Music Write-Ups
How do you know Chris Earley?
How many MP3s do you have on your hard drive?
The day has ended. It’s cold, now. The moon is out. There are couples along the boulevard, arm in arm, coming from the show. Down below they are ice skating under white light. Up above there are windows lit and from them the dinner parties spot the tiny figurines gliding in circles, all an endless motion. The avenues are crowded with taxicabs and men and women on their way to dinner now. There is the smoke of roasting chestnuts near-burning in a metal pan and a man wearing Santa’s hat and brown leather gloves ringing his bell, ringing his bell. The flow is steady to his sides, spinning doors recycling shoppers. A woman stops and opens her purse. She drops a couple of dollars into the metal bucket and he smiles and nods and continues to ring, never slowing. A man takes a break from playing the saxophone to warm his hands over the roaster’s grill. They talk about their kids.
Further along the avenue there are the comings and the goings. The shops are shutting down. The wind picks up and it is cold and so you pull your collar up and you put your arm around your loved one as you make your way down the street, hunched a little now to keep warm. The city towers up around you and you walk from block to block, making your way.
It begins to snow. You stop and look up into it and there are the lights changing and the clock above the lit tree line, and small, insignificant pieces of snow fall into and get caught in your eyelashes. They melt into a kaleidoscope of light and motion. There are people hailing cabs and people walking through the park and everyone is headed somewhere. Everyone, somewhere to be.
At the counters they are wrapping up the gifts in long, elegant strands of white ribbon and the most beautiful red wrapping paper. Steaming cups of coffee bob down the sidewalk. People hold them near their faces with both hands and the streetlight switches from red, to green. You step out and a cab shoves his way through the intersection and swerves to avoid you. You step quickly up onto the curb. Almost there, now.
As you walk you see your friends’ faces. You wonder who will already be there, whom you will greet, who will greet you. You see yourself pulling up to the bar, getting the attention of the bartender, and you can smell the charred wood in the whiskey as you say, “Salud,” and tap your glass against another’s. The first sweet coat is followed by a slight burn, and then the heat that rises up through your stomach, filling your chest, dissolving the winter winds that have crept inside your coat, and underneath your skin. You order another.
As you walk the insignificant snow causes you to blink but you don’t wipe it away, there is no thought of wiping it away, and you can hear your friends yelling to one another in the bar, you can hear them jeering one another and singing to the music. Only a few more blocks now. The two of you walk steadily. Once there you’ll throw your coats off and slide in between the crowd. There will be much talking and dancing and laughter and everyone will be together. There will be much talking and yelling about the music and there will be friends pointing at friends and there will be the sitting next to one another and there will be the cheers and toasts while all along the avenues everyone will head to theirs, hailing cabs, carrying bags and steaming cups of coffee, walking arm in arm, their vision blurred by flakes of snow melting in their eyelashes. But in the bar there will be much talking and laughing, and everyone will be together.
-peterprato
I’ve got no need to be
everybody’s best friend, just
want to be my best friend’s
best man, I’ve got no need to
be, the one you come to
for drugs, for money, maybe
just advice. but i can’t help
it that you notice me
when i walk into the party.
-peterprato
She sees you see her from across the room. She smiles, too. She rolls over in bed one night, still asleep, she hugs you, falls asleep hugging you. She begins to cry, you’re on the street, it’s raining, you’re yelling, she begins to cry. She tells you about her family. About her brother. About his drug addiction. She sends you an email in the middle of the day. She tells you she misses you. She slides her hand into yours as you’re walking down the street, the first time. She asks you to stay. She asks you to leave. She leans in, she whispers, she says, she loves you, too. She holds you in the dark, her body against yours, sweating, shaking, ecstatic and afraid. She farts. She laughs. She unzips her suitcase, pulls your Christmas gift from it. She tells you where she found it. She beams. She sticks her toe in the crack of your ass while you’re trying to brush your teeth and she laughs like a maniac. She tells you that she’s moving home. She gets on the plane. She gets off the plane. She nervously peels the labels from each beer bottle. She tells you that if she could only have one album for the rest of her life, it would be “The White Album,” and maybe even just the first disc. She tells you that she’s sorry. She leaves playful notes written on masking tape stuck to your wall that you find when you arrive home from your trip. She tells you that she never wants to see you again. She tells you that you’re “her favorite guy.” She tells you that you can go fuck yourself or anyone else you like. She wanders a little way behind on the beach so that she can watch you. She walks ahead, forgets the whole world. She skims the edge of the ocean with the edge of her foot. She gets car sick, asks you to stop. She can’t stop thinking about you. She sends Christmas gifts to your mother. She asks about your family. She asks if you’d like to try. She coaxes you out onto the dance floor. She tells you when you’re pushing too hard. She says into your ear that it’s your responsibility to get her ass out of the way. She taps you when you’re about to back into someone. She hums the count of the steps. She lets you borrow her car. She borrows one to come pick you up when you get hers towed. She asks you if you’ve been seeing anyone else. She hangs up. She picks up. She kisses back. She thanks you for the flowers. She tells you to stop calling. She comes back to the table with your favorite beer. She rides bikes with you through the neighborhood night to the first movie theater you ever went to in Berkeley. She says, there, that’s the one, that one, right there, and laughs at you while you roll around on the ground, struggle to cut it down. She picks it from the front and guides you both back through Brooklyn to your apartment. She helps you decorate it. She makes ornaments out of miniature perfume bottles. She asks you how you’ve been. She laughs at your jokes. She turns off the lights and lets you fall asleep while she cooks dinner. She tells you you’re not on her team. She meets you for a cup of coffee. She tells you how good it is to see you. She agrees to stay the night. She surprises you with a trip north. She calls, crying. She tells you to come over. She pushes her palm against yours and methodically taps the tip of each of her fingers against the tip of each of yours. She says I can’t do this anymore, we can’t do this anymore. She leaves notes hidden in your dresser telling you that she won’t forget you. She brings over a bag of clothes and she thanks you when you’ve emptied one of the drawers for her, after you’ve folded her clothing and put it all away. She asks you what, what are we doing, sitting on the floor of your kitchen, her feet at your hands, nothing touching. She says she doesn’t want to get hurt either, she can’t stop thinking about you, either. She cleans your bathroom while you cook dinner. She asks you to pick up conditioner. She shows you a better way. She gets a hotel room. She shows up behind you in the bar. She gets the answer to the trivia question correct before you’ve finished reading it. She tips the cab driver. She sits next to you at your first dinner, picks the wine, takes food off of your plate without asking. She forgives you. She tells you that she has found someone else, and that he is incredible. She doesn’t know that you are happy for her. She tells you she needs some time. She tells you that you snore. She says goodbye, she turns, she walks down the street, she disappears around the corner. She sees you see her from across the room.
She smiles, too.
-peterprato
It’s three o’clock on a Friday and you haven’t done shit all week long at work but you don’t really give a fuck because all you do is stare at a computer and you know you can be replaced and you wonder whether or not you’re justified in feeling like an indentured servant to the office world, but you do, to the credit card companies, to the conversation your manager’s manager has to have with their manager’s manager about your numbers, even though you know people are dying and getting ripped apart by i.e.d.s and polar bears are drowning and politicians are campaigning and the world is overheating and while this country’s getting fatter the rest of the world is starving to death or dying of aids and you know you should care, you’re supposed to care, you do care but it’s 3:02 and you’ve already checked myspace and facebook and friendster and craigslist and google for anything to take your mind off focusing on the fact that you’ve got to keep telling yourself that you’re happy about the work you do, the friends you have, the parties you’ve been to, at least half the people you’ve slept with, about seventy-five percent of the drugs you’ve done and a hundred percent of the experiences you’ve had because you know there’s no sense in regretting it because it’s done, it’s over, and you can’t do shit about it, but there’s still this tumor growing inside of you and you know you’re not really going for it, you’re not giving it your all, you’re using your friends and your drugs and your parties and your beautifully developed critical thinking skills that cost you or your family a hundred thousand dollars to rationalize sitting at a computer nine hours a day wondering if your salary is the check that was used to buy the biggest lie you ever told yourself and you know that sooner or later you’re not going to have the excuse of being young and there will be no more youth to waste, but even though you know this you decide to read up on the many interests of some chick that used to date some guy you didn’t even really like in college that’s asked you to be his “friend”, and now it’s 3:11 and you log onto gmail to see who’s online, or if anyone’s responded to the last in a series of emails that you responded to ten minutes ago, and your buddy pops on, and it’s ! and you’re like ! and it’s all ! and ! and ! and it’s Friday and it’s 3:17 and now you’re pumped to get a bunch of work done, really go for it, so you ! and you sign off and you start making calls, like, a shitload of them, you’re dialing these numbers like you’re about to tell these people they’ve just won fourteen fucking million dollars and you’re so ! that the woman on the other end of the line is like ! and you’re like ! and that’s how it’s going, just ! after ! after ! and your coworkers are coming up to your desk and you don’t even need to say anything, they feel it, and they’re like ! and you’re like ! and you’re wearing your favorite pair of jeans and your favorite sweatshirt because it’s casual Friday and when the hell did it ever become necessary to designate a day as being casual and the thought of uncomfortable shoes and fake Monday morning smiles pops up like ! and you grab a hold of the motherfucker and you strangle him right to death, because it’s Friday, and nothing’s gonna stop you now, so you get up and you stretch a little bit and you tell yourself that next week you’re going to really kick some ass at the gym, break a whole lot of sweat, that next week’s gonna be different, and you can see downtown and the skyline’s looking as sexy as ever and even though it’s raining you’re like ! and you dance around inside your cubicle and the girl that works next to you looks at you like you’ve just pissed your pants so you start to jump up and down and you’re pretending to scream at her like she’s your favorite football team running a million fucking yard return to win the Super Bowl and you’re slamming down your pointer fingers at her and you’re running in place and your completely ! and she’s getting into it and there’s a little tiny ! on her face and another of your coworkers passes by on their way to the bathroom and you’re like ! and after a cup of coffee and a few more calls you grab your mouse and you click on every screen on your computer and you’re badassing these spreadsheets and emails and outlooking like you’re landing the spaceshuttle on a par 5 and you’re typing with both legs forward, and you slam that motherfucker shut and grab your jacket and you’re on the go, you’re shaking the doorman’s hand, you’re out the door, and you’re on the street, you’re ! and everyone you pass is ! and now you’re on the train and off the train there are hordes of us, there are thousands of us, there are millions of us, everywhere, all going for it, and you can’t believe this shit, but everyone is cheering and dancing and it’s choreographed and we’re all every single one of us ! through the turnstiles, and now you’re at your buddy’s front door, ringing the bell, you’re getting buzzed in, you’re headed up the stairs, you’re through the door and you’re ! and you’re ! and you’re ! and you take a long, beautiful, life-giving drag off a joint and the sound of the cap coming off the beer bottle sounds like an orchestral set at Carnegie Hall and in the living room it’s ! and ! and ! and music’s happening and so you break a little off and you shake those hips side to side and you swing those arms and you’re like the world’s biggest fucking slinky cascading perfectly down the world’s biggest fucking staircase that’s been carved right out of the side of Mount Fucking Everest and the hardwood floor is making out with the bottom of your feet and three cell phones are fired up and they’re on their way, we’ll meet you there, we’ll be here, no, we’ll be there, yeah, we’ll be there, yeah, meet us there, and it’s ! and ! and ! and then your buddy turns up the ! because it’s Friday and it’s ! and he’s dancing too and the whole room starts to ! and it’s ! and we’re ! and the buzzer sounds and there are footsteps on the stairs and the door closes and it’s ! and ! and ! and they immediately join in on the dancing and we’re all like ! and you’re ! and it’s ! and we’re just getting started.
-peterprato
I remember the arrival of the baby grand, and the story of how it nearly took the life of one of the men carrying it up the stairs of our home in Cogan Station. I can remember running my hands along its obsidian surface, and how it would register the humid breath of my fingertips. My mom loved that piano.
A couple of weeks ago, my sister and I were talking about my mom. She and alicia have a better relationship, a closer relationship. “Mom asked me… she said, ‘do you ever feel like you couldn’t live without Hayden? When you’re apart, do you ever feel like that?” I said sure I did. “‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt that.’ That’s what mom said.”
We moved away from Pennsylvania when I was ten. My dad had been living in a hotel during the week in Maryland for six months, working, after he’d lost his job in Williamsport. They tried to sell our home, but it was difficult. I remember standing in the kitchen with my mom, her crying, and telling her that everything was going to be okay. I remember believing that more than anything. The first time I ever felt the inclination of adulthood was standing in the kitchen of the home my parents had built. I was ten years old.
My parents ended up having to sell our home for far less than it was worth. They rented in Maryland, but it was too expensive, and my father had wanted to live in California since he’d been in high school. He hated the snow, and desperately wanted to leave Pennsylvania. A year after moving to Maryland, we moved to Las Vegas.
My parents bought a small house on the corner of two streets, the names of which I cannot remember, and we stayed there until my father helped start an investment company my sophomore year of high school. That year, they found a much bigger, far more beautiful home that was being sold for far less than it was worth because of a nasty divorce. The front door was tall and wooden and the weight of it moved the house gently when closed hard. Through the door was a marble floor, and pillars, a step down, carpet, and the naked, black, baby grand piano.
Every now and then. Maybe it was six months. Maybe less. Maybe more. Not often. I would hear the cover board lifted. My mom would set down her dust rag. She was obsessed with cleaning. She would sit down and the bench would creak and in my bedroom I would hear Rachmaninoff drift down the stairs of our home in Pennsylvania, through the kitchen of our home in Germantown, across the brown and cream foyer of our first home in Henderson, then down around the curved, clean hallway of the single story that would be the last house my parents would ever own together, through the years, while home from college, up the stairs into the guest bedroom where I would sleep, as I was slowly erased from the space, and without any warning, she would stop, the notes would dissipate, the cover would be closed, and she would begin to clean again. I would stop when she began to play. At ten. At fifteen. At twenty.
My mom loves the movie from which this music is taken, and I think that maybe my love of piano bars, of dark, dreamy spaces where love creeps into and out of corners along with heartbreak and upheaval, quiet solace in the bottom of a bottle and song richochetting off of uvulas has much to do with those incredibly soft moments when, without her knowing, I would lean against the walls, deftly creep down the stairs, and listen to her struggle at first, and then ease slowly, peacefully into this music.
My mother and my father divorced last April. It was a sad time for me, but not unexpected. What was unexpected was that despite my pretending to be okay with it, my kidding myself about having known it was coming, having convinced myself I was prepared, I was sad, and afraid of love, and pushed it out of my life harshly, even violently. Even though my parents behaved for years as though they hated one another, I knew that I’d never hear my mom drift into the room, set down her cleaning supplies, and play Rachmaninoff in our home again. The past had overtaken us.
Sitting here, listening to this music, I love my mom. She is a wonderful woman and has been so many things to so many people. She has helped bring thousands of lives into the world as a labor and delivery nurse, and to this day she receives thanks from the love of strangers beginning families, beginning new chapters of their lives, whose children will never hear my mother’s music, and may never know of her life, and what she has accomplished in me, in my sister, and in herself. It is heartbreaking to think that she does not feel herself to be phenomenal.
Her name is Christine, and she is.
-Peter Prato
I saw Andy perform the first time when he was a junior in high school. That was ten years ago. Not long before that he’d emerged from his bedroom with a guitar. He’d locked himself in there for two years. When he walked out, he could play. Could he play. That probably sounds like an exaggeration, but mostly, it’s not.
Andy comes from a family of very driven, talented people who’ve made a significantly large impact on my life. His brother taught me how to cook and was largely responsible for teaching me how to play the guitar. In other words, Matt taught me how to enjoy some of the things that in living I enjoy most.
There was never any question of whether or not Andy would make it. That’s what happens to people who work as hard as he did, that spend their extra time in their bedroom remixing music, in the studio practicing, writing, booking shows, working, every day, every week. That’s what you want to happen for someone like this, anyway. I think we all expected Andy to make it as much as we wanted him to make it, because in a way, we all needed to believe that someone that loved anything as much as he loves music wouldn’t be denied the opportunity to build a life out of it.
Life’s long and short, and these days it’s a barrel of oil and a bomb at the end of the rainbow. We’re in no short supply of celebration. But I believe we need to believe in people, and in love, and that it’s worth the risk when you bring those things together. And make no mistake about it, it’s a risk, and boy, do we sometimes make mistakes. Good. I believe the only way to lead a live worth living is to fall madly in love with being alive, and to make mistakes. And to not give up.
Two years ago, Andy and his drummer, Kaumyar, with whom he’s been performing since high school, signed with their band to Atlantic Records.
This song was written and performed by my friend, Andy Barr. I wanted to share it with all of you.
I won’t give up if you won’t.
-Peter Prato
About three weeks ago my friend Dave Murphy (and contributor to Song of the Day) sent me an email with the following subject line-
“Best work song ever.”
Because I don’t have an internet connection at home, I don’t have time to get to all the forwarded emails bearing video clips of people getting trapped in porta-potties, dancers that miss a step and end up landing on their faces, and so on and so forth. Last week Dave and I went to dinner and I asked him, “Hey- what’s that work song clip you sent to me?”
He laughed. “You’ve just got to listen to it, dude. It’s fucking awesome. I’d turn your volume down, though.”
This morning, reading other write-ups for The Song of the Day, it occurred to me that I still hadn’t listened to it. So I dug it up and gave it a listen, not expecting much.
After listening to it, I immediately picked it as my song to write up on for the week. It’s moments like these that make The Song of the Day, for me, what it is- an opportunity to share what I believe is worth sharing. After sending it to Chris Earley, he did some digging, and it turns out that there’s a community of people trying to find the man who created this. Here’s some of what we’ve found so far-
“Dr. Ray Hagins is senior pastor and chief elder of “The Afrikan Village” Church in St. Louis, Missouri. He is also a therapist, clinician, musician, and radio and syndicated TV show host. He attended Montclair State University and holds a doctorate in counseling and a Ph.D. in cognitive psychology. Dr. Hagins was recognized as “Master Teacher” during a special coronation ceremony in 2000 at Kemet, Egypt, where he continues to conduct study tours. In his studies and research, he pays close attention to the psycho-historical context of contemporary issues and problems that affect the Black family. Dr. Hagins has traveled extensively, and is presently a visiting professor at Rutgers University in New Jersey and William Paterson State University also in New Jersey. For more information, call the Africana Studies program at 330-941-3097.”
http://www.zefrank.com/thewiki/Finding_Ray
I have no idea whether any of this is true, but I can vouch for being one individual that truly wants to shake this man’s hand.
I have only two things more to say-
First, thank you, to whoever the man is that sings this. I don’t know who you are, but you’re a beautiful person, and I have a lot of love for you and your voice.
And second,
this is the best work song ever.
-Peter Prato
[Note: This post was originally an email only Song of the Day back on October 6, 2006]
I’m doing my best to keep from taking a hatchet to this entire holiday. I want to burn balloons. I want to stage a bonfire in the middle of Market Street. The bitter scent of burning roses and melting cellophane would choke the blue sky in black. They’d smell it in the Sierras, and for the next century people would still exclaim, “how high the flames!” the day that Valentine’s died.
Yes. I’m bitter. Not entirely. But yes, some. Last night, my friend Erin and I were in the grocery store in my neighborhood shopping for dinner, and the decorations, the flowers, the incessant marketing scheme employed to celebrate a day of obligatory love was nothing short of oppressive. Three fish tacos, a great conversation, and a bottle of wine later, I’d forgotten about all of that.
Then this morning. My mom sends me a text wishing me a happy Valentine’s day. The whole world is dressed in red. There’s hot-air everywhere. And I’m doing my best to remain aware that it’s my own junk that’s pissing me off, my own world, my own struggle, and the only thing sadder than the whole world glad-handing one another is being bothered by it because deep down I want someone to love, too. And no, not just anyone.
These days, I’m all about me first, and my family second. This includes the people that have gotten me through a tough time in my life for no other reason than that they want me to be me, and are willing to be there for me when I’m not willing to be there for myself. There are no guarantees. Life’s this silly little game we play where the rules are forever changing and we love to love the things we love and sometimes just as much we love to hate the things we hate. And sometimes we find someone that loves to love with us, and helps us learn to get past the things we hate, and we can stop fumigating our souls because we’ve convinced ourselves that it is going to help us breathe.
I got on to the elevator this morning, and I heard this song, and it was just the pick me up that I needed. I was arm-wrestling myself all morning, knowing that, like always, if I’m not going to be gentle with myself, I’m forever going to be a much bigger pain in my own ass (let alone everyone else’s), than some silly holiday that might just give people a good enough reason to remind one another that they love one another.
Everything is arbitrary, and one of my best friends just put an orchid on my desk and said, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and look at me, here, swallowing that first paragraph whole. I’ve learned to love the taste of my own pride.
These days, I’m my own best friend.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
“I like leather. I rather fancy myself as a black panther.”~ Freddie Mercury ~
-Peter Prato
I’m going to write this in five minutes. Make that four. In four minutes, I have my first professional development meeting with my new manager. In that meeting, I’m going to explain to her why I am extremely, massively stressed out.
On Saturday, I found out that my cousin Kelley has a tumor wrapped around her heart. This morning, I received an email from one of the most important people in my life telling me that her father, with whom I’m also close, fell down this morning, and couldn’t get back up. And somehow, amazingly, I’m still able to grout these tiles together with my dissastisfaction for sitting at a desk all day long and staring at a computer screen despite the truth that I make a better than decent wage to do good work.
I’m dumbfounded by people that have the ability to enjoy their lives right here, right now. Specifically, those people that are able to look at life for the beautiful mess that it is, that can acknowledge its unbearable sadness, its unimaginable joy, and who can accept what is willingly, and gracefully. I have spent too much time complaining about what is and what isn’t, and want so much to be someone that by existing honestly, authentically, enables others to gain a greater sense of themselves, and the wildly unique space into which their existence fits. If I let it sink in for a moment, I realize that this is a value of mine. I believe, so much, in the power of a human being.
I’m reading Richard Feynman’s, “The Meaning of It All,” now. In it he’s describing a temple in which he met a man that said, “I’m going to tell you something that you will never forget. To every man is given the key to the gates of heaven. This key also opens the gates to hell.” And I think of an old adage that has stayed with me through the years- “If God truly wanted to drive a person insane, he’d grant their every wish.”
I don’t think anyone is supposed to know. Behind the veil of everything is the light at the heart of the sun, the death that hides in a broken atom, and the fatal addiction to ruling over life. In tightening our grip, we lose control. This metaphor extends easily across life, and falling off of a bike drunk isn’t always as bad as it sounds. But I would be lying to all of you and to myself if I didn’t admit that I am afraid to die, not so much because of what is or is not next, but because I want so much to live and often times don’t know how.
I’ve heard that neither our great mathematicians, nor our brilliant physicists, have been able to prove that time moves linearly. To think of time as a substance, I think, is difficult for people, but it is subject to the same kind of influence as is a pond receiving a rock. Where the infinite reaches of space are the pond, our sun, and the many other stars are rocks that literally bend the shape of time around them. These ideas are deeply important to me. But I wonder what addiction man has to his own desire for a second chance, and whether or not he’d fly directly into an ocean of fire to find out.
I began this at 11:25.
It’s now 6:24.
-Peter Prato
Just around the time I was finishing up school, I was in L.A. visiting Matt Beckley, an old friend and one of the first people to teach me how to play the guitar. The very first time I ever met him he was sitting in the 7th floor lounge in our dorm, on the table, playing the guitar. Not long after that he burst into my room at 1:00 in the morning while I was studying to ask me if I wanted to go to In-N-Out. That was our freshman year of college, and how we became friends.
His dad, Gerry, had been asked to sit in and play part of a set with a local musician who was a fan of his and had grown up listening to his music. Gerrry said yes and so we met for dinner which was adjacent to the venue, Ghengis Khan. I’m not sure if it even still exists. Google was no help at all.
The venue was small, held maybe fifty people total, all seated on small wooden benches reminiscent of church pews, separated by one thin isle. The headliner, whose name I’ve forgotten, played his set and then asked Gerry to join him. Gerry pulled up a seat and graciously sat in to play a few classics. I can’t remember if they played “A Horse With No Name,” but I do remember when they played one of the Beatles’ songs, the headliner said that when they couldn’t remember in what key the song was originally played, Gerry called George Martin to ask him. They’re old friends, as he’d produced some of America’s music.
And then Gerry asked Jeffrey Foskett to step up on stage, and that was it, there was no one else that was going to fit on that raft. Jeff is a large man, who’d look more natural holding an actual ax in one hand and a blue oxen in the other. He settled down onto the small chair, and, resting what looked like a toy guitar across his giant belly, nodded hello to everyone. Jeff Fosket toured with the Beach Boys for years, and Gerry’s best friend was Pete Wilson. I still remember Matt telling me that the only time he ever saw his dad cry was when Pete died.
They played one last song.
After they were done playing it, someone in the crowd asked Jeff if it was true that Brian Wilson had written it in twenty minutes, and he thought about it a minute. Then he said, counting on his thick fingers, “Well, he wrote the lyrics in about six, and the melody in about ten, so it was more like sixteen minutes.” One would never suspect that out of such a large man, such a burly, beastly man, would come anything other the a fee or a fi or a fo or a fum, but when Jeff sang he hit the high notes in the rafters, and they burned bright as meteorites heaving out their last breath. I’ve never been one that’s had track by track memory when it comes to shows, but I remember Jeff. I remember shaking his hand, and thanking him. I hope that I always do.
http://www.new-surf.com/foskett/bio_jf.html
The very last time I heard from Matt was in the summer of 2003. He wrote me an email saying, “I don’t really have anything left to say to you. Good luck, and have a nice life.” I remember reading those words and them having the same poignancy of Jeff’s voice. I still miss him.
This song, among a couple of other things, breaks my goddamn heart every time I hear it. And it reminds me of all relationships that lived like those high notes. That burst into existence, hung brilliantly in the air, floated effortlessly in the elbow of their arc, blindingly bright, and then, with little warning, vanished out of existence.
-Peter Prato