“I’ve got much more than most people have
And a little less than a few
But you can’t measure these things by weight
They either drag you down or they lift you.
“A Brand New Book,” 1991, Graham Parker
Late last year, I learned, to my delight, AARP magazine would be publishing an edited version of my Lifers essay sometime in 2018. The essay details the realization that, despite not having achieved youthful goals, playing music for fun is, in fact, a pleasure. And the irony that I’m better now than I was then. (Publication is imminent.)
In preparation, a few weeks ago, AARP sent photographer Gregg Segal to get shots of me on my home turf here in the Hudson Valley, playing music with friends in my backyard, performing solo acoustic at the humble Woodstock Farm Festival, and posing at the Colony, the venue I play most frequently these days.
AARP told me Gregg got some great stuff. It was, indeed, a fun, sunny day, ending with a lush Catskills summer twilight, and I was among good friends, hale and hearty family, in excellent health myself, doing well in the supportive and nurturing community I’ve called home for the last sixteen years.
The AARP photo editor asked if I had any pix of myself from “back in the day” to juxtapose with Gregg’s shots. Turns out I do, both jpegs, and pre-digital prints I’d not looked at in years. These I needed to excavate and scan. This process brought me face to face with the work of two dear friends from “the old days”: photographers Dan Howell and Jimmy Cohrssen. Both of these men I am still in touch with via the internet, but I rarely see them, as the kids say, “in real life” (IRL). We were once significant parts of each others’ lives. In those days none of us owned laptops or cell phones, and were not yet thirty.
While I was pounding the NYC pavement in the 80s and 90s, Dan and Jimmy were setting out on their paths to become professional photographers. None of us, incidentally, had backup plans if our ambitions did not pan out. We were hungry dreamers. We encouraged and consoled each other, and we had some adventures and misadventures. To my great fortune, I was their frequent test subject, and they showed their belief in me by making many prints for nothing. Neither was a big drinker, so I couldn’t reciprocate with free booze at my various bartending gigs. They didn’t care.
Those times, those friendships, that heart-full emotion of knowing you are at the beginning of something – all neatly tucked away in my memory. Until, of course, I held the prints in my hands again.
I am happy to say I was mindful to store the Cohrssen and Howell prints – and a few others – quite well. That is telling. I have not been so good at storing other things well. But evidently, with these marvelous photos, I knew I possessed hard copy documents whose value would increase with time, at least in my house. If I’d allowed them to decay, I knew I would not forgive myself, and Dan and Jimmy would be understandably pissed. I had, in fact, already allowed some precious tapes, magazine clips, correspondence, and other photos to degrade in what I’d come to realize was subconscious destructiveness. For that I felt – and still feel – idiotic. With these prints, however, I’d vowed to be careful, to respect my friends’ work, to honor them and my erstwhile self.
I dimly recall painstakingly sealing the prints in a plastic tub well over a decade ago, storing them like a time capsule in a cedar drawer. All these actions were pre-digital, which, oddly, makes them feel like ancient history. But it was only the mid ‘aughts. I recall the strange, unstuck-in-time feeling of communing with the ghosts of my past and future selves, introducing two different versions of myself to each other, then stepping away from this disorienting headspace and back into the onward rush of my timeline, which in the early ‘aughts was pretty intense, if not quite glamorous. Certainly not boring.
On top of the tub was the New York Times from Wednesday, November 5th, 2008: OBAMA. Stored not quite so carefully, yellowed, not sealed in plastic. When I saw that, my gut tightened, and I knew I was heading into fraught territory, about to sail around a bend to rough waters, in which I would feel, with excruciating freshness, losses, both in my life and in my world. I was going to cry. And I did.
RBW, NYC, 1990, by Jimmy Cohrssen
RBW, NYC, 1991 by Dan Howell
RBW, NYC, 1993, by Alexa Garbarino
After pulling myself together, I looked at the photos and realized: the guy in these photos has had an interesting life up to the point of the photo, and yeah, he’s full of youthful vigor and trying to make the most of it, to document it with the help of his friends, and yeah, he’s vain, a little presumptuous. But I don’t begrudge him any of that. In part because he’s about to get his ass kicked, literally and figuratively, in both good and bad ways. He has yet so much life a-comin’, so much to be done and to deal with. He will, in fact, do his best work after these photos.
I realize with stunning clarity the life yet to be lived, the joy and despair, and every gradation of emotion in-between. The level of fame and monetary success he seeks will not be forthcoming, but in many respects he will be luckier than most, though it will take some effort and guidance to realize this.
As I look at the images, I make a by-no-means–comprehensive list of what is yet to come for this guy. It goes on and on and on, which in itself feels lucky, as I now have said farewell to quite a few whose lists ended years ago, long before they should have. People I mourn still. I realize if I do this again in twenty-five or so years, I will be in my late seventies. If I get that much time, what, I wonder, will I list? I cannot help but muse on that chronicle-to-be. For whom, if anyone, will it be a message? For you? Someone not yet born? Or just for me, a means of taking stock, realizing not only what I’ve done, but what I’ve survived? Not only what I’ve made, but what has made me.
Before I once again step away from this admittedly intense headspace and back into my timeline, I will farewell you with the current list, pasted below:
The guy in the pictures above has not yet
written a book
written a good story
written a good song
written an album
produced someone else’s album
written a decent essay / article, much less a great one
driven someone to tears with any of the above
attended a protest
co-produced a baby
seen a Sonogram
attended a birth, wishing he could do more, feeling like God had let him backstage, and leaving that room forever humbled
changed a diaper
cleaned up baby vomit (and other effluvium)
broken up a toddler fight
had a baby fall asleep on his chest/on his back/in the Bjorn
made children – and their parents – dance and sing together
wept with gratitude
taught a word
taught a dance
taught a class
taught a concept
been entrusted with two dozen toddlers
read a child to sleep
read an adult to sleep
nitpicked (lice, that is)
produced an event
hushed an audience with words and/or song, both his own, and others’
carried a 3 hour show
performed a great show without having slept in 36 hours, and without the aid of drugs
had what was once referred to as “a nervous breakdown” (and recovered)
walked away from a dream
watched friends achieve dreams like the one he walked away from
said goodbye to New York City
been amazed at how leaving NYC didn’t, in fact, send him into deep depression
held elected office (8th Grade doesn’t count)
spoken before elected officials
sung before elected officials
affected an election
published a poem
performed solo acoustic without subsequently breaking into tears of rage and humiliation
unpacked “issues” for a mental health professional
tried to work out said issues via art
taken prescription medicine
taken holistic medicine
communed with God (or…something) on an Andean mountaintop
learned songs written before 1956
heard his song on network TV
heard his song on satellite radio
received a royalty check
had a song plagiarized
had a root canal
met a murderer (Robert Blake)
attended the funeral of a friend
met an idol (John Paul Jones)
talked to – interviewed, actually – Stevie Nicks
played music in a children’s cancer ward, and been subsequently, radically changed
said goodbye to a brain dead friend in an ICU, and subsequently received notification that friend’s organs had saved three lives
received news that his dearest friend committed suicide
become a parent
watched friends become parents
watched friends become grandparents
watched friends get kicked to the curb by their kids
felt like a bad parent
flet like a good parent, then felt like a bad parent again
watched friends go through unspeakable grief
learned he is, according to a DNA test, 8% Native American, 92% European white guy
learned some devastating family history
been told he’s “too old to get testicular cancer” (uh… thanks?)
had a colonoscopy, with most awesome Propofol high
held the following live wild animals in his hands: robin, starling, hummingbird, bat, flying squirrel, mouse, chipmunk, snapping turtle
helped a crazed woman pull a dead black bear off the highway at night
come face to face with a very alive black bear in his backyard
seen a bald eagle mere feet away, and freaked out (in a good way)
heard coyotes laughing in his yard at night
made a deathbed promise
pierced the veil between the living and the dead
been in a room with a recently deceased person
voted for a winning presidential candidate
cut off an addict
forgiven an addict
attended a 12-step meeting
written epic, raging letters
been told he’s “a bit much”
negotiated a fee
been totally ripped off
been paid handsomely
had clothing tailor-made
done his taxes
signed a mortgage
signed a lease
sold himself short
been forgiven causing great pain
raged in public
set foot in a gym
set foot in a yoga studio
beat a traffic ticket
won, or rather settled, a lawsuit
lost, or rather settled, a lawsuit
spent more than $50 on a shirt
attended a protest
sent an email
wasted time on the internet
pulled someone from a riptide
been punched in the face on the street by a stranger (soon, though)
chopped and stacked wood
shoveled snow
kept a garden
made a pie
done battle with weeds
established a friendship with someone whose politics differ significantly from his own
cried in a theater
cried from a book
run across the street in the wee hours to tell the guys playing free jazz to fucking STOP already, as his pregnant wife can’t sleep
burned an heirloom Confederate flag
talked to the man who last saw his father alive
successfully performed downward facing dog (with feet flat) in a yoga class (that’s this month, btw)
made a list of life events for someone as yet unseen