I was driving home early one Friday morning through the back roads of Pennsylvania, listening to rock ‘n’ roll music on the niche-specific Sirius radio station, when a voice came on and said, “I hear the sweet sounds of heaven …” Which, to my ears, was akin in spirit to “You know, you always have the Lord by your side.”

Of course, I knew that preacher’s sour, vowel-contorting voice right away because he had actually responded to my pledges to send considerably more than ten dollars over the past forty or so years to the church of the Glimmer Twins located somewhere in Los Angeles, California. And sure enough, a good chunk of my rock n’ roll dreams came true. Those dreams, to boil it down, were to live my life surrounded by the sounds I’ve unconditionally loved and obsessed over for most of my nearly six decades on the planet.

For me, the Rolling Stones have been the dealers and keepers of those dreams. Which is another way of saying they’ve helped me maintain a certain state of mind and spirit that keeps the humming wonder of life and thrill of music close at hand and heart.

“Don’t you think it’s sometimes wiser not to grow up,” Mick Jagger queried — or told himself — fifty years ago, close to around the time when the group really could loosely be called “the boys,” even though they were solidly 30 and beyond. Fans of a certain age, writers, DJs, and talk show hosts still refer to them today as “the boys” — even as they’re hitting or fast closing in on 80 (ludicrous, I know). But if these guys are still boys, we subconsciously tell ourselves, maybe we are too.

Plus, deep down, I’m not sure I ever really grew up (I certainly didn’t grow out of the adrenalin rush that the music gave me when I was 15 or 16). I never wanted to, after all. Not when it comes to music. There’s far too much else in the world and our lives to be jaded, angry, and resigned about. What was the line that Spinal Tap’s David St. Hubbins muttered as he stood over Elvis’s grave? “Too much fucking perspective!” Too much blood, certainly.

Along with the Beatles (my first true love after a massive childhood crush on the Monkees), the Stones really were the connection that administered the rock & roll drug straight into my vitals; a potent mainline shot of rhythm and blues and rock and soul. It was an addictive dose that’s never worn off. For me, the Beatles and Stones triggered everything that came after in my long listening life: Those are two pretty freaking powerful drugs.

I long ago stopped comparing whatever new Rolling Stones album of the day was dropping to the legend-making creations of the band’s vintage era. In whatever incarnation or epoch you prefer, as usually measured by the guitarists who weren’t named Keith Richards — Brian Jones (1962-69); Mick Taylor (1969-74); Ron Wood (1975-current day) — the group’s canon, in each of those eras, has hit stratospheric highs and, as with any intimate, long-term relationship, depressingly dark lows.

The music has ebbed and flowed — overflowed, at times — and, for awhile there during the ’80s, it dissipated and all but dried up. But very few rock bands of its, or any, era have enjoyed such a prolonged second act; triggered such vociferous opinions; or elicited such deeply personal, emotional responses over the course of a lifetime (theirs and ours). The Stones’ music and albums, mirrors of their times, have inspired, released, frustrated, and nourished us for generations. They’ve burnished the legend and mystique of the band, and, to some, subtracted from the aura of the early glory days. I’ve heard all the arguments, and even made a few of them along the way.

But I now realize I’m long past the apprehension and arguments over age and relevancy; debates about tours and motives; what was versus what is. Are they even arguments? Or conversations that are really reflections of our own investments and identity; our own hopes and projections, doubts and disappointments? And is it about us asking ourselves: Can we truly count on who, and what, we fiercely care about?

Where I am now in my own relationship with the Stones’ music struck me like a bright flash of lightning that dreary morning, after I dropped my daughter off and began the drive homeward, through a rural stretch of winding roads abutted by rushing rivers and and a forest of ancient trees.

When a stately piano figure (courtesy of old friend Stevie Wonder) opened the new gospel-and Lady Gaga-soaked “Sweet Sounds of Heaven,” I felt that familiar rush of expectation and possibility that always accompanies hearing a brand new Stones song for the first time.

Although this time it was different. Unlike other recent attempts to sound sleekly modern — the first buffed and blaring single, “Angry,” was accompanied by the sound of my heart sinking just a little bit — this one actually sounded immediately, blessedly old.

And “Sweet Sounds” only grew in mood and expansive temperament from those first meditative moments. The track was replete with a pungent brass chart reminiscent of a classic Stax-Volt track, and Lady Gaga’s prodigiously soaring guest vocal enveloping the melody, sweetening yet contrasting with the vinegary pungency of Jagger’s vocal textures. The hardwired part of my brain went directly to Merry Clayton’s apocalyptic star turn on “Gimme Shelter” — though, make no mistake, this ain’t that (then again, nothing is).

Some five decades after I first allowed them to introduce themselves on a well-worn eight-track tape of “Hot Rocks” in junior high school, the moment remains imprinted on me indelibly like a Keith Richards riff. Here I was forty-five years later, wending my way home after dropping off my daughter at her junior high school (OK, technically they now call it middle school). And the Rolling Stones on the radio remained as relevant to the health and care of my soul as they’ve ever been.

The trees I drove past have always been here, of course, weathering storms, changing with the seasons, but remaining sturdily the same. The presence of the Stones in the universe feels only slightly more recent. And like those veined, lined leaves spreading new color, the Stones in their own autumn were giving us something to savor. For that gift I was simply grateful.

Of course, the new album, “Hackney Diamonds” is not “Exile On Main Street,” and probably not even “Tattoo You.” That’s OK, because how I’m hearing this record in October 2023 has nothing to do with fruitlessly comparing the Stones to their masterpieces — works that will neither lose their considerable power, nor be diluted merely because a new Rolling Stones album has the audacity to exist.

I’m discovering how much I appreciate the new stuff, such as the punk-flavored “Whole Wide World” (where Mick actually sings in the accent he was born with); the funky crash and bang of “Mess It Up”; and the easy Country & Western languor of “Dreamy Skies,” where even cowboy saint Hank Williams gets a namecheck. (An old colleague once wryly characterized the Stones as Britain’s best country band, and he may have been right).

Elsewhere, some guy named Paul McCartney drops by to deliver some buzzing fuzz bass on the album’s fastest tempo-ed track “Bite My Head Off,” and while it’s far from my favorite, and though I’ve never been a fan of glitzy guest stars, upon hearing the novelty of Sir Mick urge Sir Paul to give us some bass, I thought, well, why the hell not?

Likewise for Elton John, who bangs out some saloon piano on “Live By The Sword,” a strong older track that also happens to feature the late, beloved Charlie Watts on drums teaming with his old rhythm section partner, ex-Stones’ bassist Bill Wyman, who retired thirty years ago but remains with us at age 87. And for my money, “the boys” couldn’t have picked a more fitting closer/coda than “Rolling Stone Blues,” the Muddy Waters number that gave the group their name sixty-plus years ago. It’s a touching tribute and summation; a beyond back-to-basics reading stripped down to the bones of just Jagger’s voice and harmonica, and Keith’s guitar.

I’m heartened and relieved that what ultimately comes to us all, even gods supposedly as immortal as Mick and Keith (c’mon, that cat’s well past his nine lives), hasn’t come to them yet. The wound left by the emotional dagger to my heart that was Charlie’s death two years ago still feels fresh. Fittingly, “Hackney Diamonds” is dedicated to him.

Ultimately, I’m comforted, and that’s probably not a very rock & roll emotion. But I’m also inspired by their defiance in doing whatever the hell they want, ignoring the naysayers, and forging ahead with volume and attitude, and yeah, some pretty damn good new tunes. Hey, it’s 2023 and my heart is still beating to this improbable, age-defying anomaly called The Rolling Stones. It may not exactly be like having the Lord by my side for the drive home. But it’s the Stones, and that’s close enough.