December 12, 2006
12:24 PM

R.I.P., drummer boy


"Did you hear about Dennis?"

That's what my brother asked me on the phone. When you hear a question like that, you almost know the answer. Or at least you fear what the worst will be.

"He died a couple of days ago."

I paused. "Dennis?" Of course I knew who he was talking about. But I just had to ask out of disbelief.

"He died of an overdose. Some of us are going to the DS Bar & Grille tonight. It's nothing formal or official. It's just that some people are going to be there."

I couldn't really concentrate on work. I was already there well after-hours anyway, as usual. So I headed up to the North Shore. Got a nice $20 meal at Legal Seafoods on the way. And I got a good reminder of how there are many cute waitresses out there. But I wasn't in the mood for flirting.

I showed up at DS, where I noticed J, my brother's drummer. Hard to miss that big afro of a head of his. "The Jewfro" as David Cross would call it. We talked for a little bit, conversation interrupted here and there by grieving people coming up to him to say hello or get hugs. Saw the keyboard player outside too. My brother eventually showed up. I usually hate being dragged to this place, but this night of course was different.

I went inside where a band was playing on the small stage. The drummer was wearing a shirt with Dennis's nickname on it. I saw a few other shirts like that later in the night. Then it was the usual bar bullshit I couldn't stand: $5 for a tiny drink I could make at home, having to shout to the person next to you just to be heard over the music, being shoved over by bartenders running back and forth to clean up bottles, drunken hippie assholes, the women who either see you as a potential rapist or are cockteasers who know they can get away with anything, and worse, the macho men they captivate, and even worse than that, whe women who aren't cockteasers by a long shot but think they can act just as rude because they have a vagina. I don't think there is a sight more pathetic than a shit-disturbing, drunken white guy with dreadlocks.

My brother said earlier that he and he band might be invited up to pick up the instruments and do a few songs. Eventually they got up. They did two songs, then invited me up to the already-crowded stage. We did "Seeing Things" by the Black Crowes. It was rather strange, because I had just started listening to that ol' favorite band of mine for the first time in a while, and remembering the days I was most heavily into them. About 10 to 15 years ago, when I was actually playing with Dennis. And songs like "Seeing Things", especially with Chris Robinson's intro on the "Ronnie Scott's" bootleg, had recently been making me think of "her". I'd never really noticed how many of their songs were about break-ups and dealing with difficult lovers. But all of it was coming full circle this week. There I was on stage doing the song with my brother.

When we finished and got off stage, the bass player from the other band praised me. I told him how I was R's brother, and that I played with Dennis in a band all through college. I thought it was only fair that he knew who this guy was, who shared his band's stage and microphone in the middle of his set. But he didn't introduce himself back or say anything back. He just leaned over and hugged me.

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