January 2020 - Somewhere between the Songs

It was the fall of 2016 when I last saw Dan Gallagher. It was my tenth recording session where he was going to be adding his guitar magic, and as usual I had bounced preliminary scratch recordings to the producer who knew which of his chosen studio players wanted to hear them beforehand and which ones prefer to come in cold and improvise. Over several years and nearly 4 dozen original songs of mine that Dan played on I had already learned I could trust him.

I mention the scratch recordings being available for collaborators to have if needed, and Dan was one of those players who DEFINITELY studied them beforehand. Most times my songs can have a reliable structure through about 90% of the way through them, but somewhere there usually lurks a chord stretch, or a rhythm change, or something inside most of them that mucks up the reliability and predictability. It can drive drummers crazy, and I’m sure my producer wanted to pelt me a time or two. But Dan would have studied them and always arrived on record day having sheeted them out, with copious notes on what he wanted to play. There would be layers in his approach such that he was almost like an orchestra conductor who had heard it all before and he knew ahead of time which layer he wanted to play first, second, third, and on down the line. And no matter how much there was in his head to get done, once completed any song he worked with would lose weight and gain mass (sounds like an ultimate rudeness to Newton, but that’s how I would describe it).

I myself am a passable acoustic guitar player, but I don’t generally try to play the electric guitar much, and after collaborating with Gallagher why would I? It’s not that he would in any way make me uncomfortable if I tried; no he was always a humble and gentle soul when giving of his sound. He never made me feel anything but glad that he was gonna have something to add to a song of mine. And though his sounds would often cement a song, they practically never stole it or took it over, or swept anything aside. And a few times after hearing what I had written he would humbly say he didn’t want to do much on it. But if he did want to add himself I learned to count on being happy that he did.

On our penultimate recording session together I did something I’ve not done before or since. I wanted to have a drummer, Dan on his guitar, and myself on keys late one evening after a few brews or a scotch and just record whatever we could spit out. I wanted an improv session with my intent being to record and compose something around whatever we conjured. And Dan would not have his preferred ability to analyze and sheet the tune. Sure he could jam with a rock and roll band, but this was different. I wanted to folk/singersongwriter noodle. We were all miserably uncomfortable for a while – and sounded pretty pitiful (smile), and yet after a few long hours of mucking around something did eventually come of it. And one session later a binary song (really trinary if you listen hard enough) “My Frozen Heart” became one of the last songs that Dan played on for me. It was the fruit of that late night improv time we had. When I brought it back to the studio to put it down Dan did his thing on it. He has some great work through it, but I especially like it after the 3:20 mark when the song drops back for a bassa nova rhythm easy grove that slowly boils up and up into finally a long rock and roll fade away – and it was my pleasure to tell Dan for the coda, “play whatever you want… the song is yours til the end. Run me off the road.”

I received the sad news yesterday that Dan died suddenly. I’ve collaborated with more than a few professional studio musicians. Some I hardly know and who never had time for me anyway except a bare minimum and always with the clock and cash register running; cold pros akin to a brain surgeon you might want for an operation but not for dinner with your family. Some may have even died and I would not know, nor be sad to think I would play with them no more. But the sensation that hit me when I heard Dan Gallagher died was one of loss; loss of his future notes played if I sought him out again to work together; loss of what he might play for others I would likely not even hear but I would feel confident saying it would be humble, good, and worth the soundwaves. I don’t know if I will record anymore, but I’m certain that if I do Mr. Gallagher will be sorely missed.

R.I.P.

Not to hijack a moment, but if you want to hear his last long solo fade away he did for me a few years back, listen for free to “My Frozen Heart” at:

Click Here

Or a video snippet of some of his licks and riffs is below

Rejection and Reconsideration from College

About a year before it would be application time, my parents took me on a road trip to investigate potential college destinations. We drove through Georgia, whisking past Auburn and discussing Emory briefly. And we eventually toured Davidson, Wake Forest, University of North Carolina, and Furman, but really, we were mainly speeding towards Duke to where all expectations and hopes were aimed. I could see advantages and/or preferences in comparing my potential college experience choices, but there did seem to be a genuine and divine funnel guiding me to Duke and I wanted to go there as much as my folks wanted it for me.

Once home and getting into my senior year of high school, my mother spent lot’s of time with me assisting in my college application process. With her connections and friend network she knew at least one or two excellent friends of the family or colleagues of my father at the clinic who would provide glowing recommendations of my boyhood thus far to each of the colleges where we sent applications. With Duke being the stretch for me to achieve, thankfully my application would have the added booster fuel in how both of my parents were alums and the specter of their past and ongoing donations both to the undergraduate endowment, and to the Duke Medical School as well where once my father had been the Chief Resident 30+ years prior.

Looking at my resume, and my GPA and student ranking at a moderately ordinary public high school in rural central Florida, my parents and I both knew Duke was likely to deliver a quick rejection, and they did. Meanwhile, I received a status of “Wait List” from Wake Forest, and we awaited hearing from a few others at least one of which was a fall back. There was some disappointment, but all was not yet lost for my mother said how I should write an official letter requesting reconsideration of my application to Duke.

Mom explained to me how the admissions process is a giant undertaking with many ebbs and flows in the current and how the most important thing to making the waiting list would be to keep my application somehow near the top of someone’s stack. She described how there were likely a few dozen people with desks piled high with applications in process; nearly 10,000 or more would be whittled down to less than 1,300 or so and she gave me a glimmer of hope if only I could find a way to make my rejected application still stand out and hover nearby. To her credit my mother would never do my work for me, but she would offer strong suggestions as to theme, content, and form, and so it was natural that she discussed with me what the 1st paragraph of my letter should say, and the 2nd, etc.

“Keep it short and to the point, but give them a reason to reconsider you,” she said.

I went back to my room and contemplated my future. Wake Forest was a beautiful campus and I really liked the solitude of Davidson. There was no way I would get into Duke if having both parents and one sibling attend there with distinction hadn’t already pushed me over the hurdle then no letter of reconsideration from me begging and pleading would do it either. Compared to somebody who scored a perfect SAT and was learning his 4th language after rebuilding a hydro-electric dam for Green Peace over this last summer, who was I kidding.

I sat down at the typewriter and put in a piece of my Ed M. Verner stationary that my parents had given me the previous year and wrote out a letter akin to the wonderful suggestions from my mother and showed it to her. Then I went back and spat out a different more truthful version; my short letter of reconsideration. I signed it, sealed it, and mailed it without showing my mother. It went something like this:

Dear Sirs,

I received your rejection of my application and I wish to give you a chance to correct your mistake. You should hurry as I’ve been wait listed at Wake Forest. Though I’m sure I will make an excellent student anywhere, Duke is my first choice. I’ve enclosed my picture– take a look at that face and know how I won’t be requiring financial aid and I will be a successful graduate one day.

Sincerely,

(I placed a snapshot of myself just being me, I think it was a shot of me playing tennis.)

Less than two weeks later a letter arrived from the Duke Admissions Office welcoming me to the graduating class of 1986. Somehow my application had made a miraculous leap from total rejection, past the wait list, and unto acceptance without any explanation. I ran to tell my parents and their utter amazement was genuine. I naturally assumed that either of them had called again on any cohorts or fellow graduates who might know anybody still at Duke to put in a good word, and/or they might have called the alumni donation office to politely bully them with threats of reduced future donations if I were not accepted. I can’t be sure, but it was telling how their reaction to the news was one of profound shock as was mine. Over the next week I had a few private breakfasts with my dad and interrogated him about who did he call or what did he do to get me in, but neither of them have ever laid claim to the change in my application status.

As the years went by and I’ve thought about my smartassed letter of reconsideration I’ve conjured up a romantic notion that I would love to believe possible. I picture some schlepp sitting up there reviewing the dozen or so letters each day coming in from perfectly groomed nerds, politely submissive youngsters all abjectly begging and pleading for any way to be noticed or reconsidered. I imagine the boredom combined with the seriousness of how all week long he must politely write back to each of them with a heartbreaking “no, but thanks for trying” message. I picture this man opening my letter and it jolting him for a moment… a laugh… slight at first with only a chuckle to himself. But in my version he puts his coffee down and has to show the letter to another midlevel coworker. ‘Can you believe the balls on this kid?”

He walks my letter over to the chair of the admissions department and uses one of his rare chits that perhaps each may have a few of up there, and says “Let this kid in.” Then he laughs to himself and mutters under his breath, ‘Good luck kid,’ and destroys the letter.

I know it can’t work that way, and I feel sure it didn’t work that way, but I’ve always wondered what happened to that letter. I doubt it is in any file.

Month: January 2020

Talent Dying Young R.I.P. Dan Gallagher

Excerpt From Misadventures of a Rich Kid Essays