Over the weekend, news broke that the younger Everly brother (Phil) died at the age of 74.

I might be the only person in America who associates the profoundly beige, narcotically easy sound of the Everly Brothers with trouble and getting away with it.

When I was a small boy, my mother (also deceased) constantly played the Everly brothers in the car. I know it's not nice to speak ill of the dead, but she was a nut for the Everlys. One of the first songs I remember actually comprehending as a full story and arc (and not just a jumble of barely connected words and sounds) was "Wake Up, Little Susie."

I probably wasn't even 10 years old yet, way too young to have a curfew, but I was beginning to understand what a curfew was. Teenagers had them—and sometimes broke them.

So when the lyrics to "Wake Up, Little Susie" emerged from the generalized noise of the car speakers and crystallized in my head—"We've both been sound asleep, wake up little Susie and weep/The movie's over, it's four o'clock, and we're in trouble deep"—I realized the song was about getting in trouble. It gave me a cheap, little-boy thrill.

My second thought moved from schadenfreude to squirrelly. "Maybe the Everly brother is lying," I thought.

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