Goodbye Tom
At first, it was just you and me. I didn’t usually get to
watch SNL, but I was sleeping over at Buck’s house, and his mom let us stay in
the vacant apartment over the garage. We had sneaked over a six pack and Buck
was sleeping off a couple of Old Milwaukees, so it was just you and me when I
first heard you sing “Refugee”. Buck was sawing logs and I was drinking bad
beer and there you were and suddenly rock and roll meant something to me,
personally. Because you were singing in that weird way you had, snarling and
smirking and so rock and roll, but then they showed your album cover and you looked
at me – you could have been all cool and sullen, but you were smiling. You
smiled at me and all the other teenagers who were shrugging off 70s, waiting
for our time, for our songs.
It was just me and you, then, for a few days until maybe Tim
or Todd asked me if I had seen you over the weekend. And then it was you me and
a circle of friends that found each other through you. We dug into you Tom - God,
it was like discovering music for the first time, learning every single song,
all 29 of them, from “Rockin’ Around (With You)” to “Louisiana Rain”. We tried on the growls, the screams, the
shrieks, the swagger. Some of it fit, some of it we would try in the car,
alone, and then never again. We drove the circuit down Main street, around the
mall and then back up Front street, listening to “American Girl”, kind of
remembering hearing it before, but now really listening – that jangling guitar
like a punch of joy in the gut, the smack of the drum just on the right upbeat,
that chorus – “uh huh, all right, take it easy baby, make it last all night”.
We didn’t know there was a way to put together a perfect song but you showed us
how to do it over and over - “Breakdown”, “Listen to Her Heart”, “I Need to
Know”, “Even the Losers”. Tim picked out the story to “Strangered in the Night”
and memorized the words to the fight scene, mainly because it had the best
curse words. I had the vocals on “Refugee” depending on whether my voice was changing
that day or not. Will was always reliable for air guitar, Todd could do that
“waaaugh” scream on cue.
You were our drug of choice, the anthem to so many nights of
white knuckling our way down the mountains of Richlands, cruising the mall,
gathering around the fires on Little River, playing pool, fighting over girls. You were not just a rock and roll god, you
were our god. In this little town, before cable, before MTV and a single
country music radio station - everything we knew about you, we knew from each
other, SNL and the Columbia Record and Tape Club. You were our hero. But then
we left Richlands and found that the secret was out, saw you fill up stadiums
in Williamsburg, Hampton, Merriweather Post, Nashville, Del Mar. People, not
just us, were talking now, about your voice, your songwriting, your
Rickenbacker. All the things we knew, the world found out. And we were proud of
you Tom. Proud that our personal rock star became a rock star for everyone, for
the ages.
So when you died, someone in my inner circle died, that
circle that formed around you in November 1979. Here in 2017, I reach out and
find that circle again, because that’s what you do when a close friend goes. I’m
standing in Target trying to find a Bluetooth speaker so I can listen to you
out by the fire - no Old Milwaukee this time, promise. And I’m crying as I text
Tim: “Hi Timmy, still at this number? TP’s gone”, and I message Todd: “TPs
Dead!” I call Will, because he still lives off the grid. And all night and into
the week we’re reminding each other of the concerts, the songs, the parties,
the lines. My inner circle got smaller when you died Tom, but circles get
tighter when they’re smaller, and there is some comfort in that.
In your last interview, just a few days before you died, you
said: “The thing about The Heartbreakers – it’s still holy for me. There’s a
holiness there”. Us too, Tom, us too. Thanks for keeping it holy over these 40
years.
And one last request from an amateur musician? If you have a
chance, I wouldn’t mind writing some better songs. I mean, if I were to write a
song as good as the worst Tom Petty song, I’d be happy. Actually, could it be
better than “Jammin’ Me”? Anyway, Peace Tom. Love, Jim.
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