On a huge debt of gratitude
by Brian Conley
"I don't like music," I remember proclaiming more than once as a child.
The first time, when I was about eight years old, my older sister and I were stuck in the back seat of my parent's Oldsmobile, weaving our way through the mountains toward Myrtle Beach, as my father subjected us to his latest eight-track tape of the west Texas crooning of Marty Robbins.
"You what?" said my dad, appalled, "You don't like music. Everyone likes music."
"I don't," I said defiantly. I remember my dad looking at my mom as if he'd just discovered that his son had been born without a soul.
The next time was two years later when my father forced me to sit through an entire hour of the Lawrence Welk Orchestra's renditions of the songs of Ireland. "This is your heritage, son," said my dad.
"I don't like music," I said again, hoping that statement would somehow free me from having to sit through "Danny Boy." It didn't.
The last time I remember saying that I did not like music was when I was 14. I was at my best friend David Rayson's house. "Let's listen to some of my big brother's records," suggested David. "He just got the new Led Zeppelin album."
"I don't like music," I said. David put the record on anyway.
Since that fateful day, music has been a near constant companion in my life. No fair weather friend, music has lifted me when I was down and grounded me when I got too high. But it was in the summer of 1982 that I truly came to understand and appreciate the gift of music.
You see, that was the summer that David drowned at the Sinks in the Smoky Mountains. Torrential rains had caused the waters to swell and, when David slipped on a rock, rapid-like conditions swept him away. They did not find his body for two days.
I remember dreaming about David that night. The doorbell to my parent's house rang and, when I answered it, David was standing there, soaking wet. He laughed, "Man, everybody left me." I was overjoyed to see him. Then I woke up.
I was 17 years old and, aside from a couple of elderly grandparents who I never really knew, that was my first experience with death, and I was having a very difficult time coming to terms with it. I don't mean to suggest that my grief was in any way singular. Of course, David's family and friends—I was only one of many—were all devastated. But for me, the only thing that provided any comfort was listening to the records that David and I had spent countless hours listening to together. Who's Next, Exile on Main Street, Houses of the Holy, Rubber Soul, The Pretenders' debut album and London Calling, just to name a few.
It has been 21 years since David died and 24 since he first gave me the gift of music. And while there is still much in life that I cannot make sense of, music continues to soothe my soul the same way it did in the summer of '82. I will always be indebted to David for the gift he gave me and to music for standing in for my friend all these years. And that brings me to the purpose of this column.
While my gratitude extends to such world famous artists as The Who, The Beatles and The Stones, it also extends to a number of local artists that include R.B. Morris, Scott Miller and the Commonwealth, the V-Roys, Superdrag and Smokin' Dave and the Premo Dopes.
Several months ago, Jack Rentfro, Charlotte Klasson and Jay Nations came to me in search of a publisher for a book Jack had compiled and edited called Cumberland Avenue Revisited: Four Decades of Music in Knoxville, Tennessee. I read the book and told them I'd be honored to do it.
Being involved with the project has been very rewarding for me because it combines two of my great passions: Knoxville and music. What better way to celebrate both than with this eloquent, eclectic history of the Knoxville music scene? And what better way to pay back music, and David, if only in a very small way, for all that they have done for me.
Cumberland Avenue Revisited: Four Decades of Music in Knoxville, Tennessee hit stores earlier this week. Proceeds from the sale of the book will go to the James Agee Park Foundation. I wish everyone a very Merry, and musical, Christmas!
December 25, 2003 * Vol. 13, No. 52
© 2003 Metro Pulse
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