THE YEAR I GOT OLDER - 2003

I’m half-watching an ice skating show on Sunday afternoon, the unctuous tones of guest vocalist Michael Feinstein irritating me just enough to keep me from turning off the TV, when Scott Hamilton announces he’ll be skating to a Jimmy Webb song about losing someone.  Next thing I know I’m 2 feet from the screen, crying.  Ice skating about loss is one more version of dancing about architecture, but my mother died two months ago and it is obvious Scott Hamilton knows exactly how I feel.

This is what grief will do to you.  One minute you’re sort of on top of things, the next you’re bawling at a well-executed axel.  You’re looking into the moist eyes of Michael Feinstein and thinking “I can tell he’s lost someone too.”  Suddenly you know what it is to feel totally alone in the world, and therefore, at last, just like everybody else.

2003 was the year I got older, when in one way or another I finally capitulated.  I gave in, most (or mostly) willingly, to love.  As for loss, that part didn’t leave me much choice.

I’d been mourning for my mother in some ways since right after my daughter was born.  A car accident took away her ambition, her addiction to Kools and Fiestaware, and her sharp, critical mind.  It left her sweetness and sense of humor intact, and for fifteen years I’d alternated between longing for the way she was before the accident and feeling lucky she couldn’t judge me anymore.   Since 1988, “You’re such a nice young lady” was her blanket comment regarding anything I would say, do, achieve or fail at through motherhood, divorce, a couple bands, albums, vehicles, apartments, hairstyles, attempted relationships and the occasional concert in my hometown of Pittsburgh.  Not exactly meaningful, but now that she’s gone I realize she always meant it.

A few other people who mattered passed away in 2003:

Dr. Joe Rocchio – In these days of doc in a box and HMOs where you never know who’s going to be looking down your throat, it helps to remember there still exist some exemplary individuals who can best be described as “the family doctor.” Dr. Joe helped me handle motherhood probably as much as anyone.  When Hazel rolled off the dresser (the apartment was too small for a changing table), fell off the washing machine (sometimes a parent will do foolish things to entertain a small child in a small apartment) and cut her lip open, he rushed to meet us at St. Vincent’s Hospital and kept me from passing out.  When a drum stool landed on Hazel’s face (rock and roll!?) and cut a different part of her lip open, he raced to his office on a Saturday morning to make sure we found the right surgeon to sew it up.  He never judged, barely charged, and was always proud to hear of our accomplishments.  Of course, he did all this with a sense of humor and a cigarette in one hand and sadly passed away from lung cancer in December.

Warren Zevon – I loved listening to him on record and I loved his live shows even more.  One of the nicest things that ever happened to me was getting to open shows for him. The chance to associate and be associated with a performer who only inspired respect (and even better, fear) was a huge boost when I sorely needed one.  These were some of the best nights in my life as a musician.  When I took the shows, a couple of people wondered if his audience wasn’t a little…brutish?  A few times they sort of were, but Mr. Zevon was always there to bolster my spirits and tell me my songs and performance were something worth paying attention to…that none of this was to be taken too seriously…that a properly cooked hamburger was worth fighting for. 

Jack Emerson – I have some photographs taken at Folk City in New York circa 1983.  My band Last Roundup is onstage and in the audience it’s easy to pick out Jack Emerson.  With his lively head of hair, western jacket and cowboy boots he was the closest thing to a country music impresario we wan bohemians had encountered.  Jack and his always enthusiastic partner Andy McLenon were the first to take a real interest in what we were trying to do, and I remember the genuine excitement we felt that night knowing Nashville was in the house!  They enticed us into coming down to Tennessee where they took us backstage at the Opry, up and down lower Broadway, and out to the Loveless for biscuits.  This was back when there were practically tumbleweeds rolling past the historic Ryman Auditorium, but Jack and Andy believed places like Hatch Show Print and Ernest Tubb Record Shop were a legacy worth preserving and celebrating.  They put us up in a soon to be demolished motel beneath the shadow of the Acuff-Rose building, in “the Don Gibson suite,” a shabby room with a few publicity photos and sheet music for “Oh, Lonesome Me” on the wall.  The whole experience filled us with inspiration and an appreciation for mythical, mystical Nashville.

A few months later we returned to record at Cowboy Jack Clement’s Recording Arms & Spa, where Jim Rooney sat patiently while Jack exhorted us to “make history!” (no overdubs allowed).  Our singer Angel Dean and I shivered with delight and distrust every time he called us “Dar-lin’.”  He kept insisting my brother Michael play this cheap green Greco guitar, even though it went out of tune constantly, because “that guitar has the magic.”  I remained convinced for years, playing it in spite of the knowing sighs of my regular musicians any time they’d see me take it out of the case. 

I wish I could say the Last Roundup album that Jack and Andy decided to shelve is an unheard masterpiece.  We were completely heartbroken at the time, but the truth is they knew what they were doing - we were at that awkward stage between primitive and capable, and the results weren’t pretty. As consolation they even offered to put some of it out on one side of an LP, with Our Favorite Band on the other.  What an oddity that would’ve been – I almost wish we’d said yes.  But we were too mad, and for a couple of years in our little corner of the East Village the words “Emerson” and “evil” were synonymous.

I’d made my peace with Jack when I was trying to get my own record out and he’d been quick to give me encouragement.  It was always nice to see him out and about when I moved to town, or to stop into his office.  I was sitting in an internet café in Dublin when I learned he’d died.  There’s something awful about seeing someone’s name in capital letters in your inbox, hoping it doesn’t mean what you think it means, especially when that person is still so young.  I realized he’d been only 23 at the time we worked on that lost record.  Some people have authority and vision all their lives.  Nashville is a less cool place without him.  Dar-lin’…

February 2004