Many organizations attempt to play the role of deity, but mostly end up displaying poor taste. This is particularly true for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which I see as music’s awkward and overly self-important temple of eternal recognition. Decades ago, being inducted might have held significant meaning—being recognized as a key player in your field. Yet, some of the true geniuses remain outside its walls—think Boston, Devo, solo Brian Eno, Iron Maiden, the Meters, New York Dolls, Thin Lizzy, and War, to list just a few. The only time the induction ceremony caught my interest was when Nirvana was honored in 2014, a period when my fascination with Nirvana was at its peak. Perhaps my disdain for the Rock Hall stems from growing up near it; during my younger years, it turned into a tourist trap, leveraging its location to sell Cleveland as a ‘cool’ destination.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s annual induction gala seems nothing more than a sycophantic spectacle for those anointed by music industry insiders—individuals who seem to have lost touch. It feels just a notch above purchasing your own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame: more about pretense than pride. Each year, the Hall announces its nominees, and each year, we voice our complaints online. Complaints about who got overlooked, who doesn’t even play rock music. It’s as futile as arguing about Alan Trammell’s inclusion in Cooperstown. Who cares? The Tigers are still terrible. But until this past Saturday night, not having Warren Zevon in the Rock Hall was a blatant error. They’re still a pitiful institution even now that they’ve finally inducted him, but slightly less so.

Warren Zevon, one of the greatest songwriters of his generation and beyond, released only three albums after I was born. Yet, living in Hollywood has deepened my appreciation for his work, especially when I visit the places he mentions in “Carmelita.” After enduring a session of corporate-themed pinball and indifferent staff leading karaoke, you can find solace in the Rock Hall, finally able to pinpoint Zevon’s name on its polished walls. To borrow his words, the shit has hit the fan. I no longer live in Ohio, and even if I did, I doubt I’d visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame by choice. However, I’m somewhat thankful for that building—designed by I.M. Pei, who also designed the Louvre Pyramid—and for housing memorabilia from Zevon’s life. Here in Los Angeles, I pay my own tributes by playing his records along the streets I’ve come to cherish, streets that come alive with rainbow lights after dusk. You don’t need a map to the stars when albums like Warren Zevon or Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School can transport you anywhere.

William Mulholland’s drive stretches along the Santa Monica Mountains’ ridge. On one side, views span across the San Fernando Valley; on the other, the Los Angeles Basin dips, revealing a skyline marred by haze. David Lynch once commented that you can “feel the history of Hollywood” here. That rings true for tracks like “Backs Turned Looking Down the Path” and “Desperados Under the Eaves,” as myth elevates the mundane into stories worth telling. I frequent Mulholland Drive when I tire of its winding curves and sharp turns, when I’m no longer dreaming about its hilltop homes, but simply driving there.

My partner is pleased that the canyon roads still captivate me. As long as I remain receptive to the possibilities along these routes, and as long as a statue of Houdini greets me at Laurel Canyon Boulevard, there’s still magic to be discovered. I moved to this city to fully immerse myself in my love for it. Sometimes, she lets me take the scenic route home after running errands, and we play “Join Me in L.A.” from start to finish. I find romance in commuting, which is almost comical in a city notorious for its traffic nightmares. But those guitar riffs fill me up as Mariposa becomes Finley, when a cautionary tale turns into a heartfelt lament (“They say this place is evil, that ain’t why I stay. ‘Cause I found something that will never be nothing”). “Excitable Boy” is next, but she skips it. California will sink into the ocean before that song plays past its opening note in her car, so instead, I let Linda Ronstadt and Jennifer Warnes’ ethereal harmonies infiltrate my dreams.

Zevon’s life was as iconic as the era itself. Initially, he was a bookie in Los Angeles, setting up dice games for Mickey Cohen and going by the nickname Stumpy, as if he’d stepped out of a pulp novel. His next chapter saw him studying classical music under Igor Stravinsky. He then moved to New York City, becoming a session musician and jingle writer, composing tracks like “Like the Seasons” and “Outside Chance” for the Turtles. One of his songs was even re-recorded by Leslie Miller for Midnight Cowboy in 1969. A year later, he released his debut album and toured with the Everly Brothers as a keyboardist and musical coordinator before briefly living in Spain. There, he and mercenary David Lindell wrote “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner” at the Dubliner Bar in Sitges.

But that lifestyle quickly grew tiresome, and at Jackson Browne’s urging, Zevon returned to Los Angeles in September 1975, moving in with Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham. He befriended the Eagles, Bonnie Raitt, Linda Ronstadt, Carl Wilson, Ned Doheny, JD Souther, and Waddy Wachtel, then invited them all to collaborate on an album he was recording at Sunset Sound with Browne. Before this, Zevon had been living a hedonistic life, indulging in women, acid, and alcohol. He had a son but rarely saw him, and during a drunken spree at the Hollywood Hawaiian hotel, Zevon escaped through a window when he couldn’t afford his bill. The songs he began creating—tales of unfaithful marriages, tumultuous love affairs with vodka, and violent escapades involving gun-toting, flight-risk cowboys and lowlifes—were presented from unusual perspectives Zevon wanted us to explore. It was a compelling rhythm for someone so influenced by Béla Bartók’s suites. Or perhaps it wasn’t. He was Hunter S. Thompson in a valley full of Faulkners, sharing every sordid detail yet remaining an enigma.

Warren Zevon was a commercial flop in 1976 but it established Zevon as a provocative, unconventional songwriter during an era dominated by adult-contemporary FM radio. The album’s narratives of destruction and debauchery mirrored Zevon’s own wild behavior. According to legend, he was a gun enthusiast who enjoyed firing shots indoors. And his financial situation was in shambles long before his return to Hollywood. These were the “good old, bad old days”—not exactly the kind of music that a committee would consider “hall of fame-worthy.” But the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame isn’t a reliable measure of a legacy these days, especially not for Warren Zevon. I would have inducted him based solely on his five-night performance at the Roxy in August 1980, when he became sober and began performing stunts like backflips off his piano and improvising lines like “the Ayatollah has his problems, too” during “Mohammed’s Radio.”

I discovered Warren Zevon through associations, initially after watching the “Smooching and Mooching” episode of Freaks and Geeks. Maybe it was when I heard Kid Rock sample it in “All Summer Long” while riding the school bus. Back then, gritty rock songs about violence, drugs, and gambling weren’t common on MySpace profiles. Zevon’s life wasn’t picturesque, and the folklore surrounding his music is more twisted than legendary. I’m not sure if the Rock Hall will downplay his wild, rebellious antics in their coastal sanctuary, because no one could ever fully contain the kind of humor he wove between the lines of his dark, sometimes cruel narratives, but I’m glad that now, a few more kids might discover him more easily than I did.

And I’m still searching for him. Or maybe I’m just passing through his story. Like, damn, I know where Gower Avenue is! I drive past his old West Hollywood apartment building regularly. If I walk a couple of streets over from my place, I can see the Hollywood sign framed by palm trees. And I know that somewhere beneath those letters is a room he rented briefly, before his son was born and before Linda Ronstadt and JD Souther moved in. This city is haunted, but to really connect with Warren Zevon, you have to dip your toes in the Pacific Ocean. Yet I still cruise the streets with “Mohammed’s Radio” blaring through the sunroof. Then, I catch a glimpse of some kids kissing on the curb while their friends snap photos of the distant Griffith Observatory. Doesn’t it make you want to rock and roll all night long?

The funny thing is, for the longest time, the only Warren Zevon song I really knew or cared about was “Werewolves of London,” because it was the only one my dad ever played. I loved that catchy old tune, and so did many others, its hook catching enough listeners to crack the Top 40 in 1978. But then I watched Judd Apatow’s Funny People in college and heard “Keep Me In Your Heart.” It’s heartbreaking to witness a man who constantly cheated death finally face its inevitability. But Zevon’s passing allowed me to delve into the 30 years of music that came before it. Hearing a lyric like “Well, I’m sitting here playing solitaire / With my pearl-handled deck” makes it hard for any other song in the English language to satisfy you in the same way. I was straddling the threshold of girlhood and “Tenderness on the Block,” finding solace in Zevon’s macho, winking depictions of tragic, alcohol-soaked scenes.

Zevon was a self-destructive genius with a brilliant pen. It’s unfortunate that his pen didn’t always work. He wrote the greatest album closer of all time (“Desperados Under the Eaves”) and paired it on the same record with a lackluster song like “Hasten Down the Wind,” which only sounded great when Linda Ronstadt covered it. Zevon drank excessively and couldn’t just churn out simple, straightforward material. Imagine early ‘90s Dylan, but constantly. How can you write a line like “I caught a glimpse of you, and your face looked like something death brought with him in his suitcase” and then produce “Let Nothing Come Between You” for mastering? Zevon’s edges were much rougher than those of his soft-rock peers. Jackson Browne, the Eagles, and Fleetwood Mac were all far more successful, armed with enough hits to justify their catchy, if somewhat bland, melodies, but they never embodied the rock star persona quite like he did. I’m still not sure if that’s a compliment.

But, hey, if Ringo Starr can be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a solo artist, then Warren Zevon deserves three or four inductions! Even though many of his albums are mediocre or downright frustrating to sift through, he wrote about all the things I’ll never be but live among. He sang about the addicts and the two-bit characters, the prostitutes and the sidemen. His portrayal of Hollywood isn’t dead; the demimonde just wraps up its nights much earlier now. Not too shabby for a guy who once scraped by singing jingles for Chevrolet. I love his songs, and I enjoy humming them with my girlfriend as we navigate these bustling L.A. streets, where our life’s poetry echoes off all the billboards. Under the banner of Zevon’s wicked wit, I find completeness in my own modesty. And if there’s an organization out there willing to acknowledge all of that and honor it… well, that sounds pretty good to me. While inducting his old friend into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on Saturday, after more than 30 years of eligibility, David Letterman shared Warren Zevon’s final piece of wisdom: “Enjoy every sandwich.” Five years ago, I thought that saying was kind of silly. But five years ago, I also thought that moving across the country for love was kind of silly. Now I understand that some things are truly worth savoring.

Matt Mitchell is Paste’s music editor, reporting from their home in Los Angeles.