’s me.

With every new thing I dive into, the music I make changes ever so slightly. When you make music, you often are what you eat, if that makes sense. I eat everything I can get my hands on. I love everything. And loving everything is the best.

From The Louvin Brothers to the Ramones, from Hank Williams to The Jam, from Jonathan Richman to Fountains of Wayne, from The Ronettes to Teenage Fanclub, from Nick Lowe to Weezer, I am an obsessive. I rattle off these names not only to brag about my taste, which is better than yours, but also because I make music, first and foremost, as a fan of music. That is where I’m from. Growing up in Los Angeles was great. I got to go see all kinds of music because I was raised there. But I’m not from LA as much as I’m from my record collection.

Some people don’t think it’s good to have idols. I have so many idols that I can’t even name them all. Some people turn their nose up at the idea of wanting to make art reminiscent of any existing art. They hold the belief that taking inspiration is the opposite of originality, as if being even slightly derivative makes you a lesser artist. That’s bullshit. Hell yes I want to write like Nick Lowe. Do you not? I want to rhyme JUST like Adam Schlesinger and connect with an audience JUST like Jonathan Richman. And just like Jimmy Donley, I want to create something that sinks its claws into some poor six-year-old, throwing her into a life of waking up too early to scribble down a verse and staying up too late to scroll on Wikipedia.

Nora Kenny’s new single, “Stop Hangin On Me,” is out now on Soggy Anvil Records.