DownerMan Revival
Life Offstage
by Alek Grabinski - alek@best.com
The rhythm guitarist didn't show up last night.
The quartet wasn't. The players who were left were not a power trio; a
power trio consists of guitar, bass, and drums - no more, no less. The
guitarist from the opening band sat in, but the show had the feel of an
experimental combo, a guest player trying his best to fill the unique
shoes of the missing man. The shoes weren't necessarily too large to
fill; but they were of a different style, a different shape entirely.
Shoes that cannot, should not, be filled.
The band played as if nothing were different. The pink elephant paraded
across stage and nobody said a word to acknowledge the tremendous
difference. In between songs, the crowd was hushed, speaking to each
other in whispers. The tone was somber, like at a funeral where restraint
calls for stifling any outburst of emotion. Onstage, the drummer said
something to the bass player, his voice carrying beyond the stage edge and
into the crowd. In jest the bassist put his index finger to his lips,
shushing the drummer. The show went on.
The rhythm guitarist did not turn out to be late, like he had been in the
past. The band does not have a tourbus which collects the players en
route to the gig; the other players drive themselves, but he does not have
reliable transportation. Usually some friends of the band pick him up and
drive him to the show, an arrangement about which fans in the know laugh
nervously but accept as "the way things are." But they rang the doorbell,
and there was no answer. He did not show up at the venue on his own.
His name is a familiar one. Some might call him famous. His guitar and
his voice can be heard as the frontman of one of the greatest live bands
in rock history - a bloated statement, certainly to the ears of that
band's leader, but true enough to me and to legions of fans. He sang of
songs from Illinois to the Andes, asking "Why?" of Andy and Michael and
Sharleena. That he could be in this role, under this bandleader, bespoke
volumes of his talents. That he was no longer in the lineup for the next
incarnation of the band did not come as a surprise, because the bandleader
changed lineups all the time.
I gave it no thought. The rhythm guitarist continued to occupy a place in
my brain reserved for artists held in high esteem, a place where they
are their talents, no more, no less. In this proto-heaven, they
are ethereal, without body or shape, feeling no pain and no
disappointment; they continue to write books, play music, teach their
students. It did not occur to me that he might have left the famous band
and dropped - not out, but down. That this fall hurt him
That it drove him to seek solace in a bottle, furthering his separation
from the talent he once radiated. I did not think of him as I do of the
scores of famous older blues players who signed contracts ceding all of
the royalties on music they created, but who now live destitute.
When he left the famous band, he went to that place in my brain, and when
he returned to the stage, he stepped down from heaven to rain blessings
upon me again. How foolish of me to think that his life was this simple.
Last night he didn't show up.
DM
[ This column was written on May 1st. It appears
that he has paid more dearly than I knew. ]
