As I’ve hit my early (ok, creeping up on mid) fifties, I find it almost staggering how much my life and routines have changed. In my 20s through 40s, mostly while living in Brooklyn and then San Francisco, my social life was full. Concerts, dinners, drinks at local bars, road trips, dates, trips far and near, cross-country drives. And somehere along the way, it may have been the first or second year of Covid, that all changed, and it felt like it happened overnight. Whereas I used to see 20-30 shows a year, I now see 2-3. Most weekend plans are…..no plans. Well, no plans in terms of say dinner engagements and the like. Hours in the day will fly by as I listen to music, read, hang out with Miles, go on walks, and oftentimes, well, do nothing. Last night on our evening park run, I was seven songs into that Elliott Smith record and had spent those 30-ish minutes just staring at the sky. The clouds, planes, Miles’ favorite hawks. And I felt peace. Total peace.

I’ve talked about this change in therapy quite a bit. I almost offer it up as a problem that needs to be fixed. But I’m coming to realize the exact opposite: that this life, this slow, often repetitive, habitual existence, is precisely what, deep down, I’ve been yearning for. Maybe ten years ago, as this shift was starting to show its early signs, I recall reading an interview with then-Wilco manager, Tony Margherita, about what he was going to do now that he was stepping away from the grind of a band with an often manic schedule. I’m paraphrasing, but he said something along the lines of, “I’m going to listen to music.” That sat with me. And sat with me some more. And I still, probably a decade later, find those words surface at least once a week. If you’ve seen the brilliant 2023 Wim Wenders film “Perfect Days”, that’s the closest depiction of what this life feels like and the open and beautiful hours, days, weeks and years that lie ahead. Is it isolation? Sure, to some extent. But it’s more so, I guess, contentment? I haven’t had a full-time job in over a year, and if I’m lucky, I never will again. For the past few months, I’ve been working on a music app that I’ve wanted to build for a solid decade. And it’s advancing: designs are done and I’ve started to speak to potential developers. The life that I’ve always wanted to lead, one where I can live slowly, enjoy music and nature, sit on my patio beside my dog, go to the record store, and just let each day progress as it will, has arrived, and I couldn’t be more grateful. My creative pursuits are active daily and one day, I do think I’ll open up that record store / coffee shop that Lane and I dreamed of one day opening.

In the hours before this writing, I was mostly watching music on YouTube. I re-watched the Geese performance from Outside Lands last weekend, then a few Phoebe Bridgers videos, and then I just let the algorithm run things. It fed me a few Scott Miller performances that left my throat knotted up, and just before getting up to walk Miles, YouTube landed on a performance by the band Ryan Davis and the Roadhouse Band, a band that I’d never really gotten into, but with time, have started to hit. The first song they performed is called “The Simple Joy” and it was just perfectly timed. I ended up watching them perform two more songs, before grabbing the pup’s leash and stepping out into the beautiful South Bay weather.

This weekend, I actually have plans to see my friend Maggie for dinner tomorrow night. And earlier this week, I met another friend for lunch. Although these get togethers are now less frequent, given that they’re much more spread out, the simple joys I feel over a conversation, or a walk, or a bite to eat, can now settle and be all the more impactful. Tomorrow night, we’ll grab some shabu-shabu, maybe spin a few records and just let it play out. To close out the night, Maggie asked if we can watch “Perfect Days” which sounds, well, perfect.

Then I left San Francisco, moving about an hour south to be closer to my work at the time, a company I imagined I’d stay with for the remainder of my corporate life. But, things change. A change in your team, a new boss…the things we all go through at some point. As 2019 wound down, I knew it was time to go. While these changes were happening, and with covid just around the bend, I found myself living in San Jose, a city that I never really took to, but again, I chose based on its proximity to work. I’d bought a home in 2017 and, despite the culture shock of shifting from NYC/SF to San Jose, I remained. And for reasons I can’t often explain, I still remain.

When I moved to San Jose, my show attendance took a huge hit. Yes, that was largely due to the distance I’d need to travel to see shows. San Jose may be a major city (sorta) but its arts scene, especially around music, is nearly non-existent. In the 13 years I’ve lived here, I’ve only seen a handful of local shows: Jason Isbell at the Mountain Winery, The Old 97s at the Ritz, Wilco at the San Jose Civic Center. The majority of the shows I now see, I need to travel to Santa Cruz or San Francisco, and, now at age 52, I can’t say this happens all that often. I recently saw Jeff Tweedy in Santa Cruz and I have a ticket to see Bill Callahan in Berkeley. That’s really all that’s on the horizon.

As I type this, Wilco’s Solid Sound Festival is wrapping up its final day at MASS MoCA in Western Massachusetts. I’ve traveled to this festival three times, in 2013, 2015 and 2017. The memories I hold from those trips will last a lifetime. And this year, I’d planned on returning. But again, age, simply slowing down and a newfound love for life at home, made the whole thing feel like too much. I sold my ticket a few weeks ago. But as Wilco do with all of their Solid Sound opening nights, learning that Wilco and Billy Bragg would be performing Mermaid Avenue, made it very hard to surrender that three-day pass.

I started this essay with the intent of writing about Jeff Tweedy, but somehow, it became an essay about my life and my relationship to live music. I guess that makes perfect sense, as Jeff and his music have been beside me for over thirty years. The original Tweedy essay will come next. But the inspiration for that essay, and well, I guess this one, came from one event: Friday night’s Mermaid Avenue set from Solid Sound. See, despite not making the trip, like many, I was able to stream the set via New England Public Radio’s NEPM. And now a good 36 hours after this show wrapped, I can confidently say that this was one of the best shows I’ve ever……heard? The Mermaid Avenue collections came out in 1998 and 2000, and, for a variety of reasons I won’t cover here, Bragg and Wilco never hit the road together. They did perform together in 1998 at the Guiness Fleadh Festival, which I attended with my brother Lane, but the collaboration onstage was brief. They did the late night bits, but all told, the records, despite being phenomenal, were never given the live treatment with Bragg and Wilco together. Until Friday night.

I had pretty high expectations for the set. So many factors: Solid Sound is always amazing, Bragg and Wilco have such a (complicated) history, Woody Guthrie’s words may have never been more relevant than now, and simply, it just felt like the right time. But this performance blew me away. “Airline To Heaven” (my funeral song, btw) kicked things off and the joy from that stage could be felt in my living room 3000 miles away. Tweedy and Bragg switched lead vocals throughout the night, while also welcoming up a slew of guests, including Natalie Merchant, Nora Guthrie, Mini Mekons and, most moving, so many members of Woody Guthrie’s extended family. The songs delivered an array of emotions. One moment I would literally be dancing in front of my stereo, singing along to “Christ For President” while a minute later, that knot would meet my throat during “Remember the Mountain Bed.” To close out the main set, Bragg and the band delivered an explosive take on “All You Fascists” — we all knew where those words were directed and in those moments my joy and tears turned to empowerment. Then came the encore. And how could they close it out? It had to be “California Stars.” As that song came to a close, I thought the night would be over. But no. This is Solid Sound. There’s always something that surprises and hits emotional chords like only this festival can do. Hearing three generations of Guthries standing beside the Tweedys and everyone else on that stage, I realized I wasn’t mourning the fact that I hadn’t gone. Instead, I was embracing the idea that these experiences can still find me, even as I’ve slowed down and settled into this stage of life. The night closed with an absolutely beautiful take on Woody’s “This Land Is Your Land”. Every single word found its way under my skin, chills running up and down my back, knowing that, yes, community still exists and the country and the world can still leave us feeling incredibly fortunate to be alive.

Shows might be different for me in 2026. Less often, and sometimes, from the comforts of my own home. But this show reminded me of the power of live music. It’s truly like nothing else. I can’t wait for that Bill Callahan show. And now I’m going to see what else is coming through Northern California. And if I can’t make it out, I can watch a show on YouTube or stream any of my many Springsteen, Son Volt, Wilco or Richard Buckner shows on CD and digital. But Friday night reminded me that, yes, sometimes, it’s best to get off that couch and make it out into the night. Those trips may be less frequent nowadays, but they’re still out there for the taking.

It’s 3am and the walls are closing in

-Slobberbone

I thought that getting my own hotel room might help. I certainly couldn’t afford it, but I couldn’t bear another night in that room. My first South By Southwest. Sharing a hotel room with 10 or so people. Just the sight of everyone else sleeping deepened the darkness swirling in my head. Once I saw the morning light creep through the curtains, my stomach lurched. It would be hours before anyone moved. By the time they did get up, I was long gone.

My eyes were burning as I gathered up my suitcase and left the room. I’d drank about 20 beers the night before, even smoked some pot at around 3am to ease the anxiety, but there was nothing to silence this unknown, yet fierce combination of nerves and depression that enveloped me. My personality was gone. The music that would fill almost every hour of the next four days meant nothing to me. The timing really couldn’t have been worse.

I surveyed my empty hotel room and said a prayer. I needed sleep. It’s all I wanted. Some rest. I couldn’t imagine making it to Sunday without sleep. I heard every noise from outside and the halls outside the room door. I dropped onto the bed. It was 1045am. I didn’t get up until 230pm. I hadn’t slept. Every so often a feeling of heat would swirl inside my head, a sensation that was dreadful. I felt a million miles away from everything. I knew I shouldn’t have booked this trip. As much as music was becoming the core of my life, five days in Austin, Texas while wading through a mental debilitation that made no sense to me, was terrifying. I couldn’t predict how this would end, but something had to change, and it had to change fast. The medication was no longer working and the booze wasn’t dulling the hell.

I had to get up. I couldn’t bear another minute of trying to force sleep. I grabbed my schedule and saw that the New West Records party was underway. I knew that Slobberbone were playing, and having seen them put on a great set in New York once, I figured it was where I should be. As I made my way across town, I wondered if people would notice. Aside from feeling nothing, this was often the only emotion that would rise above the line that was nothing: Fear that my state-of-mind would be revealed. I wanted to be an afterthought. I wanted to go unnoticed. Carry on.

I could hear the music from blocks away. The streets were crowded with industry folks, music fans, hipsters, band members and spirits were high throughout the town. As I passed through the gate at the entrance of Club de Ville, I could see my friend and short-lived hotel-mate, Jason, talking to some folks we knew from Philly. “Dude, where’d you go? I figured you’d just gone out to a show, but your bag was gone.” “I decided to get my own room; it was just too crowded in there.” “Cool, man.” I’d passed through that one fairly unscathed. Over a joint the previous night, I’d opened up to Jason just a bit about my state of mind. He’d apparently been there as well, but I couldn’t imagine anyone having suffered through this. I was no one. There was absolutely no emotion in me. I felt not a thing. “Want a beer? They’re free,” Jason asked. I nodded and he handed me a full cup. It was gone before the band onstage’s song concluded. I crept over to the keg and filled up again. One beer after another and no relief. At the very least, the prospect of being drunk gave me the smallest slice of hope. But it rarely paid dividends. I just couldn’t get there. Not like this. In retrospect, it’s surprising that I didn’t move on to stronger substances. Coke, maybe. Crack. But I didn’t. I would never allow myself to be *worse* than my father. Never.

Slobberbone took the stage right as the sky started to cloud up. They were playing on the outdoor patio and the venue was about half full. Jason, Maggie, Frank and I stood near the back listening to the band. Well, they conversed and showed enthusiasm for the band while I drank and desperately tried to scratch myself free of the horrors in my head. After about five songs, I decided to move closer to the stage. I did so not to get a better glimpse of the band, but rather to have some time without the pressures of adding to a conversation or seeming interested in anything. As I stood side stage, I was able to let my guard down. I turned to Jason and he shot me a smile. He seemed to know what I was going through, and was possibly acknowledging my move for a little peace of mind. “Why you gotta go and sell your soul, why you gotta talk about Engine Joe,” Slobberbone lead singer Brent Best hollered as the rest of the band fell in behind. Midway through the song, as Brent casually uttered, “guitar,” took a step back from the mic, and guitar lead Jess Barr blasted through a loud solo, a crack broke through in my head. I could literally feel something opening. “There comes a time when nothing seems clear,” Brent screamed on the full-throttle “Front Porch.” I took a gulp from my beer. I could feel it.

And then the rains came. Downpour. And for some reason, it was perfect. As everyone ran for cover, Slobberbone didn’t skip a beat. And something inside of me did skip a beat. I was feeling something. It had been well over six months. I felt on the verge of tears. The rain, the power of this rock n’ roll and this escape from prison, even if it was only brief, was overpowering. As I saw a sliver of hope, the band just got louder, stronger, and, though I suspected that it would only be temporary, they slammed shut the demons that had plagued me for months.

I looked back at Jason and he shot me a huge smile. Maybe he could sense my transformation. I smiled and moved to the stage. From all four corners, the wood stage was soaked. Amps and chords were inches deep in water but the band continued to ignore everything but the music. And then came the moment I will never forget. As their set appeared to be complete, and the band seemed ready to move towards the stage steps, Brent bent his knee and with every line of emotion in his face belted out, “Look out mama, there’s a white boat coming up the river…” Neil Young’s “Powderfinger.” I was absolutely overtaken. I screamed, “It’s less than a mile away, I hope they didn’t come to stay. It’s got numbers on the side and a gun and it’s making me wait,” as Jess nailed the guitar parts. I had never felt this sensation in my life. Maybe I had, but the drastic shift from utter helplessness to joy made the latter all that much more explosive. I was screaming the words. I couldn’t tell if the moisture streaming and nearly covering my entire face over was rain or tears, and it didn’t matter. The skies above were grey and rumbling but the skies inside of me were finally opening, and it was rock n’ roll that was the catalyst.

When the show ended I was euphoric. I hugged Jason. I was soaked from head to toe. For the first time, I saw that outside factors could move me so much that they could actually quell a darkness that seemed never-ending and impossible to shake. But it wasn’t. I would get out of it. That hour with Slobberbone in the pouring Austin rain was only temporary, but it provided the hope that I so desperately needed. I stepped onto the gravel that led to the road outside the venue and knew that the next four days in Austin didn’t really matter. I would do my best. If I felt nothing again, that would be alright. Because I’d just felt everything. I would feel life again. I felt it right then.

.

I was at Disneyword, of all places. And I’m someone who’s terrified of rollercoasters. But I was visiting a girl I’d recently met. As I avoided one ride after another, I was distracted by an email I hoped had landed in my AOL account. See, a few months earlier, I had submitted a few photos and a concert review to the magazine No Depression, and I knew that, having not checked my email in a few days (this was early 2000), there was a good chance that, if any of my items had been approved for publication, the magazine staff probably would’ve notified me by now.

As I continued to waste time avoiding the big rides, my distraction was eased as I saw an “internet booth” sitting right beside the next cotton candy stand. I motioned to Jessica, the person who had brought me here, and we both rushed over to the booth. Entered my credentials and slowly my e-mail began to load. And there it was. The first e-mail in the list. Subject line gave no clues. Clicked open. My heart was racing. Jessica’s interest seemed to be increasing. “Holy shit! They’re publishing all three! Two photos and my review!” I stumbled back from the screen and nearly fell over. My review of the band Marah playing a show in Philly, and two photos that I took of The Jayhawks at Stubbs in Austin, would be in the next issue. Disbelief. I was four years post-college and working a day job in licensing at MTV in Manhattan. Sure, it was in music, but the news of this day was entirely different. This was my music. This was what would become my greatest passion in life. “Are they paying you?” Jessica asked. I hadn’t even considered that. “For your contributions, you will receive $135.00. We will follow up with next steps to arrange payment. Thank you…..”

Now 25 years later, and following a career in entertainment and technology, that landed me roles at Apple, AEG Presents, the start-up SNOCAP, and a slew of others, when I look back on my career, that early afternoon in Orlando, standing before a computer with a very 2000 connection, that day marks perhaps the most fulfilling achievement of my career. $135. While at Apple for eight-plus years, I worked with developers and companies at the height of the mobile/App Store craze. I held business development management roles across more than half the App Store categories, woking on apps such as Instagram, HBO Max, Netflix, New York Times, YouTube, Apple Music and hundreds of others. I traveled the world and attended most of the premiere events throughout sports, music and entertainment. I led presentations with many of the top names in entertainment and media. My years spent at Apple managing partnerships, and my subsequent role, overseeing user experience and design at AEG Presents, where I worked on apps and websites for music stalwarts such as Coachella, The Mountain Winery and Stagecoach, certainly appears to be a resume that outlines a successful career in media, entertainment and technology. But my career didn’t start off this way. After nearly ten years bouncing around in low/mid-level music licensing jobs in Manhattan, I moved to the Bay Area from Brooklyn in January 2005. I needed a change. And I needed to find my own home. And I found it. That said, although my career appeared to be finally taking shape, no matter what job I landed or what upward mobility I achieved, there was always, always something missing.

Back in June of this year, following three-plus years overseeing user experience at AEG Presents, I stepped away. No new job. No clear path in terms of what I wanted to do next. The job at AEG, the day that I accepted the offer, felt like the closing chapter of my career. Or my corporate career. After a full revamp of all of their apps, including Coachella, Portola and many other festival apps, as well as websites for classic venues such as The Warfield and Webster Hall, something internal was clamoring for a change. In April of this year, I attended what I imagine will be my last Coachella. As I walked the grounds each day, moving from one stage to another, and one meetup to another, I could feel the end near. I wasn’t there like in previous years. I considered my entire career, now almost 30 years in music, entertainment and technology, and I thought about that day in Orlando. I thought about the choices I’d made. I thought about the “success” I’d had, mostly later in my career, and what remained of that success. I was 51 years old, nearly 2x the age of some of the people I’d brought on to my team. Age never mattered to me but it did feel like it did matter in the grand scheme of things. As the year turned to 2025, every signal was telling me that it was time to go. Everywhere I turned, something internal was almost screaming for me to go it alone. I wanted to return to that person at Disneyworld in mid-2000. I wanted to finally give a go at that person who wanted to write, wanted to talk about my greatest passions, wanted to commit more time to mental health advocacy, wanted to finally step away from corporate life and pursue everything that had been pressing to get attention for years, even decades.

I didn’t even make it out of AEG before my mental health challenges returned. But now, in retrospect, I think it was actually a positive mental health break. And I share this knowing that during my “three-week notice” period, I effectively seized up and couldn’t do, well, anything. Near the end of May 2025, with a few weeks left in my role at AEG, one early afternoon, I found myself driving to the emergency room at Stanford Hospital. After 30 mins or so in the waiting the room, a nurse asked why I was there. And then the flood came. And in those moments, I will never ever forget the nurses small gesture. A hand landed on my shoulder. “You’re in the right place. We’re going to help you.” And then it was relief. At the time, I thought it was the weight of the unknown, finally being untethered to a job, that had brought on one of the worst dips into depression that i’ve ever experienced. But now nine months later, I realize it was something entirely different. I was shedding the past. And that came with grand fears, including financial concerns, and equally as impactful, the identity that I’d built in the 20 years that I’d spent working in Silicon Valley. Apple. AEG Presents. Coachella. Global travel. Appearing on panels from New York City to Nice, France. It was all moving into the past. I knew, deep down, in the months leading up to the hospitalization, and as the likelihood of a trip to the ER was increasing, I knew deep down, that I was finally becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be.

I spent eight days in the hospital. And then two months in an intensive outpatient program. As the outpatient stint was coming to a close, I could feel my life, again, now at 51 years of age, coming into clear focus. Yes, I had a successful career in entertainment, music and tech. I’d worked at amazing companies, in roles that gave me great pride. But I was also battling something. For my entire adult life, I spent a good part of my free time consuming media: music, books, films and everything that comes along with each of those areas of the arts. I read tons of books about creativity and fell in love with records both current and some nearly 100 years old. Great films would spark something in me that would leave me fawning over a movie for months and months (see “Perfect Days” and “Aftersun” of recent). All of this media was drawing at something inside of me. It was tapping directly into something that I knew finally, without question or hesitation, had to have its time. Time to breathe. Time to take trips to the woods of Russian River (where I am right now) so I could let this all……out. No more work deadlines or meeting distractions. No more rushing home to prepare for another week of emails, budgets, presentations and team workshops. None of that. Just the arts, mental health advocacy, and whatever it is that’s been pressing to come out of me.

My mother recently asked how i’m doing and without hesitation I shared, “This is who I’ve always wanted to be. Writing. Talking about music and mental health. Working on my own projects. Reading more. Photography. Although I’m still figuring out what this means and what it will ultimately be, this is the closest I’ve ever felt to myself.” I’ve now spent months at that Orlando theme park. I’ve spent months being able to be….me. And it’s all just now fully coming into the frame of my life. It’s here. It’s always been here. But now i’m giving it the room it needs. Oh to feel free.

As we now move into January, like many, I’ve been thinking about what lies ahead for this year. This will be the first year of my adult life where I have no “work” commitments. Meaning, I will neither have a full-time job in the traditional sense, nor will I be looking for full-time (or even consulting) work. 2025 was a massively transitional year for me, one that was so bumpy that my life was literally upended for a good 4-6 weeks. That said, the change that I pursued eventually led me to what appears to be one of the most exciting and creative periods of my life. In the coming months, I will tell that story, a story of bidding farewell to my corporate life and finally, at the age of 52, pursuing what I’ve always wanted to pursue, simply put, my own thing.

During the first few months of this year, I kept recalling an afternoon I spent with Lane in Cincinnati, in the mid/late 90s. I remember driving around in his Honda Civic, Vigilantes of Love playing on the cassette deck, and Lane bringing me on one of his random excursions. We landed at what appeared to be a coffee shop. After stepping in and viewing the cozy room, filled with comfortable chairs, cool artwork, and if memory serves, even a small stage for performances, Lane motioned to a staircase at the other side of the room. “Go see where that leads” he excitedly offered up. As I made my way up the stairs, I could see a large room filled with records and CDs. It was an actual record store on the second floor of this coffee shop, seemingly all one shop. A sea of music upstairs, a warm communal room / coffee shop on the main floor. As I made my way back down the stairs, Lane was waiting with two cups of coffee. He saw the excitement on my face and with full confidence shared, “We will open a place like this one day.” And I believed him. And had a few things broken differently, I do think that shop would’ve one day opened its doors. But it didn’t happen. For one or two reasons, or maybe thousands of reasons, we never got to fulfill that dream. This, what I’m doing now, and will be doing hopefully for the foreseeable future, is my version of that shop. I can no longer pursue this with my older brother, but I feel his presence throughout all of this. I truly do.

So, in my first full year of doing my own thing, here are a few top-of-mind areas where I’d like to focus. Let’s see where this leads.

The Long Cut Expanded

My YouTube Channel, The Long Cut, from a performance perspective, had its best year in 2025. Now at over 3200 subscribers, over 830 of those subs came on in the last year. I posted my first video on January 11, 2020. This was less than one month after I departed my penultimate full-time job, an eight-plus year stint at Apple. Throughout the two years of consulting and three years at AEG Presents that followed, I’ve found time to post over 210 videos, which has resulting in over 265,000 views, with one of my videos, The Ten Records That I Listen To the Most (+Billy Joel) now just shy of 20,000 views. Never, ever, in my wildest dreams did I think I’d attract such an audience. Sure, for YouTube, let’s be real, it’s not that much. I mean, I turned on monetization about two months ago, and so far, although I haven’t received a payment yet, it looks like I’m due about $215. Honestly, not bad. But if I’m trying to make this channel into a real business, it’s still quite small, relatively speaking. That said, this year I’m going to give it a real run. What does that mean? Here are some plans:

• Content Themes: I recently launched a series called Five Leaves Left, where I highlight, well, five things. Could be records, CDs, maybe books. I hope to do more of these, not just across this theme, but new ones.

• Collaborations & Interviews: In 2025, I brought on my good friend, writer and former Apple colleague, Jeff Vrabel, to talk about Springsteen. I plan on having Jeff back, as well as other friends and folks in the space. This past year, I also had my first interview, sitting down for close to two hours with one of my musical heroes, Brent Best. I can’t thank Brent enough for taking the time to speak with me. I hope that this area really expands in 2026 and beyond. I will look to speak with more artists that I love, as well as others in the space, maybe artist managers, indie label folks or other interesting people throughout music and the arts.

• More Videos & Writing: While working, I typically put together videos over the weekends, on off days, and in the evenings. Now, these videos, as well as this Substack page, are my main focuses. I hope to do at minimum, 3-4 videos per week, a combination of long form and shorts. And I hope to publish at minimum 2-3 articles per month here on Substack.

• Expanded: I plan on further developing the overall concept of The Long Cut. I am working on a consumer product in the music space that I plan to launch in 2026. Still very early here, but I’m taking, and have already taken, some initial steps to get this project moving. More to come on this in the next few months. In addition to this, there are a number of other ideas I’m exploring, including vinyl re-issues, to highlight one. I would also like to finally publish a memoir I mostly completed in 2010. This project, Midnight Tracks, has fallen onto the backburner for years and years. It’s time that I let it out. I’ve published a few chapters on this newsletter, but I’d like to get it finally (self) published. If I’m being realistic, this probably doesn’t happen until 2027.

My year will mostly be focused on the above, but here are a few other things, some work, some lifestyle, that I plan to focus on in 2026:

Reading

I used to read 10-15 books a year. That’s fallen to 3-4/year in the past ten or so years. I hope to get back to 10-15, or even more, this year. I’ve already completed One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This by Omar El Akkad. Dragged a bit near the end, but a very good read. I’ve now started Paper Girl by Beth Macy. I’m about 1/3 through and love it so far. Memoirs, fiction, nonfiction, history….hopefully many more reads to come.

Mental Health Advocacy & Awareness

I’ve had, at least some involvement in, mental health advocacy for close to 25 years. I’ve drifted from helping out nonprofits that I believe in to pursuing my own career in the space. In 2004, I almost went back to school for a public policy masters. In 2020, after departing Apple, I started a consulting masters. I’ve now decided that, at least for now, pursuing something full time will be put on hold. I’m feeling re-energized about my nonprofit work, including now eight years on the board of Bring Change To Mind. In addition to fundraising, I plan to attend more of our events, possibly take on some speaking engagements, and to ramp up my financial commitments to this cause. And, as promised, I plan on continuing to share my own personal story as it relates to mental health, including the struggles I encountered in 2025.

Finally, there are the personal areas where I plan on focusing: running more, less social media, more time with friends and family, eating healthier, better sleep, more time in the sun and nature, supporting local businesses, more open space, and so on. Ya know, the stuff we say we’re going to build into our lives, well, every year. This year, though, I’m not constrained by traditional work schedules and travel. I am now building these things into my calendar, each week, each day.

2026 will be a different year. We’re less than a week in and I’ve already made pretty good strides on a lot of what I shared above. But like many/most years, the first week often fades and we return to, well, life. But I truly hope to take advantage of this time. I’ve wanted an open slate like this my entire adult life. If you’ve watched any of my recent YouTube videos, or I’ve chatted with you in person or over text, you know that I haven’t stopped talking about the film Perfect Days. Released in 2023, this film highlights the simple joys we experience throughout our days: a bright sun, a Lou Reed song, a smile from a stranger. I’ve watched this movie at least five times. And it’s because the protagonist has a pulse on what matters. Despite living alone and working as a toilet cleaner, throughout the film, we see his endless gratitude and appreciation for, well, each day, even each hour or moment. As Lou Reed sings:

Just a perfect day
drink sangria in a park
and then later
when it gets dark we go home
Just a perfect day
feed animals in the zoo
and then later a movie, too
and then home

I want more of that. And with 2026 feeling pretty wide open, I feel its possibilities.

-Kinto: I’ve been buying glassware and related items from Kinto for years. Absolutely love their designs.

-Brian Eno: I’ve now watched three, fairly long, YouTube videos, where Eno just talks about art. Truly fascinating stuff.

-Books: I had to delete TikTok because I was getting far too many book recommendations. I was ordering one after another. I’m not sure if this is a positive or negative of social media.

-Springsteen - Deliver Me From Nowhere: I watched this film for a second time a few days ago. Really enjoyed it a second time through. Still surprised at how it’s performed, and the critics’ largely mediocre reviews.

-New York Knicks: They’ve been my team since I was about 12 years old. This year‘s team is one of the most exciting teams the organization has had in a decade or two. I don’t know if they will win the whole thing but they certainly have a chance.

-Running: I know, I know. New Years drivel. But I’m going to try and run every other day throughout 2026. I know life events will spring up that will throw me off course, but I hope to keep returning back to this.

-A Year of Creativity: This is the first year, throughout my entire life, where I am committing to doing my own thing for a minimum of 12 months. Writing, talking about music, photography, a larger consumer product I have in mind. This is the year where I do what I’ve always wanted to do.

Happy new year to all!

“We don’t have couches yet, as you know, so we’re gonna have to stand. I want you guys close to the TV and stereo, though.” Dad stepped out of the room to grab another Bud can, his choice of drink for a solid three decades. He returned and went right to his receiver to adjust the knobs: a little more bass, volume up. He then reached to the VHS player and hit play. “Watch this!” Slow intro. Screen went from black to blurry. And then, bursting out of the speakers, “Remember, in the end, nobody wins unless everybody wins.” “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen. Concert footage, crowds going crazy, Bruce wearing a ball cap backwards. Clarence. Danny. Max. Dad nudged the volume up a little. You could feel the wood floor shaking. “Charlie, you’re going to wake up Annie,” pleaded our stepmom, Bev. Volume went unchanged. Clarence’s sax solo. The tv screen was absolutely enormous. “Move closer,” he beckoned. And we did. Lane actually looked a bit caught in the moment. “I wanna die with you Wendy on the street tonight, in an everlasting kiss"…” and the video and sound just soared throughout the room.

“1, 2, 3….” and the camera panned to a sea of people, tens of thousands of people dancing and swaying their arms high and left and right, just as Bruce had likely instructed from the stage. I had never seen crowds this large. And this excited. Chills were absorbing my neck, upper back and then my entire back. Five and a half minutes of pure exhiliration. Bruce and the band delivering a feeling I’d never felt before. I couldn’t imagine what people in the crowds were experiencing.

“What did you think?” “Pretty great” said the usually laconic, Lane. “Let’s watch it again,” dad offered up. I looked over at Lane; he was changed in those few minutes. I was too, but seeing him visibly moved, only heightened my experience. The second viewing was just as much of a rush as the first, maybe even moreso because we had an idea of what was coming.

After that second run, our father hit stop on the VHS player, reached down for his vinyl copy of “Born in the USA” and settled it onto the record player. The explosive opening of the title track seared through both Lane and me. Dad departed but Lane and I remained. “Wanna go watch the end of the Giants game,” I asked Lane. “In a few minutes”; he was caught in the moment. We both found seats on the other side of the room and just listened. Leaves were dropping across the enormous windows on the far side of the room. New Jersey. “Driving into Darling County, me and Wayne on the Fourth of July.” It was as if Bruce and the band were igniting these songs, and this record, in real time, right before us.

“Lane, Chris, pizza’s here.” Giants game just wrapped. Steelers lost, Chargers won, so Lane’s mood only leveled up more. “Come to the kitchen.” As we approached the small table, it was somewhat odd that the table was set. But just plates. “Take a look under your plates,” he beamed as he peeled another top off of a Bud can. I went right for the plate as Lane stood back. As I lifted the plate, a single Ticketmaster ticket stub sat on the table. “Take a look at it,” nudged Dad. “Wait, are we going?” I asked. “Yup, August 21st, Giants Stadium, we’re all going to see Bruce!” I was only 10 years old, Lane 14, and to date, our father had taken us to Elton John, Bob Seger and Fleetwood Mac. But now, the man and the music that bounced off of every wall of this new home, and every home prior, was next.

In a little less than two months from that day, Lane and I would see Bruce Springsteen for the first time live. Still in our pre-teens, we sat witness to something that had been a part of our lives since as early as we could remember, but now, what we witnessed on a huge screen that afternoon, we would be seeing live. Section 101. $17.50 a ticket.

And that’s when it all changed. My lasting memory of that show is our father motioning for us to leave right before the encore kicked in. As we made it into the tunnel, Lane turned and asserted himself, “Can we watch the end?” He was stating exactly what I was feeling. And our father acquiesced. A quick turnaround. As we re-entered the stadium, Lane now beaming, we heard the first few words of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land.” And for seven more songs, Lane and I stood transfixed. I had never seen such an expression on my brother’s face. Something different. Something that I would see again, always while together, seeing a band. He, and we, were forever changed. An August night in Jersey, 1985, where both of our lives found our course.

I’ve been fortunate to see some pretty outstanding rock n’ roll in my life. Although my tastes can sometimes steer towards the quieter songwriter types (Townes, Rouse, Buckner), when it comes to my love affair with music, there’s still nothing that can touch an impassioned rock n’ roll show. This is why I’ve squandered savings and spent chunks of paychecks to see live music for the greater part of the past 15+ years.

When thinking of the most memorable shows, those shows where I walk out sweaty, raspy-voiced and feeling as if I saw and felt something beyond explanation, I revisit about 40 Springsteen shows, along with incredible late nights with Marah, Wilco, Arcade Fire, Centro-matic, The Gourds, Brakes and Apollo Sunshine, to name a few. And then there’s the afternoon of March 18, 1999. I was in Austin for my first of six trips to the South by Southwest music conference. Now ten years later, those rainy few hours at Club de Ville in Austin, Texas stand firmly as the day that I was on hand for what I consider the greatest rock show of my life. And the band to put on that set was Denton, Texas’ Slobberbone.

If memory serves, this was my second Slobberbone show (Brownies in NYC being the first). Performing in an absolute downpour with nothing but a scant tent to cover their equipment, Brent Best, Jess Barr, Tony Harper and Brian Lane reminded maybe 100 people that sometimes nothing, absolutely nothing, can transcend the spirit like rock n’ roll. After blasting through hard-charging Slobberbone songs, suddenly came the words: “Look out mama, there’s a white boat coming up the river, with a big red beacon and a flag and a man on the rail.” As the rain drenched us all, I’ll never forget turning around to locate my friends in the rear of the venue. Everyone was smiling, dancing, and screaming the lines to Neil Young’s “Powderfinger.” And after “Barrel Chested,” “Front Porch,” Judas Priest’s “Breakin’ the Law” and The Gourds’ “Web Before You Walk Into It,” to name a few, my favorite Neil Young song was the perfect inclusion.

I’ve gone on to see Slobberbone, and its sister band The Drams, whenever in Austin or when they make the all-too-rare jaunt out west. Most nights down at South by Southwest, when not watching Brent and his band perform, it seems as if we’re almost always at the same shows, taking it in from the audience. Over the years, we’ve talked about music, books, sports and just about every other topic of interest over beers and smokes, often until the pub doors closed for the night. I consider Brent Best not only one of the greatest songwriters and rock n’ roll voices of our time, but also a friend.

In 2004, after four incredible albums, highlighted by 1997’s Barrel Chested and 2000s Everything You Thought Was Right Was Wrong Today, the band posted a message on their website informing fans that the run was over. Best would gather the majority of Slobberbone to form The Drams, who released the fantastic Jubilee Dive in 2006. But the Slobberbone story wasn’t over. Early this year they resurfaced and have since played a date here and there. Despite the excitement surrounding their return, no one knows for sure what’s next. I figured it was time we just ask Brent.

I suppose I should just get the obvious one out of the way first. I see that you’re playing dates with Slobberbone and solo. Since there’s been no official announcement, what does this mean for the band situation? Are The Drams still active? How’s it all shaking out?

Drams are still semi-active. We just played a show last night. The idea is to do both but obviously we’ll have to kinda focus on one or the other at one time and it looks like we’re gonna focus on some Slobberbone stuff for now. Keith and Chad are playing and doing quite well in The King Bucks right now and with Brian back it seems like a good time to fire up Slobbebone and maybe start laying down some tracks. And then hopefully do it all again with The Drams in a year or so. I like the idea of having both and having them be very different things. Solo shows just sorta fill the cracks in between.

How has it been maturing with Jess, Tony and now Brian back in the mix? With families and such, how has that played into the decisions you make around the band(s)?

We’re definitely not as balls-out as we once were in regards to just touring all the time like we used to. We have to plan and be a bit more surgical with it but that seems to suit us all just fine nowadays. It could change to some degree once we have a new album we’re psyched over but it’s fair to say our approach has softened for now to some degree.

I’ve always thought that “Placemat Blues” was about the music industry/business. I’m guessing its open to interpretation, but am I onto something? Either way, can you share your thoughts on the business.

Most definitely. It was directed a little more to radio at the time (1999) but obviously nothing’s gotten better on that front and certainly not with the rest of the old-school industry at large. Of course the internet has leveled the field a great deal but they still seem to be just as backassward as they always were inasmuch as not embracing the inevitable but rather fighting to maintain a status quo that has sucked for years. It’s lined their pockets for ages but sucked for everyone else. Now when I see them trying to do things like fight Net Neutrality and suing kids for downloading it just confirms that they are clueless as to what it means to actually be innovative and competitive as companies. Unfortunately, we see that in all areas in these days of bailouts for giant corporations. They got so used to running the show that when they fuck it all up they suddenly abandon all their free-market principles, really, by demonstrating they don’t actually want to have to compete or be innovative, but would rather fight to keep an always changing marketplace from changing. Sucks.

What’s your relationship with New West right now? Every time I’ve seen Slobberbone or The Drams play at SXSW, I’ve always seen Peter Jesperson (A&R for New West, signed and managed The Replacements) and he always looks like a wide-eyed kid.

Haven’t talked much with them as of late but it’s because I haven’t done anything really since the Drams record. We love Peter very much. He’s always graciously hosted us when we were in LA and it’s always a blast to get to pick his brain and hear some of the old stories. He is a died-in-the-wool music lover for sure.

As I mention in the introduction, I still cite your SXSW show at Club de Ville in 1999 as the greatest rock n’ roll show I’ve ever attended. I stood next to (The Gourds’) Jimmy Smith for most of the show. That is, until he went onstage to sing one of his own songs before forgetting the words and turning it over to you. Given the pouring rain and amount of water that was onstage, people in the crowd were actually a bit worried about you guys. Do you recall that show?

Oh yeah, we still remember that one. We were more than ready to be off that stage once the water rose more than an inch above our pedals but I seem to remember it was Jimmy that was egging us on and then left! It was fun, though, and a lot of people seem to have fond memories of that show. I do remember that none of our shit worked the next night at our actual showcase.

Slobberbone’s Everything You Thought Was Right Was Wrong Today finished at #2 in the Postcard From Hell poll of the best records of the 2000s (Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot came in first). Better than a Grammy?

Had not heard that. Crazy. What the hell do you do with a Grammy anyways? Can you Ebay them for cash?

Can you tell me about the song “Robert Cole?”

I wrote that some time after SB broke up. I hadn’t really written in a while and then that just presented itself one night almost fully formed and really kinda got the wheels cranking for me again. It wasn’t really connected to anything else at the time, other than another song I had just written called ‘Aunt Ramona’ and I didn’t really know what it was for. Some time later I was contacted by Tim Lee who was putting together the Larry Brown tribute album Just One More and then I knew what it was for. That was a cool little gift at a time when I was sort of rudderless. It’ll probably show up some day on an album of like-minded songs.

One late night at SXSW, I recall you mentioned that your home is basically nothing but CDs. I hate to ask, but can you share some favorites? I won’t say “top five or ten,” but that’s really what I’m getting at.

Yeah, that’s tough. A few years ago I moved out to the country into a little shotgun house and all those CD’s are behind me in my main center studio room. They just kinda loom there at a time when I rarely buy CD’s ever. People give me stuff and I listen online and record a lot of other people’s stuff so I’ve kinda become disjointed from the process of coming in and putting on a record and I don’t know how I feel about that. I listen as much as I ever did but the ritual seems to have changed. They’re still there and I can’t ever relinquish them ‘cuz there’s always that night when I’ve got some old thing in my head and am maybe kinda drunk and I can’t sleep until I find it and listen to it and then get online and search it and youtube it and read a bunch of bullshit blog posts about it and play some video games and read some more and then maybe go to sleep. I have uncles who can barely get out of their chairs but still keep 7 or 8 tractors in their barns. It’s kinda like that.

What are you listening to lately?

Changes weekly, almost daily these days. I guess I’ve succumbed to the modern-day-induced short attention span but I always end up fixating and staying with the things that grab and shake me. Love The Hold Steady. Love the new Low Anthem disc. Isbell’s newest. A lot of local stuff here, The Slow Burners in particular and a duo called RTB2. And of course, Glossary. Best band in America, maybe.

Got a good book recommendation?

Larry Brown, always. Cormac of course, Crews. There’s so much, you just gotta dig. Right now I’m reading a book on the history of Amsterdam by Geert Mak that a friend of mine from there gave me and I’m totally enthralled. Sometimes I need great fiction and sometimes I need compelling facts and in the end they mostly do the same thing for me.

And lastly, for fans who are itching for something new out of Slobberbone or The Drams, anything we can pass along?

We’re looking to start woodshedding and screwing around with some new Slobberbone demos so we’ll just have to see what happens. We never ever really had a plan before we ever started anything and we still don’t. We’ll just let it tell us what to do, if anything.

Also, I don’t know when you’re planning to post this, but being how my online acumen has severely waned the last few years and I don’t have a lot of outlets on my own, I’d like to let people know that Slobberbone will be on the road starting Dec. 1 in Little Rock at The Whitewater Taven, Dec. 2 at Newby’s in Memphis, Dec. 3 in Nashville, Dec. 4 in Knoxville, and Dec. 5 at Smith’s Old Bar in Atlanta. Come see us and let’s have a drink. Thanks for the interest and take care, buddy,

brent

I joined MTV in June of 1998, two years out of college and determined to take my next step working in the music industry. I’d just moved from a music publishing company to a licensing role within MTV’s Law and Business Affairs group. Even then, MTV already felt like it was in its post-music-video era. Music videos aired rarely, and usually as part of a show that wasn’t really about the videos themselves. The days of Yo! MTV Raps, 120 Minutes, and endless hours of videos were gone. Even MTV Unplugged, once an institution, was on its last legs.

Still, it was a bold and—at first—a smart shift. MTV had already launched what was essentially the first reality TV show, The Real World, which would run for 33 years. Despite my disappointment about the increasing lack of music content on the network, I fell in love with it. Watching random strangers spend months together in cities like San Francisco, Miami, Paris, and Boston was strangely captivating. The Real World led to Road Rules, and together they launched an era of reality TV that still thrives today.

Then came TRL. Debuting six years after The Real World, in 1998, Total Request Live revived MTV’s connection to music with daily video countdowns, guest performances, and that signature Times Square energy. When I arrived at work each morning at 1515 Broadway, lines of fans wrapped around multiple blocks, hoping for a spot in the TRL audience. Even then, we joked that MTV had lost its edge—that it was no longer truly a “music” company. But man, it was fun.

I was 24, living in Brooklyn, taking the subway into work every day. My career had veered toward music licensing—clearing songs and clips for on-air use. Honestly, the work could be tedious: contracts, status reports, hours in the MTV library reviewing music video rights. But it was still music. I’d eventually move beyond licensing (which I did in 2004), but even while in an area of the field I didn’t think would be long term, I was where I wanted to be—inside the music world, at a company that still shaped it.

Some of those years blur together—partly from time, partly from being, well, a pretty wild time—but there are moments I’ll never forget. Watching Beck interviewed by Kurt Loder, hearing him praise The Celebration, which became one of my favorite films. Sitting in a small room for a De La Soul performance. Seeing Philip Seymour Hoffman interviewed. Overseeing News & Specials on the licensing team meant I was often in meetings with the MTV personalities of the day: Tabitha Soren, John Norris, Serena Altschul. And the holiday parties? Ummmm, wild. Some memories I’ll just keep to myself.

The project I’m proudest of was an ad campaign called Influences—a series of twelve short spots where artists talked about the music that inspired them. I got to work with the teams behind Curtis Mayfield, Ray Davies, Chris Cornell, Bruce Springsteen, Liz Phair, Chuck D, and Iggy Pop, to name a few. Ani DiFranco spoke movingly about Springsteen’s Nebraska. It was a thrill, and it connected me to the record labels, publishers, and managers I most admired. Those relationships would quietly shape the next chapters of my career.

I can’t remember the last time I watched MTV—probably at least 15 years ago. When I heard it might be shutting down, I was surprised it still existed at all. “Music Television” had been a misnomer for decades, but back when I was there, even in the post-video era, we were still surrounded by music. That connection has stayed with me almost 30 years later.

1515 Broadway will always hold a special place for me. Beyond the work itself and three fantastic bosses, I’m still in touch with several colleagues from that time—lifelong friends. One of the many gifts of working on the 34th floor at 1515, back when MTV still meant something to the world, and to me.

Then you see a place like Gaza and wonder, just how, how in the world are the people who call Gaza home, able to get up every day and face the onslaught that no people anywhere in the world should ever have to suffer through. Where do they find the will? When I see Palestinians rushing the injured away from bombing sites, I’m absolutely astounded at the courage and strength of those who, despite the most horrific of circumstances, circumstances that no one is stepping in to stop or even slow, continue to help their fellow citizens. Unimaginable cruelty met with heroism and a selflessness that no human being should have to experience.

In January of 2017, I was at a work event in Los Angeles when the protests against the “Muslim ban” rose up. I remember checking social media and seeing that people were flocking to LAX to march against this madness. I told a colleague that I needed to get to LAX early, grabbed a Lyft and headed for, well, I didn’t really know. When the Lyft driver dropped me off, I didn’t see any activity. It looked like a quiet afternoon. Then, I saw a man approaching me with a sign. I can’t recall the message on that sign, but I asked him where the protests were happening. He motioned towards an escalator that would take me to the lower level. I picked up my pace. About midway down the escalator, I saw a sea of people. I saw people chanting, marching and thousands putting up a fight against what many Americans saw/see as a despicable administration.

I had been to political rallies before but this was different. The passion was magnetic. I saw people embracing, crying, but most importantly, I saw people determined. Not knowing what to do, I just stepped into the crowd and started walking. And then it hit. Everything. This will sound ridiculously hyperbolic , but it was as if my entire life was leading to this moment. I called my mother. Tears were streaming down my face. I felt alive. I felt connected. And, I felt, American. All the books I’d read about the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam, and the good and bad of the American experience felt like it was enveloping me along with a sea of strangers at LAX. I vividly recall the one-hour flight back to the Bay Area and feeling as though something had shifted in me. And it had.

Now it’s September of 2025. We’re about eight months into the second Trump presidency. The LAX marches feel like decades ago. But the mark that they left is as raw as it’s ever been. As expected, Trump’s second term is even darker than the first. And unlike his first term, the resistance, at least from the other branches of government, the media and our institutions, is nearly non-existent. Human beings are being swept off the streets and sent to, well, anywhere the administration chooses. Racial profiling has been given the ok by the Supreme Court. Our global alliances have been shattered. Health care is being decimated. Civil servants are losing their jobs in mass. And now, following the assassination of Charlie Kirk, dissent is not just being challenged, but we’re likely on a path to dissent being a crime. In just the last few days, a Washington Post reporter was fired for sharing a Charlie Kirk quote on social media, we’ve waded through the Jimmy Kimmel fiasco and, we learned that the University of California at Berkeley, has been providing lists of student names, believed to have shared antisemitic social media posts, to the Trump administration. Harvard caved. Columbia did as well. It’s all happening at lightning speed. The United States that we knew just nine months ago is almost unrecognizable. The basic tenets of this country are being eradicated at warp speed. It’s dizzying how quickly it’s all falling apart. And the lack of pushback, from nearly all corners, has been astounding to witness. Even across my friends and family, I’ve been shocked at the lack of response. People are going about their days — going to work, picking up the kids at school, planning vacations. And I get it. I mean, what’s the alternative? I suppose the alternative is a world that I’ve drifted into — constantly reading the news, worrying about what’s next, unable to focus, increased anxiety, planning a way out, if one exists.

All of this has led me back to the question: Who am I? As the United States that I’ve lived in for 51 years careens off a cliff and into full-on authoritarianism, I, like I hope many others, have been asking myself, again, who am I? Will I fight back? And if so, how far will I go? I live in a major US city where the Latino population is over 30%. My county went 68% for Kamala Harris in the presidential election. As Trump targets DC, LA and Memphis, I have to imagine that San Jose is on a shortlist. Perhaps it’s the wealth here that’s kept Trump and ICE at bay so far. And when they arrive, whether for anyone with darker skin than mine, or in time, folks with political beliefs like mine, how far will I go? If I see ICE going after a neighbor, will I step in? How much am I willing to risk for what I believe in? How far will I go to defend that America I marched with in January 2017? I’m pretty certain I’m about to find out.

It Hits

July 2014

I know not if it’s dark outside or light

-Elton John’s “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters”

Yogurt. I was standing before a wall of yogurt in the back of Safeway and stood paralyzed. A million options. I couldn’t even recall what flavors I liked. Or brands. Or anything. They were all the same to me, as was everything in this section, this store, this day, this life. Nothing had meaning or personality anymore. I was 40 years old. I had experienced varying degrees of depression, anxiety and even OCD, throughout my life, but this was different. The early signs of an onset of depression could usually be signaled while driving to or from work. Music and news. When the impact of one, or both, began to lose my interest, it may be the sign of something bigger. I’d often turn to my favorite artists in those moments: Springsteen, Dylan, Beatles, Sam Cooke…and if none of them evoked, well, anything, I might need to take some action: psychiatrist and psychotherapy sessions, increasing and/or adjusting my medication, meditation, exercise. But sometimes, nothing worked. And when the abyss sunk deep enough, I could seize up. I was there. I knew it in that moment. What seemed like 400 days trying to decide what yogurt to buy.

“Sir, are you ok?” I barely heard. “Can I help you?” A mother and her child. The mother seemed to somehow pick up on the vacancy in my eyes and posture. “I’m fine, thank you.” It was as if someone else said it. She moved along. I gave one last glance across what seemed like thousands of containers and turned around. I saw the Starbucks station by the front and figured maybe I could get a pastry or something. I eyed the options and felt nauseous. I’d wait until later. I stepped outside and, feeling embarrassed at my inability to make the most mundane of decisions, looked towards Heidi. She sat, almost done with her egg sandwich, sipping her coffee, scrolling through her phone. Just a normal Saturday morning. She smiled at the woman next to her. Everyone seemed caught up in the basics of the day – coffee, dropping off dry cleaning, reading the news. I was caught up in….nothing. I sat down next to Heidi. “You didn’t get anything?” “Nah, I’m not that hungry.” The gravity of this exchange felt immense to me. To Heidi, it seemed like exactly what I’d said: I just wasn’t hungry.

As she finished her coffee, I motioned for us to leave. “Would you mind driving home” I gently asked, hoping not to reveal the weight of what I was collapsing under. “Of course. Are you ok?” Just that question alone did it. I knew the truth was finally on its way to the surface. I’d been covering the slow build for months. There was no more hiding it. It truly felt like life and death. Although it really seemed as though death had already arrived. “I need help” was all I could muster. But to me, it felt like a tidal wave of information. When I fell into a depression like this, I always thought of the Haruki Murakami novel, “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.” I was at the bottom of the well, with nothing, just a body, and I was looking a million miles up at a world that I’d left, one that I desperately wanted to inch back towards. I’d see occasional flickers of people way off in the distance, things that I loved almost invisible, but it was there, way up there. That’s how it felt when I finally, after months of torturous attempts to better myself, told the truth. But the truth in times of deep depression was very hard to verbalize. I didn’t understand depression: why it came, why it turned everything off in me and how to get out. I just knew that its grip had tightened, tightened to the point where anything could happen because something had to happen. Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy wrote about depression, “Shine your teeth to meaningless. Smile all the time.” I had no more smiles left. I couldn’t fake it any longer.

“I need to see my doctor.” “Don’t you see her pretty regularly?” “I need to see her quickly.” And with that, Heidi picked up on the gravity. I wanted to tell her about the yogurt aisle, about my late-night thoughts, about how I’d like her to take my dog, Bennett, if something were to happen. “Is it back?” “Yes.” “How bad?” “Bad.” We pulled into my garage and I felt an ever-so-mild relief. I was still alone at the bottom of that well, but someone, way, way up in the distance, was looking down at me. Heidi and I sat in my living room for a few hours, her on my cozy leather chair and me on the couch. This wouldn’t be our standard Saturday night. No trip to a restaurant or the record store, a movie or up to San Francisco for dinner. This was me coming clean. This was me on bended knee knowing that I could no longer fight this on my own. “Do you need to change your meds?” “Maybe.” “Do you want me to call your mother?” “No.” In moments like this, knowing that an immediate fix to what ailed me was likely impossible, I just wanted to be understood. I wanted to be able to be honest about how horrific I felt and for the other person to understand. Heidi did just that. For the next few hours, accompanied by a wave of tears, I shared how I felt. I felt empty. I felt dead. Many say that they feel hopeless when depressed. I didn’t understand that. I felt nothing. I would’ve given anything in the world to feel. To feel hopeless. To feel angry. To feel. But I was void of everything. That’s what I tried to explain, and that’s what was so hard for others to understand. But Heidi listened. And didn’t judge.

“It’s like my personality has been completely extinguished.” “Don’t you still love music?” “No.” “Food?” “No.” “Bennett?” “Honestly, I’m not sure.” “Wow.” Wow. In a strange way, that was the perfect response for me. The magnitude was realized. Wow. I didn’t want anyone talking about my father or my meds or my childhood. I just wanted someone to grasp where I was and to sit there with me. And that’s exactly what she did. After “wow,” she asked a string of questions that fit where I was. “You just feel nothing?” “Nothing.” “When did it start?” “I don’t know.” “Have you had it like this before?” “Not this bad.” “Worse than Cincinnati?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry.” “It’s ok.”

Depression, at least for me, is always gradual. And then one day, you understand the severity and it’s impenetrable. I had noticed minor signs at the turn of the year – a bit of trouble sleeping, appetite decrease, feeling more insecure in my work, but overall, I was getting by fine. I was making it to work, doing my job well, meeting friends, still enjoying the things I loved, for the most part. And then, something small can happen in your life and it begins the process of chipping away. And then something else small. And then you start to magnify the small things. As the days pass, you don’t even realize it, but you’re starting to lose yourself. Depression can ever so slowly start to surround you. I imagine it’s hovered around me many times in my life, but on only a few occasions has its grip tightened, making it impossible for me to break through. In 2014, that slow crawl into despair happened leading up to March. And for the first time in my life, I took time out of work/school to tend to the malaise. Three weeks, that’s all I thought I needed. By April, I was back at work, feeling maybe a bit slightly better. But I’d misjudged the ferocity of this depression. Or, possibly more apt, I misjudged its stay. I had suffered despair nearly this bad about 15 years prior, but I would soon learn, that that battle was much shorter than this one. By June, I was still limping along, and coming to the realization that this might not be a “few month” thing. This could be longer, more brutal, more disruptive, and above all else, it may be the fight of my life.

1985

The Camaro looked out of place among the Buicks, Cadillacs and Lincolns, but Bev didn’t seem to care. No matter the look, she was incredibly proud of this car. Almost every time she sat down on the tan leather seats, you could sense the memories flowing back and oftentimes, you could see the tears starting to make their way forward. Billy had died just over a year ago, and the car he’d worked on almost every day meant more to her than anything. The tape deck needed a perfectly placed book of matches jammed between the cassette and the bottom lip to work and the chronic problems having to do with the alternator acting  up, but none of that mattered. As she shifted the car into park and turned down the car stereo, I could tell that she wanted to talk first. She pulled out a Virginia Slim Menthol, her third in the three-mile trip and put the pink Bic lighter to the end. I had heard that sizzle thousands of times. That final drag of the end of the butt usually marked the moment prior to a conversation. She pursed her lips and gathered her thoughts. Her mannerisms made it probable that this was going to be one of those uncomfortable chats. And given where we were parked and the room we were about to enter, it was a near certainty.

“Chris, we’re just going to try this. Remember, your dad doesn’t know we’re here. We’re just going to try it once. If we think it helps, we can come back. If you’re not comfortable, we don’t need to. I just think it might help.” I nodded. Her long fingernails, coated in a blazing red, reached for the door handle, and with my gnawed off fingernails, I followed suit on the passenger side. We walked across the nearly empty parking lot in the rear of the building and located an entrance door. She opened the steel door and with just a quick glance inside, I could immediately sense the cold and barren feel of the building, despite being on a major suburban road and temperatures outside having just eclipsed 90 degrees. As we walked up the stairs and made our way down the second-floor hall, all of the rooms appeared to be vacant. The hallway was just as sterile: no posters, signs, color. The walls were an off-white and the only marks were the outlines of the oversized bricks. These halls were more depressing that our high school halls. I mean, at least we painted them the lame school colors. In the distance, I could see an empty corkboard gracing a far wall. We approached room 202 and Bev gave me that, “Ready?” look. What could I do but once again nod. The door opened and I stepped inside and turned to her. My shoulders tensed up and I looked around with my head midway to the floor at the few strangers in the room. As we found seats, the rest of the folks in the room seemed to be waiting for things to get under way. A woman probably about 60 or so finally entered. “Hi everyone, I’m Madeline. I’ll be leading the group today.” I already felt ill. I’d always loathed speaking in front of people, whether classmates or complete strangers, and knowing the subject at hand only made this that much worse. What in the world could I say? Shouldn’t he be here and not me?

“Hi, I’m Bev. This is Chris, my stepson. Chris’ father has been drinking since his early teens and still drinks every day. He drinks beer and only beer; about ten or so a day, if not more. Chris and I are here to talk about him and our feelings about his drinking.” My thoughts turned to college basketball. The University of Louisville was my team and with the season on the horizon, I began envisioning the starting lineup; anything to take me away from this. But I couldn’t escape as Madeline shot me the sad and understanding look; a look I’d come to know so well, yet detested whenever it met my eyes. As my emotions swirled in different directions, they seemed to settle on one for a bit: anger. I never agreed to talk; I agreed to come and that’s it. Madeline could seemingly sense my unease and turned her focus to Bev, her own stories and other folks in the room. It was clear that a few of the others in the room had been here before, if not once, many times. They had obviously grown more comfortable with the setting, Madeline and sharing their stories. As folks talked, I tuned it out. I didn’t need to hear this. I did not speak for the remaining hour and sat there in a fog of nerves, uncertainly, loneliness and anger. All of these emotions were sweeping over me almost at once, and I couldn’t quite process where they came from and to whom, if anyone, they were directed at. I was thinking about my mother and why she gave the ok for me to attend this meeting. I was thinking of my older brother and his absence here. I was thinking of my father and knowing that, whether he knew we were here or not, he couldn’t care less about this family effort we were undertaking. And I was looking at Bev and realizing that her intentions were in the right place, but that her “parenting” of me isn’t something I welcomed or asked for. But now my main emotion was that feeling of being completely alone. Despite the folks in the room, my mother and father living only one town apart, and my siblings scattered between both towns, my inner core felt completely vacant. Whether it was my heart, stomach, brain or some sort of combination, I could literally feel the hollow sensation. It was a feeling that had always been hovering, but lately my awareness of this had come to the forefront. I couldn’t break free of it. School, friends, baseball games, television….nothing abated this feeling. And this meeting only exacerbated the pain it brought on.

“Let’s head out; I need a smoke,” said Bev as Madeline stood up and adjourned our first, and what would be our only, Al-Anon meeting. I headed for those stairs again. It felt like my own prison, but I knew that the stairs had nothing to do with my feeling of being encapsulated in myself, but rather stood as a stark symbol of the many external things in my life that formed my barren collage. As I reached for the staircase railing, Bev quipped, “Bathroom. I’ll meet you outside.” At the first step, the scent of the building brought on other senses:  there was the smell of my dad’s basement; the broken down basketball hoop at my mom’s house; and the always empty left side of the house at my father’s house; the rooms that were built to be filled by families, but not us. These were the images that made up my view of the world around me. And Bev’s Camaro, which oddly enough, was one of the few sights that lifted my spirit. There was history in that car; history that wasn’t embedded in my day-to-day. Billy was in the military; he lived in Minnesota. His story was foreign, interesting, not mine. I felt safe. When Billy was murdered and Bev received the car, this new car represented the outside world in my eyes. It was a vehicle to a bridge that was beyond my parents divorce, the infighting, the shame and the constant, constant worry. And the fucking booze.

As we headed home, Bev suggested a stop at McDonald’s for dinner. “Shouldn’t we see what Dad wants to do? I mean, this is his first night and we should probably celebrate.” “Good thinking”, and a smile rose in her face as we cruised by the oft-visited McDonald’s and headed home. As we barreled down the suburban road, I searched through the glove compartment and shuffled my fingers around in search of some music. “Can I put this on?”, I asked, as I revealed Bruce Springsteen’s ‘The River’. I knew she’d say yes, as it was ‘The River’ that first introduced Bev to my father. They met while my dad was still married to my mother, and evidently spent an entire evening at Bev’s apartment in New York City listening to this record. My dad was unfamiliar with Springsteen, but this night started his, and later my, infatuation with Springsteen. Unlike most fans of this record, I always started with side 2. There was something about “Point Blank” that I felt deep inside. “It’s one false move, and baby the lights go out”, Bruce sang as the first few drops of rain hit the windshield. We drove by my school where my friends were just an hour or so from being excused for the day. Given the rain, I knew that schoolyard football would probably be out today. We pulled down Fawn Hill Court and my father’s massive home stood at the end. “I’m a Rocker” had just started and I could see Bev perk up as the front tires hit the driveway and Bruce belted out, “Now I don’t care what kinda shape you’re in. If they put up a roadblock, I’ll parachute in.”

“Do you really think Dad meant it last night? Do you really think he’s done for good?”, I asked Bev as I sat at the kitchen table awaiting Dad’s arrival. “It’s the closest I’ve ever seen him to wanting to truly quit. Sometimes people with drinking problems don’t get it right the first time, but your dad has said he’d quit before, but never like last night. He’s never sat down the entire family and promised to stop.”

I went into the living room and clicked on the tv. As I flipped through the channels, my nerves started to become more and more uneasy. I knew that Dad would likely be home any minute, and there was something about this “new” Dad that brought on almost panic. For one, Dad rarely came home when he said he would. Secondly, he almost always smelled of a mix of Polo cologne and beer. I couldn’t imagine both of these not being part of the nightly routine. If the cologne was gone, I’d truly be at a loss. I had enough trouble finding time to talk to him as is, how would this play out? What would he be like? When he closed the front door and headed for the kitchen, what would he grab from the refrigerator? Sprite? Water? Milk? No way. I couldn’t fathom any of these.

I heard the car. I tensed up. I grabbed one of the gray and white striped pillows and pulled it close. A few minutes later, the sound of the front door opening echoed throughout the living room. I thought of those stairs a few hours earlier. I looked outside and it was now downpouring. Much of the grass in the backyard had turned to deep mud, a repeated reminder that no one had time to work on the house. This was Dad’s third house in as many years, and despite living there for just shy of ten months, the place still felt rented. But it was massive. As dad’s jobs switched and he briskly moved up the corporate ladder in the apparel industry, his subsequent homes would double in size. But every house we lived in never felt like a home. The exterior would draw admiration but the interior was frosty and spiritless.

“Dad’s home”, he bellowed as he walked into the kitchen. The tension in my shoulders, jaw and legs was shortening my breath. I turned around from the television and saw my dad removing his suit jacket, placing his leather bag on the coffee table and reaching for his Vantage cigarettes. He pulled the New York Daily News out of his bag, sat down, lit a smoke and began reading. “Hey Chris, Shane Rawley’s on the hill tonight. You going to watch?” “Yeah, it starts in about ten minutes. You wanna watch with me?” Dad was already halfway to the bathroom, or the garage, or his bedroom, and didn’t respond. I turned to channel 11 anyway. Phil Rizzuto and Bill White were doing the pre-game. It looked like a rain delay. Wherever dad was, it felt as if he was gone for an hour. There was something about this interim period between his arrival and confirmation of our plans for the evening that was torturous. My mind felt as if it was supplanted at some sort of crossroads, but a crossroads of no one’s doing, not mine, not his, not the family’s. But it was there.

“Why don’t we go out and celebrate” Dad said immediately upon returning to the kitchen. “Chris suggested the same thing. He even skipped McDonald’s,” Bev said in ever- so-slightly nervous yet forced jovial agreement. “How about Kinchley’s? They should have the game on and I’m dying for pizza. We’ll pick up Lane at your Mom’s house and we can all eat together.” Just a few minutes later, we piled into Dad’s Cadillac and pulled out into the rain. We stopped by my Mom’s house and Dad honked. Lane was out the door in less than a minute and beside me in the massive backseat. “Rain delay”, I said to Lane. “Like I don’t know that”, he replied. Dad and Bev were both smoking and barely another word was said on the 15 minute drive.

“What can I get you all to drink?” said the woman who’d served us for years now. “Coke”, said Lane. “Coke”, I said. “Make that three”, said Bev. “I’ll take a pitcher of Bud”, said Dad.

All of my tension eased up and despite feeling confused, a feeling of warmth swept over me. Lane didn’t flinch as he was unaware of the past two days’ events and discussions. Bev was composed but looked mildly disappointed. Dad appeared excited and completely oblivious to our conversation the night before. I searched for the game. Rawley was pitching to George Brett and the Royals led 2-0 in the third. “Will the Yanks just release this scrub”, said Lane. Just last week I’d declared Shane Rawley my favorite Yankee, replacing Don Baylor. Aware of this, Lane had to dig at my favorite. I mean, his ERA was over five so there was some justification in his take on Rawley. But even if Rawley were perfect, Lane would dig at me. He knew it upset me.

As the game moved into another rain delay, Dad headed to the jukebox and put in a dollar or two. First came “Like a Rolling Stone”, then Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind” and then a few others. Dad was now on pitcher number three. “We should wait for the game to come back on”, he said as he waved over our server. “We’ll have one last pitcher.” He said the same after the last one. My dad was now talking to folks at other tables, most of whom seemed charmed by his spirit and confidence. My stomach started to tighten up. I now just wanted to get home.

As Dad held the restaurant door open for us all, he bumped into the payphone, knocking the black phone handle off the silver hooks. “Your boy did ok today. No win, but I think he’ll probably stay in the rotation”, he said as he rested the phone back in place. My mind was elsewhere. As he started the car, he reached for the silver radio buttons and hit the second one in line, which I knew went straight to 770 for the postgame coverage. I looked to the front console and felt dreamlike as I locked my eyes on the blue 770 lights shining, almost sitting on a ledge that was Dad’s freshly opened can of beer. As the gravel turned to pavement, Dad turned to Lane and me, “He’ll get another chance.”

I remember getting into my car, needing to drive somewhere. Anywhere. I had to just….move. So I went to my regular hiking spot in the San Jose mountains. But I made a wrong turn, and ended up on an incredibly tight road up in the hills. And then, suddenly, there was a car in front of me, and one behind me, and I couldn’t maneuver. I felt the panic rise. I had felt it for the past 12 hours. Having had two panic attacks in my life, one in 2001 on a New York City subway, and 2008 in my San Francisco apartment, I knew the signs. I started following my breathing. The drivers in both cars looked frustrated. One wanted to get up the hill and one down, and I was in the middle. I sort of waved my hands in the air, not knowing what to do. Able to finally collect myself, I looked to see if either car had any breathing room on the road. I peered over the edge, and with the panic rising, thought about an easy out. But those thoughts were always fleeting and gone. I saw three options: 1) Jump, 2) Let the panic take over and ask for an ambulance or 3) Try and find a way out of this. One was quickly dismissed, deep breath; I would go with three. Seeing that both drivers were growing increasingly frustrated, I motioned to the car in front that I would try and squeeze by them. Since I couldn’t turn the car around, I would need to go in reverse and attempt, with them maneuvering beside me, to squeeze past. I took a deep breath and held it. And another. I visualized that Ponte Vedre beach from 2002 and tried to feel that peace. Almost 20 years ago, but those few moments on the beach, at about 5am, with my girlfriend, remain the closest I’ve ever felt to….God? I told myself I could do it. One wrong few inches to the left and my car could fly off the mountain side, almost certainly ending in my death. Think about the beach. Think about my dog Bennett. And then suddenly, without much memory of how it all happened, I was past the car, and almost in the clear. I had to back up about another 20-30 yards, and then there was a widening of the road, and I could turn around. And I did. And just like the moment I left my home about 45 minutes earlier, I was driving, somewhere.

I passed by my usual hiking spot. I’d done this hike 25-30x. Maybe this would help, I thought. I parked and started walking, quickly. “Should I walk slowly or quickly,“ I considered. What had I learned about fending off panic. Deep breaths. Look to the trees and sky. Try and focus on the colors. I remember reading something about that. Really look at the leaves, and the dirt, and the clouds and the branches. Really lock in on them. It was helping, a little. I was suddenly on a different route, different than the other 30x. I was climbing a steep hill. Maybe the workout would help. Or maybe it would make things worse. I saw a couple approaching. Small nod. If they only knew what was going on inside of me right now. They would most certainly call for help. But I walked on. And in just a bit, I was at a bit of a resting spot. There was a bench that looked over the gorgeous ridge. I sat down. I put in my headphones. I started to play the playlist of Lane and my favorite songs, that I’d made a few days earlier. Some Bob Seger, Springsteen, Blue Mountain, The Possibilities. I closed my eyes and only thought of the music. The music and the breeze. Both felt good. My heartbeat began to slow. My trembling hands started to steady. More deep breaths. I looked at my phone. A flood of texts had come in from Lane’s friend Kevin. He was also having a hard day and he was sending text after text. He felt guilt, he missed him, he wasn’t sure how he could keep going. My panic started to rise again, but this time was joined by some sort of angst. Some inability to listen to anything, by anyone. I just needed quiet. I bowed my head, took a breath and put the phone in my pocket. I would respond later.

I have no idea how much time passed, but I was suddenly at a cliff’s edge, on the route back down the mountain. I stopped. I looked over. I wondered why Lane got to end his pain, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t put my family and friends through two suicides. Bennett was at home waiting for me. I suddenly felt an ease rush over me. I felt Lane’s presence. I heard him, or saw him, telling me to keep living. If anything, do it for him. Carry our love of music, our interest in social justice, and our love of the arts, along for both of us. Be there for my mother and sister, and Amanda and Lane’s friends. He was giving me not just approval, but he was urging me not to follow him. Not yet. Hopefully never. I could feel tear drops landing on my hands and wrists as I held my phone, not even looking at it, trembling. And then I was at the bottom of the mountain, heading for my car, knowing that I would be able to keep going. I had to. For him. For everyone else who’d lost the battle. I needed to provide ongoing proof that things do and will get better. You can survive. Some days will be better. If only he saw that.

That night, with my anxiety still surging, I made the critical mistake of taking an edible to try and calm my nerves. I already had proof that this was exactly what I shouldn’t do, as it has accelerated the panic in the past, and fast. A little bit before 11pm that night, about 5 EMTs arrived at my front door, there to take me to the ER. About 30 minutes prior, feeling the panic rising, first the shaking hands, then the sweaty feet, then the random flinching, then the fall off the bed, then being completely immobile on the floor and only being able to bark out, “call an ambulance” to a friend who I’d called just prior to falling off the bed. By 3am, I was home, exhausted, incredibly relieved to be alive and I passed out immediately.

That day was actually December 21, 2021. Today is January 1, 2023. On that day, I was certain that panic would grip me round the clock, day in, day out, forever. That’s how the mind can work. That’s what your mental health can assure you of. I guess it’s to protect you, in case it does stick. But it’s now been a bit over a year, and not one more panic attack. I’ve been back to that hiking spot about ten times this year. The first time was the hardest. It was only a few weeks later and those memories were very fresh. But I walked, took deep breaths, looked at the sky and trees and a few miles in, realized, “It’s not going to happen. I’m ok.” And as I returned to my car, feeling relaxed and tired, I thought of Lane. I kept thinking, “If I had the opportunity, I would’ve told him that this doesn’t last. It never does. It will ease. You will feel better. You will feel music again, and baseball and your favorite band in concert. It’s going to come back.” As someone said to me, “Just hold on.” As another person said to me, “Be gentle with yourself.” Tears came because I could no longer say this to Lane. I know, or at least have some idea, of what he was feeling. The despair, the desperate desire to not feel the pain, or the longing to actually feel anything. Once you’re descending into that mindset, it can be very, very hard to see anything other than darkness. My last, and longest, bout of depression was in 2014. It lasted about three months. And I can tell you with absolute certainty, that I thought it was there forever. Again, that’s what the brain forces you to think. But eventually, as the days passed, and I implemented the daily tools I was told to summon, I started to get better. That was almost 9 years ago. I will never know what was going through Lane’s mind in the final months, weeks, hours, minutes. I just know that I wish I could have talked to him. That we could’ve talked to him. Ever since he passed, I have a recurring dream. There are actually two dreams. The first is Lane walking to the park where he died, and me intercepting him before he leaves the sidewalk and enters the woods. Lane and I talk for hours and hours and he survives. The second dream is the same, except everyone Lane knew and loved, intercepts him. Our mom and siblings are there, his friends, his girlfriend. We all stop him. We all tell him that we are there for him and that he will get through this. But dreams aren’t reality. And those dreams won’t bring Lane back. Lane left a legacy that will last years and years and years. His love of music and his passion for social justice, his quirks and that Lane grin. I can barely remember most of 2021. I remember the trips to Chicago to try and find him and I remember the day I got the call. But the rest of the year is incredibly foggy. The stages of grief, I suppose. But that day in December 2021 when my mind played torturous tricks on me was a lie. It wouldn’t last forever. It didn’t last forever. 2022 has shockingly been a good year. When I think of Lane, which is daily, I mostly have great memories: road trips, shows, Yankee games, his mix CDs. I just wish I’d had the chance to talk to him one more time. To tell him that I was living proof that things can get better. I feel selfish even thinking that because maybe, for some, it doesn’t. But I also remember people saying that to me when I was sick. I didn’t believe it, but I heard it. And eventually, those assurances proved to be true. I’m sorry we didn’t talk, Lane. I’m sorry for the pain that you went through. I’m sorry that I, or we, weren’t there to meet you, to help you, to turn you around. We all miss you so much.

After we hung up, I paced around my apartment, sobbing uncontrollably, my dog following my every step, as he’s always done when I’m in distress. Who do I call first? How do I deliver this news? I called my sister. She was at work. She stepped outside and I’ll never forget the immediate flood of despair and sadness in her voice as I delivered the news. But my sister has always been tough, sweet but strong, able to hold it together. And she gathered herself because we both knew the worst was yet to come. We had to tell my mother. My nephew Cole, who I adore as much as any human being on the planet, was at my mother’s house. We made arrangements for him to be picked up. And then my sister drove to my mother’s house. We went on FaceTime. As she walked to my mother’s door, my mind was bashing from side to side: uncontrollable tears, fear of how my mom would respond, fear of everything. I told my mother via FaceTime. “Mom. He’s gone.” And til the day I die, the look on my mother’s face will be the most emotionally ravaging moment of my life. First shock, eyes wide, and then, after I repeated that he was gone, she collapsed into my sister’s arms. We were all swirling together in the deepest and rawest depths of pain, grief and sadness together. I uttered something. “We will get through this.” I don’t even know. Just anything to try and ease, even just a bit, the worst moment of our lives. This was the first time I’ve ever experienced grief this deep and this — almost impossible to manage and navigate. There are no words, no pill, no spirituality, absolutely nothing, to minimize the absolute all-encompassing pain that this news brought on. It was absolute, unyielding despair.

It’s now been a little over nine months since that day. Last week, back in New Jersey visiting my mother, I went for a long walk. The same walk I took daily in the weeks after Lane’s death. Down a few back roads, a stretch down a main road, and through the woods. Nine months later, and those emotions that stretched well beyond the day that he died, are still there. I cried on that walk. Both nine months ago and last week. And I remember that walk back in March, walking aimlessly through those woods, no route or destination in mind. Just walking. And walking. And I remember, at one point, I stood before a lake and had a minute or two when the pain paused, or receded, and I thought, “I need to remember what this is going to be like. I need to journal how I make it through this. Or shit, don’t make it through this. I need some good to come of this. Some fucking good. And maybe, whatever the days ahead will bring, I can somehow help someone else in some way.” But I didn’t journal. It was too much. But I did a lot of other things to desperately try and manage the horrors of losing a brother far too soon, far too sudden, and with far too many questions. I didn’t catalog these, but in many ways, they’ve become part of my life, every single day. I can without question say that I’m a different person than I was on March 4th of this year. A lot has shifted. A lot continues to shift. I bought 20 books on coping after Lane died. I read a few. But I really wanted to hear from someone I knew, loved. And I did. And it helped. And somehow, now nine months after the worst day of my life, I am still here. There were days when I didn’t think I’d make it this far. There were days when I didn’t think I’d make it to my next meal. But again, I did and I have. I will never profess to know what’s to come in the minutes, days and years ahead, but I’ve gotten to this point, and here are some of the tools I used, and some of the ways that this horrific event changed me forever.

The Moment

I spend a good portion of every day reminding myself to live in the moment, that exact moment. Every day, when I take my dog for a walk, I spend a large portion of the walk simply staring at the sky: clouds, the deep blues, the far off sun, the streaks of airplanes, the breeze rustling through the gorgeous San Jose trees. I notice all the greenery in the my neighborhood and near my home. I smile at nearly all passerbys and try to greet as many people as I can. About a month after Lane died, I was out my local coffee shop one morning, when one of the servers who I’ve come to become friendly with, simply asked, “How are you doing, Chris?” and I welled up, turned, and lost it. Simple humanity. Asking how someone is doing. A few months after the loss, I went to an A’s game with an ex-girlfriend who remains a dear friend. Always generous, after we entered the park, she stopped to buy us each a beer. The gentleman serving the drinks offered, “I hope you guys have a wonderful day. Sure is nice out.” I turned, and again, tears flowed. Once again, I think I can attribute those emotions to living in the moment, feeling kindness from someone, even a perfect stranger. Yes, I still get caught up in fears and questions about what more could have been done to save my brother, but I also cherish the moment, and I hope that that is somehow a tribute to my brother, someone who certainly lived for today. I think he somehow passed that along to me, and I am so grateful.

Meditation

I started meditating a few years ago, mostly to try and manage low-level anxiety that I’ve had for most of my life. After Lane died, meditation was impossible. My mind could not stop. My mind could not rest, even for a second. It was a pain so piercing and ever-present that nothing could quiet the loud, banging noises. But about a month after he passed, I tried to return to the practice. I tried guided meditations, as opposed to timed meditations that I’d typically done since I started the practice. After being diagnosed with PTSD, related to not just Lane, but events from my childhood, I looked for meditations focused on anxiety and trauma. At first, they did nothing. But I kept at it. Almost every day. Just ten minutes. Or five. And on some days, I forgot. But for the last 5-6 months, I have probably meditated 9/10 days. In the past 2-3 months, I’ve repeated some of the same meditations, and tried new ones from time to time. I now meditate for about 30 minutes a day. I would like to get to one hour. When I’m drawn to social media or other mind-numbing activities, I more often than not, opt to actually, I don’t know how to say, perhaps nourish my mind? And it’s working. Not always. I still fight with anxiety, but I’m typically able to calm my mind, slow the thoughts, notice the moment, and to simply put, just feel more at ease.

Family and Friends

Never have I leaned on the people in my life more. Some of these are family members or friends who I’ve known for decades, and some I’ve known for less than a year. Some are friendships that have grown immensely given the personal nature of some of our conversations. I remember meeting a friend I used to work with, not long after Lane died, at a bar in San Jose. We had a few beers, talked a little bit about Lane, and a lot about music. It was exactly what I needed. A simple night that I’ll never forget. The conversation reminded me about the joy of connecting around shared interests and experiences. I have had many, many of these conversation and encounters and I will never be able to repay the people in my life for being there, again and again. Not once has anyone failed to meet me when I needed them, whether by text, phone, or spontaneously, in person. Despite being a fairly social person, I’ve always been a bit of a loner, in some senses. I enjoy being alone. But the months following Lane’s passing has changed a large part of me on this front. I appreciate and welcome connection a lot more than I used to, and it’s made my life so much richer. Thank you to you all. You’ll never know how much your words, actions and love has helped me to keep living every day.

Being Honest

Like anyone, I struggle. I’ve had more sleepless nights in the past nine months than I’ve had in my lifetime. There have been moments when I’ll find myself drifting off, or pacing my apartment, wondering how on earth I’m going to pass the days to come. If a friend or family member sensed something amiss, I’d do what most people do, say that I’m fine. But in the past month or two, after giving a deeper thought to mental health, I realized that a lot of what I suggest and recommend via the mental nonprofits I work with: reaching out, telling people the truth, actively seeking out help, I wasn’t doing. I was “fine” when I wasn’t. I recently had a string of tough days, tougher than usual. It’s felt like a second surge of grief. And unlike the past, I reached out and didn’t hold back anything. I told a few good friends, and family members, that I needed their help. And they came in droves. And in just a few days, I felt better. Living proof that being honest about your mental health with those in your orbit, is without question the right thing to do. Don’t hold it tight. Let it loose. People will be there. If the first person isn’t, the second might be. And eventually, someone will meet you in that moment. And they will embrace you and help you.

I realize that some may find a lot of the above to be cliche, saccharine, even drab. And if I read this essay in February of this year, or perhaps before covid hit, I’m sure I may have, too. But trauma and grief changes you. Through all the hell and despair, parts of you open and invite in….something. Some sort of eye for healing or change. And Lane’s passing has done that for me, in so many ways. On bad days, I can still be short, and sometimes, I have brief spats of anger. But most of the time, it’s quite the opposite. I feel tremendous love for people. I feel so goddamn lucky to be alive. Music sounds different. The world looks different. Challenges seem more manageable. I will never have my brother back, but every minute of every single day, I feel him. I feel him ushering me along, telling me to live, to turn the music up, and to be good to people. It feels incredibly awkward to say that his death has made me a better person, but it has, I think. I recall one afternoon, on a long walk, maybe in June or July, thinking, “I can either let this destroy me or I can find a way to live with it and possibly even be a better person.” There’s no clear through-line for that. It’s bumpy, inconsistent and can shake you to your core without notice. But you can keep going. One of my favorite songwriters, Jeff Tweedy, has a line that I’ve listened to a thousand times since that day in March: “Something sad keeps moving / So I wandered around / I fell in love with the burden / holding me down.” I listen to that, look to the sky, think of Lane, and more often than not, a smile hits my face. He’s there. I’m there. We’re there.

I also think back on the shows that I turned down, decisions that still linger in my love affair with live music memory bank, now 30+ years on. The biggest regret, which ultimately turned into something quite the opposite, was in the Spring of 1994. I’ve told this story roughly 3000 times, so if you’ve read this, feel free to skip the text and just look at the photos. But….I was 21 years old and still on the classic rock train: Springsteen, Neil Young, Beatles, sprinkled with a recent interest in the young jam bands of the time: Phish, God Street Wine. The former would stick with me to this day, the latter a brief 1-2 year stint with a sound that would ultimately fall flat with time.

It was a weekend night. A bunch of college friends and I were heading to campus to see one of those new jam bands. I think it was Big Head Todd & the Monsters, but I honestly may be mixing up the acts. Prior to leaving for the show, ten or so of us were sitting around a South Street apartment in Brighton, MA drinking and listening to music. My good friends Matt and Cubby, both from Maine, introduced me to their friend Andrew, who was down from Bowdoin College. Andrew was, and remains to this day, one of the most startlingly quiet people I’ve ever met. He was there, but not there. At one point in the evening, I found myself next to Andrew, when he uttered to me, “I have an extra ticket for tonight’s show at The Paradise, if you’d like to come. Seems that you like Neil Young. I think you’ll like these guys.” I was tempted. But I’d also committed to heading over to campus with a large group, many of whom were already getting ready throughout the apartment. “Thanks, but I should stick with my plans. Have a great time.” And that was that. A small army of us headed to campus. One song in, my closest friend from college, Brian and I, had had enough. We left and headed to a bar with a jukebox, where we could have some say in the song selections.

The following morning, or likely, afternoon, I headed up to Brian’s apartment. A smattering of folks milled around, many still in bed, everyone bleary eyed. And there was Andrew. “Hey, how was your show last night?” “Really great,” was what he offered. “I’d love to hear them, if you have a CD." And with that, Andrew casually left the apartment, headed to his car, and ejected their latest CD from his car CD player. He returned, stepped up to the 6-disc changer, went to song 6, and out came that banjo intro. And then the bass and guitars. And then this young, almost sprightly delivery, eventually met on harmonies with a deep, heavy other voice. “New Madrid” by Uncle Tupelo. “They all come from New York City / And they woke me up at dawn / She walked with me, to the fountain / She held, onto my arm.” I still get chills from head to toe recalling those few moments. By the time Andrew had hit play, Brian was directly across from me. And suddenly, it was like time was standing still. We played the song over and over and over. It was like hearing The Rolling Stones, The Clash, Springsteen, Johnny Cash and Steve Earle, together. By dinner time, Brian and I had scoured Newbury Comics, Tower Records and a slew of other records stores for their records. If memory serves, we were both only able to land their latest, “Anodyne.” It would be a month or so before their remaining three records would arrive via mail. And honestly, that was the beginning. The beginning of now close to 30 years of an exploration damn near the totality of music. Okay, nothing close, but the thousands of records and shows and documentaries and festivals, and endless writings and conversations about music, can truly, as it relates to my life, point directly to that afternoon on South Street. Andrew grabbing that CD changed my life, in hundreds of ways.

As anyone who even casually follows this style of music knows, Uncle Tupelo splintered into Wilco and Son Volt, two bands who, now 27 years later, are still putting out records, touring, and both maintain rabid fan bases. This past Saturday night, I saw Wilco in San Jose. No Uncle Tupelo songs, but 20+ Wilco gems, and despite a somewhat thin crowd, they held the gas down and gave us a wonderful show, the first full band I’ve seen since the pandemic hit. I was euphoric. In January, I will be seeing Son Volt in Joshua Tree. Amazing that, almost three decades on, I can still experience both.

Monday morning. Just about 90 minutes ago. I’m sitting at my local coffee shop, my dog Bennett at my feet, and I’m thinking back on Saturday night. I’m thinking back on all the great shows, not just Wilco, but all the shows. And I thought of my brother, Lane. I thought of all the shows he went to. The drives from Chicago to New Jersey to see The Feelies. I thought about what Serge Bielanko of Marah said about my brother. “It has become evident these last few weeks that a lot of the people who headed out to a lot of rock/roll shows over the past couple decades weren’t just going out into the cold whirlwind of some big city Friday night to see a band they loved/ or were hoping to love. They were also going out to see Lane.” I cry every time I read those words. It reminds me of how alive Lane was. And it reminds me of that look on his face when the spirit would catch him, and he’d be somewhere else than just inside that club. He’d be free. As I was about to head back home this morning, I realized: Wilco are in Oakland tonight. I thought of Elvis, Lane and that afternoon in an apartment outside of Boston. And I sat back down, grabbed my phone, and bought a ticket. Thanks, Elvis. Thanks, Andrew. Thanks, Lane.

While reading Serge’s tribute to Blue Mountain, I thought, well, I’m going to write about his band, Marah. I’m not going to edit it, or look for the right photo, or get the words down and return later. I’m going to write the way he wrote about Blue Mountain, or at least try to, and then, just hit that orange publish button. It’ll be a start. Maybe a messy and jumbled start, but my words will be out there. I’ll think about the more intense pieces later.

I don’t recall how I found Marah. Maybe a magazine or message board. It was 1997, maybe 1998. But I just started going to their shows. 1997-1998 was probably my personal peak period of music interest. Or attendance of shows. I was moving from my hometown in New Jersey to Brooklyn. I was young, insecure, eager and the bands and sounds hitting my radar were absolutely flooring me. The Old 97’s, The Backsliders, Joe Henry, Wilco, Son Volt, The Bottle Rockets, 6 String Drag. And then, Marah. Two brothers from Philly had formed a band, and released their debut, called “Let’s Cut the Crap and Hook Up Later on Tonight.” I mean, that title.

So I’d get on 95 or whatever route took you from New York to Philly, whenever they played. I saw them at The Pontiac, numerous times at The Tin Angel, the Jersey shore, the Mercury in New York City. There was that bar on the Upper East Side. Or was it the West Side? Getting in my Mazda 626 and heading to Philly to see Marah brought on a euphoria that is truly hard to describe. And the anticipation in the rooms as Marah were about to take the stage. And then they would. “Fever” was often the opener, if I recall right. The slow lead in. Maybe there were bagpipes? Maybe not on that song, but certainly on a song or two. I got to know people in Philly. Many became friends. When Marah would hit song two or three, we were off. Just absolutely thrilling. Serge would creep over to the mic and join Dave for a harmony and the room would just be exploding at the seams. Beers would be dropped, sometimes showered over folks, sweat everywhere. Good god, that feeling. When their follow-up was near completion, they’d open with “Faraway You.” If you don’t know that song, go give it a listen. And imagine a small club in Philadelphia on a Saturday night. Just you and your friends and these songs slamming off the walls. People dancing. People howling the lyrics as if they were in the band. And we kinda were. On one Halloween, Serge and Dave motioned to me that I needed to join them onstage. It was at The Pontiac. I remember lighting a cigarette, trying to quell the nerves, grabbing two Coronas and walking up there. I think they played a Skynrd song. I pretended to know the lyrics. I think I knew the chorus. It wasn’t “Sweet Home Alabama” or, thank god, “Free Bird.” Was it “Gimme Three Steps”? I think it was. The band was decked out in Halloween costumes and I was a nervous 25 or 26 kid wondering how I fell into the middle of something I loved so much.

Then we really became friends. We’d hang out with them before the shows, after the shows, and one day, returning from work, I had a voicemail message from Serge, inviting me to their Christmas party. I wish Serge and Dave could’ve seen the look on my face, listening to that message. It was like God from above had left me a message. I went to that Christmas party and we partied, listened to music, drank, and shared stories, until well past the sun crept over South Street. I remember being in a car with Dave, Serge and a few others in the middle of the night. I think their manager was driving us to get more beer. We were all over the tape deck or CD player or whatever delivered the songs in that car. Dave casually shared that he needed a roommate to help pay the bills in his place. He asked if I wanted to take the room. I mentally tried to maneuver an immediate move to Philly but it didn't happen. I just remember being in the passenger seat and feeling as at home with the world as I’d ever felt.

If you were at a Marah show from 1998-2000, you probably have some sense of why this band was so important to some people. I recall a show where the band had to move venues for some reason. I can still see the room: walk in, bar ahead, maybe a little to the left, stage directly to the right. I went with my friend Brendan that night. It was one of those nights where you know you were in it for the long haul: show, post-show bar, post-bar someone’s place, sun up. And that’s what happened. I remember both of us, near the front of the stage, drenched. I recall, at one point, stopping myself from swaying, singing, looking around at the joyous faces, and just capturing the moment. In that moment, I honestly thought I was seeing the greatest, most passionate, rock n’ roll performance I had ever seen. And to this day, now nearly 25 years later, that honestly may have been it.

Marah were an absolutely tremendous band. For a few years, and during the heart of when live music was the world to me, there was no one better. I remember, at the time, thinking that this must be what Springsteen was like in 1978, or the Stones at their height. I honestly wondered if either were this good. And to this day, hundreds and hundreds of shows later, I know that Marah may have been the greatest live band I have ever seen. What a time, what a fury, what a sound, what a community.

And now, I’m eyeing that orange button. I need to get out to, well, you guessed it, the record store. So here goes…

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