The first time that I saw Tom Rush was at a 1960's outdoor concert at the DeCordova Museum in Lincoln, Massachusetts. My mother insisted on going to it, and I was too young to babysit my little brother. So, we all went. I expected to be bored, as usual.

Somewhere between the performances of Jim Kweskin's jug band and the Charles River Valley Boys, Tom Rush took the stage, and I was as smitten as any pre-teen could be.

At first, it was the boots; back then, unless it was winter, only bikers wore boots. Tom had the biggest, heaviest boots -- probably forerunners of Frye boots -- and I remember the cloud of dust as he walked along the dirt path to the stage. I was practically hypnotized, watching as tiny flecks of mica sparkled in the sun and drifted back to earth.

Then, when Tom Rush started playing, his music sounded like nothing I'd ever heard before. It seemed easy. He was relaxed, laughing and talking directly with the audience. He hit every note and his rhythm was impeccable, but his technical expertise was just a backdrop.

What impressed me then, and still does, is how casually Tom makes music. Tom's performances, like his comments between songs, are about the joy of music and creative expression. It's as if he's sharing his favorite songs with us, and we're his closest friends.

I was fortunate to be in the Boston area during the peak of the folk music revival, and then at Cambridge Common when the hippie movement resulted in free, Sunday concerts. From afar, I had crushes on many musicians.

However, Tom Rush was the first musician who impressed me, and I'm still awed by his influence on music today.