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Danny my friend I think you knew me better than I ever knew you Cause you read every chapter And I just glossed right over them and pretended I knew But I believed in you I loved you for your brilliance and your way of making everything sound absurd And I relied on you To make me see the foolishness of paragraphs that were better as one word What could I have told you to make you think again We draw the same conclusions but we choose a different end* There is a sadness beyond tears. Kevin Gilbert was an artist of music, and he was found dead on the floor of his apartment in Los Angeles two weeks ago. I only met Kevin once when I was visiting my brother when both lived in San Jose, where my brother still lives. Scott sent me email, a short little note, saying Kevin was dead. I wanted to express something here about the effect Kevin's music had on me and, although you didn't know it, on you, too. The Musician Kevin could play anything. Kevin had a clear voice that seemed built to sing. You could listen to him and feel the glide as his tone rose and fell like bright wind. He was so filled with talent that he could not help it. He was the sort that made talented people jealous. When I met him, he was very young. He was only 29 when he died, and I guess I always thought he and I were the same age, or that he was older. It seemed he should have been. How could he be that good and be younger than me? Stupid, really. When I read the email, my heart did a little flip-flop. I hadn't thought about Kevin for a long time. I introduced his music, in the form of a band he had called 'Giraffe', to anyone who'd listen. Even if they couldn't get the CDs, I could record the songs on tape and give them away. I figured it was worth breaking copyright law for that. I loved the music he made and wanted others to. He made two CDs and then went off and got successful, winning some Japanese music festival. He chucked the band - pissing off the band members - and went to Los Angeles. I lost track of him. But my brother followed his career, and there was a little network of friends that passed on information about him. He was remixing albums and singles - did some dance mixes and stuff. Did some session work, even playing on Michael Jackson's 'Black or White', and then he and the other musicians and a singer named Sheryl Crow took the songs they all jammed on and made a CD. The Fame Monster I own the album. Maybe you do, too. I didn't know he played on it, or helped write the songs. After I found out, I watched for him when she played on the Grammys, for which he won an award for helping write 'All I Wanna Do', and her Unplugged thing. But I could never pick him out. It wasn't really important. Just that someone I had once met was getting famous - something I had always wished would happen to me on some level. So I was jealous and happy, because he was talented and he deserved it. Now he's dead. Asphixiation. My brother wrote that another friend said maybe he was doing heavy drugs. I wouldn't be surprised. I would about Kevin, I guess, because even though I knew him a little tiny bit, he seemed so nice. Nice people don't do drugs, right? There wasn't any danger. Now, this will not be a sermon against drug use. I've done drugs. I'm surprised when I meet people who haven't. My mom smoked grass, she told me once. So how he died isn't the point. Gone, Gone, Gone There will be no more music. I wish I could play his music for you right now. I wish I could write him a letter and say how much I loved his creations. How much I loved to listen to them, and sing them, and dance to them. I wish I could call him on the phone and tell him he made a difference in my life, and to be careful, and to know that people outside the people he knows, know about him. That I knew. That the music was so good, so beautiful and moving and everything he hoped it was. Could I make that sound important? Could I make it sound sincere. Could I convince him it wasn't just words? So I am so sad that I have no words for it. So I listen to his music again and again, what there is of it. I think of him probably smiling really big with the Tuesday Night Music Club members. I think of him singing and playing keyboards or drums or guitar or anything he wanted to. He had magic in his hands and in his voice. Now it's gone forever. I thought I could have it for a long time, and that it would always be there. I only met him once. I wish I could have been for you a more consistent friend The chapters that I skipped I'm going to have to read again But when I tear it down it only looks more ragged And when I build it up it only looks more fake But I can't let it be because part of me died with you And there's lots of pages missing from my book You had more to give than what I took *"Song For A Dead Friend" Words and Music by Kevin Gilbert (1967-1996) Goodbye, Kevin.