Chris Whitley Passes On

Prelude

My life has always been sprinkled with reminders that there is a spiritual realm. It's not that I don't know what to call it. There are plenty of things to call it -- I just haven't picked one. I am haunted by the way that religion and spirituality are twisted by forces that wish to spur people on to action. The older I get the more useless this insight feels to me. It is almost as if there is a test in the universe. Isn't it just like evil to take faith, hope and spirituality and confuse them till no one will believe in anything? Or is this what people mean when they talk about a circular argument?

Act 1
I taught my Guitar 2 class tonight. I was in the mood to just be silly and really enjoy being a teacher. I played a little and started talking about my blog that no one reads. I was talking about how people post on their bogs everyday-- saying that I tried to post everyday when one of my students -- John -- started cracking on me because I haven't posted in almost a week and a half. It was really very funny... The class cracked up at any rate! I was embarrassed and complimented at the same time. I mean, I actually had stopped posting because I thought the whole thing was so vain. I found it especially vain since no one was reading it. Then low and behold "John" appears. It is at least interesting enough to him to pull my chain about not making regular entries. So, I thought-- "What the hell?"

Act 2
Being a teacher is a joy but it is a far cry from IBM and Bank of America where I used to work. I have been here before, though. I used to teach full time and changed in order to take better care of my family. Well, several years, 2 children, 1 divorce, and 1 ill timed layoff later, I am living on a teacher’s salary again. It is hard. Sometimes I have to make choices between which of my bills to pay-- so who doesn't? This month I let the internet and the cell phone lag. I called them up and acted mildly indignant ( for the sake of my ego) and payed them late. When the phone started working I needed to check messages and that is why I got SarahB's message shortly after she left it and returned it even though I am leaving for Boston tomorrow. I should have gone straight to bed. I had to pack though and thought I'll make an evening out of getting things in order before I leave. "Hey! It's Sarah give me a call." She was calm, unauthoritative and she called herself Sarah, like she used to. That and the fact that she is my webmaster made me want to call.

Act 3
After she told me that Chris Whitley had died, we chatted. We have been working on this together actually. She told me how things were going in her life and I tried to tell her about mine in between coughs. Our lives are intertwined in the way that dreamer’s lives are intertwined. We both wanted to be successful singer songwriters. And now Chris Whitley had died. It was like a marker, an alarm going off. She said, “I thought you might mention it on your blog. You haven't done anything there recently" (Ouch!)

Act 4
If you have never heard Chris Whitley play guitar and sing, you have really missed something. Especially, his first hit album, Big Sky Country. To put him into context you have to imagine Ry Cooder, Taj Mahal and Muddy Waters getting together to teach some unruly child to play guitar-- imagine that he listened and kept on being as bad as he wanted to be. Imagine he could sing any note anyway that he wanted to. And then imagine that you could hear weeping and joy in every lyric that he uttered. Imagine a rusty and authentic National Guitar. Imagine he plays the guitar the way he sings. He was amazing-- he was so amazing that as male singer songwriters go there hasn't been anything as genuine since then on a major label.
I guess I should say what a tremendous loss and blame the tobacco industry or something. I think I would rather say that he inspired so many people that his family and friends should be proud of him. I think that for an artist like Chris there is no need for an audience. There is so much joy in the doing of the thing that it is reward in and of itself. That being said, to be an artist of Chris's caliber and play to an audience that is moved by what you say-- that hangs on every word and move of the thumb pick. That had to feel good.

Epilogue

I saw Chris play live at Martyrs on Lincoln Ave, in Chicago. I was digging him and wondering about my life and family. I remember thinking that I had gotten things out of order. Children before career, talent before skill, dream before plan. Artists do this to themselves, not all, but some. He was killing some guitar licks. I was shaking my head and lamenting something when he said "And now I would like to introduce my daughter, Trixie!" It was almost funny to watch if it hadn't been so touching! She was just like Chris-- skinny as a toothpick with stringy hair to match and the energy--- Jesus she moved like a nymph. Not sexual, just light footed with abandon and this sense of filling the entire space that she was in. She was very at home on stage. Chris sang one of his songs, and she sang it with him note per note, every inflection, every quiver, and every emotion. I knew that feeling; my daughter had done it to me. She could take everything I was and do me like "Rich Little" doing "Jimmy Cagney"-- with this caveat: My daughter was deeper into me than anyone ever could be.
It was so special watching the rock and blues superstar share the stage with his daughter to see her dancing inside of his dreams and his reality. I had almost forgotten that. My life has always been sprinkled with reminders that there is a spiritual realm. It's not that I don't know what to call it. There are plenty of things to call it -- I just haven't picked one.

Thank you Chris & Trixie, bon voyage to you both

I love you China and Time, bon voyage to you both