From The Editor — Thank You for the Music; It Sure Helped

I don’t get out to see shows nearly as much as I did back in the day, so when my buddy Greg picked me up on a Friday night in mid-February and we hopped on the Bay Bridge, heading into the city for a night at the Fillmore, I was abnormally excited, for a few different reasons.

First, we were there to see Warren Haynes on the second night of his Winter of Warren Tour. A few weeks earlier, we had arranged for an upcoming Mix cover story, and this was the first step in the process. I had seen him years ago with the Dead and later with his own band at Bonnaroo, but here was one of my generation’s greatest guitarists, and he’s solo!

The second reason I was so excited was that we were going to The Fillmore! One of music’s great cathedrals! One of my Top 5 favorite venues ever! And, much to my own embarrassment, I hadn’t been there in probably 15 years.

The third reason? I really, really, really needed a night out.

It all felt so familiar. We walked up to the two small Will Call windows right there on the sidewalk, picked up our tickets and attached the three wristbands—one to prove we’re 21, one that granted access to the roped-off seating area on the floor, a rarity at The Fillmore, and one to get us into the meet-and-greet upstairs after the show. After a quick patdown at the doors, followed by a metal detector after entering, we headed up the stairs and we were in.

We grabbed a pint and wedged our way up the narrow staircase to check out the collection of photos and posters from the past 50-plus years. Again, not much has changed. The famous chandeliers are still hanging. Cafe tables still line the balcony rails, taken up quickly by those first in line. We went back down to the first floor, and though a couple of floor seats were available if we wanted them, we slowly weaved our way to a spot near the front-of-house mix position. In a club, I’m a stander. And I like the middle.

• Cover Story: Warren Haynes Just Likes To Make Music, Part 1

Soon, the house lights dimmed, the crowd got quiet and Warren walked to center stage carrying a Martin acoustic guitar. There was one mic for his vocal, three or four amps behind him, a couple of stage monitors, and a stool. That’s it. No backdrop. No video wall. Just sound. He said hello, tuned his guitar for a second, then hit the first few notes of “Brokedown Palace,” a song I’d heard the Grateful Dead perform dozens of times in the past, and eased quietly into the opening lines: “Fare you well, my honey / Fare you well, my only true one.”

I nearly broke down….in a good way, it turned out. A flood of memories and emotions hit me, a slow wave started to pass through me, physically washing away all the stresses, anxieties, text messages, phone calls, emails, deadlines, postponed events, long lines and canceled trips that pile up in everyday life. It had been a rough start to the new year, and so for the next two-and-a-half hours, I disappeared into the wave. It wasn’t mystical. It wasn’t the edibles kicking in. It was a healing wave. A balm that only music can provide. And I desperately needed it.

You see, ten days earlier, my 92-year-old father passed away in his sleep. But this isn’t a plea for sympathy. Every person ever born has lost, or will lose, their father. This was my turn, and as far as these things go, my family was blessed. He was the father of 12, grandfather of 32 and great-grandfather of 4. He lived a full and active life, and he was a great dad. We knew the end was coming, and he died in bed, in his sleep, with his wife of 69 years and three of his sons by his side. As my mom said later that night when I called, “We can feel sad, but we can not say that we were cheated.”

The next few days involved a lot of phone calls to family and more than a few wandering thoughts. I kept telling myself that I was at peace, that I was fine. And I dove into work. The March issue was shipping in nine days and I was behind.

Then, exactly one week later, on a Tuesday afternoon, I was proofreading pages and listening to playlists in the background, when the song “Mercy Now” by Mary Gauthier came on. It was a song my daughter Molly turned me on to a few years earlier, and before she even finished the first line—“My father, could use a little mercy now”—I was crying like a newborn baby. I had to stand up, and it just kept growing. I was having full-body heaves and I just let myself wail. I sat down, stood up and I couldn’t stop, and when the song ended 4:41 later, I played it again. Then again. Then one more time. After the tears faded, I texted the link to a few of my brothers and sisters, Then I took Buddy to the park to play fetch. When I got back, I put work aside and just played songs for the rest of the night.

Three nights later, I was at The Fillmore, where for the second encore, Warren walked back out with his Martin guitar and eased his way into the most soulful version of “Hallelujah” you could ever hope to hear.

I went to bed that night feeling better than I had in months, so Mary, Warren, I want to say thank you for the music. It sure helped.

—Tom Kenny, Co-Editor

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