My first Fahey show was at a small college auditorium in Portland in the early sixties. John was touring with opening act Bukka White, a blues legend that he had rescued from obscurity. John’s selfless appreciation and support of other musicians was legendary. He did not view other guitarists as "competition", but rather as fellow artists. John often sat in the crowd, listening to the other musicians and then leading the applause.

At another college show of that era, John took the stage in a three piece suit and played a brilliant set. Then he stood up, placed his guitar in its case, closed it up, and sat back down in his chair. He lit a cigarette. The crowd waited and watched intently, unsure how to react to this unnatural turn of events. John proceeded to smoke his cigarette. After a few minutes he glanced up, on his face a look of mock surprise that there was anyone else in the room. "I’m on a break", he announced, and continued smoking, unmiffed. People laughed nervously. John didn’t care; he was enjoying his break.

Those early shows were all about the acoustic guitar, all about the blues. The music flowed easily. He ignored the formalities of presentation and offered nothing to temper his quirky personality. "Here I am. This is what I do. This is my music. This is me."

John appeared to be a religious man; he featured many hymns and gospel numbers in his sets and on his records. Perhaps he was religious; clearly, he was deeply spiritual in his devotion to music. A later album spoke of a different manifestation of spirituality, professing allegiance to a certain swami. John seemed to be trying to find a community that shared his level of devotion, and was continually disappointed by the results of his search.

He reportedly found some relief in private therapy. This makes a certain amount of sense, as therapy can provide a more direct connection to one’s own unique being than what can be obtained through the shared worship of an agreed-upon deity. John worshipped the "self" and the joy of the individual. Almost by definition, there is no organization that can satisfy this very personal type of devotion.

John was not a "happy" man, in the traditional way. Publicly, he almost seemed to delight in his unhappiness. I believe he explored it, confronted it, and dealt with it. He certainly did not shy away from it. He acknowledged the inevitability of unhappiness, and attempted to strike some sort of balance of emotions. "Unhappiness" was not "bad", but simply another emotion to be felt. Perhaps, early on, he also saw it as a fundamental aspect of the blues.

In 1980, I heard of an upcoming Fahey concert at a local tavern. For several years, I had been painstakingly (but quite unsuccessfully) attempting to capture, if not his spirit, at least his playing style. I contacted the owner of the tavern; rather, I hounded him relentlessly. Please, please, allow me to open the show for Mr. Fahey. I sent my little cassette demo in. I called. I begged. Finally... the poor man relented.

I had no reputation and no real songbook to fall back on for the show. All I knew how to play at that time were my own peculiar, cobbled together, very "original" songs. I also knew "Sunflower River Blues" and a couple of other Fahey tunes, but, certainly, I could not play those at his show. My musical influences at the time (other than Fahey, Fahey, and more Fahey) were Captain Beefheart and Cecil Taylor; the resultant melange seemed strange for what I saw as a "blues" guitar show.

I worked hard to prepare for the event. After all, the person who had unwittingly been my mentor was going to hear me play. The day of the show, I arrived very early at the venue. I wandered around; the doors were not open yet, no one was there. I waited. And waited. Someone finally showed up. "Are you here for the sound check?"

"Uhhh... yeah." I had no idea what a "sound check" was.

The man ushered me inside and directed me up to the stage. I had played maybe twice before in public, tucked away in the back of noisy bars. I had never been on a real stage, and I began to wonder just what the hell I had gotten myself into. THE STAGE. Yikes. There might even be... an audience.

I asked the man what he wanted me to do. He said just play like it’s the show; we need to get the levels on the PA right. I was suddenly a bit embarrassed; this was beginning to seem so professional and I felt so very unprepared for any of it. This was definitely not my bedroom, all safe and cosy, where no one would hear my mistakes. He coaxed me on, somewhat impatiently.

"How’s the monitor level?" he asked, as though I knew what a "monitor" was.

"Great!" I don’t think he had turned the monitors on yet; I had no idea that I was supposed to be able to hear anything. He fiddled with something and suddenly I heard my befuddled noodling blast in my ears.

"Is that better?"

"Oh, that’s fantastic."

Then, he stuck a microphone in my face.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just say something."

"What should I say?"

"Doesn’t matter. Introduce one of your songs. Just pretend like it’s the show."

Apparently, he expected me to speak during the show, as well. This was one more thing I had not planned for.

Somehow, I bumbled my way through the rest of the sound check. When I left the stage, I was horrified to see John Fahey standing there, apparently having watched me make a complete ass of myself. I shuddered.

"Oh, please," I thought, "don’t let him feel sorry for me; haven’t I suffered enough already with the sound guy?"

"Hi. You sounded really good up there."

"Thanks."

Some woman had come in as well, and sat at a table off to the side. I assumed I shouldn’t talk to her; she might "be somebody". I tried to sneak away. I wanted to drive home; what had possessed me to think I could go through with this?

"I’m Melody, John’s wife."

I don’t recall what I said, if anything; perhaps I remembered my name. Somehow I ended up sitting at the table. She and John had been driving all day, she explained. They were hungry and tired; would I like to get something to eat with them? Did I know a good place? Maybe Chinese?

We ate at a horrible Chinese restaurant, the only one I knew of in the area. They chatted away just like normal people. I had no idea how to behave in the company of my idol. I muttered, I mumbled. I don’t know what I said or if it was in a recognizable tongue. Eventually, we walked back over to the scene of the evening’s show.

Once inside the building, I noticed that a few people had begun to gather. I saw my girlfriend, my family, and a whole lot of strangers.

Now, at this point in the story, I must explain to you that my mom is NOT a "shy" woman. When I caught her eye, she strode right over and started introducing everybody.

I was extremely nervous. My "songs" at that time relied a great deal on, well, let’s call it "improvisation". Suddenly it occurred to me that they were actually completely devoid of substance. Fortunately, a couple of them at least had a "beginning" that I could call upon; they wandered off from there. At least - at home, in my room, they wandered off. ON THE STAGE... I didn’t know, they might just drop with a thud. The forty minutes I had been asked to play now sounded like a lifetime - an endless, substanceless hell.

Melody and my family continued their conversation. John was changing his strings. I have no idea what I was doing.

I looked around to discover an absolutely packed house. The lump in my stomach seemed medically beyond treatment. John motioned me to come backstage. One problem: my legs weren’t working properly. I was now quite content to pass the evening at the table, motionless and utterly mute.

The next thing I knew someone was announcing my name in the microphone.

NO! WAIT! I’VE CHANGED MY MIND!

I peered out into the room. Melody and my modest "entourage" smiled and waved up to me.

Alas - THIS IS IT. The crowd applauded their encouragement. I couldn’t figure that out; in fact, nothing made any sense whatsoever.

I walked out and sat down. Terrified, I looked over at the table that had abandoned me and saw John Fahey. HE was watching ME.

I’m fairly certain that at that point I began playing the guitar. Each time I glanced out toward the crowd, I saw only John Fahey staring back at me. About halfway through the set I just gave up trying so hard; and then, strangely, toward the end, things began to click. I realized, by some miracle, that I was having a good time.

Then, suddenly - it was over. I had reached the end of my last song.

I walked off the stage. John was already there when I arrived backstage. He shook my hand and quietly said, "I think you’re a genius." I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember how I felt. He made ME feel like the star of HIS show. His sentence meant the world to me, and it still does.

Then John took the stage and played a long, absolutely killer set. After the show, we talked once again. I don’t remember what I said. He told me he had recently been forced to sell his record company. It was not a crisis, it was just a statement of fact.

Years later, I saw Fahey perform just after the release of "Fare Forward Voyagers", one of my all-time favorite albums. He played the whole of the record, and his performance was breathtaking. Midway through one of the long numbers he broke a string. Without glancing up, he replaced the broken string and resumed the song at the exact point where he had left off. I’m not certain he realised he had broken a string, he was that focused.

His faith in his music during this period was right there, right up front, just like his personality. He was completely in command. His style of dress by this time was more about comfort (jeans, t-shirt, and a layer of grime) than about appearance.

Later on, sometime in the 90’s, Fahey performed at a large coffeehouse where I had seen him play before. He looked rather bored. He played well, but quite without inspiration, a rarity for a John Fahey concert. He dipped in to all the old "hits". He tried; he played long and hard... but something was missing.

A few years later he returned to the same venue and I, of course, returned to see him. When he emerged onto the stage, EVERYTHING WAS DIFFERENT. There was no acoustic guitar. There was this strange ELECTRIC guitar, all beat up and looking quite the worse for wear, much like its owner. However, the impish grin, which had been absent during recent appearances, had returned to his face. Life had returned to his spirit, and that life flowed strangely from his hands. Jarring, grating noises came from the little guitar. Within a half hour the crowd had thinned to half its original size. The faces leaving the room were angry; John didn’t care. He continued playing with renewed vigor. More people left.

Occasionally one could recognize little snatches of the earlier, more elegant music during this performance. But mostly it was a noise fest, extremely difficult to absorb. During the break, John wandered into the lobby of the hall, as he often did. I approached him. Up close he did not look well. During our conversation, he mentioned Epstein-Barr syndrome; I mentioned tendonitis. We commiserated over medical conditions. He removed his sunglasses to reveal eyes that were tired and yellowish. His expression was unnaturally labored.

We spoke for a while. I remember feeling guilty for taking much of his time, as there was a young woman present who was quite taken with him and he was visibly torn between the two conversations. Most of the others in attendance seemed reluctant to make contact with this strange "new" John Fahey.

When I first heard the news of his death, I became overwhelmed with sadness and disbelief. I had been aware of his failing health, aware of the bypass operation, aware it hadn’t gone well. But I was totally unprepared for the world to be WITHOUT John Fahey. Sadness gave way to anger, and that to sadness; there was no one to be angry at.

John was gone, and the world had changed forever. Left behind was a gaping hole with torn, ragged edges. That wound, of course, will heal. But it will do so with the odd deformities typical of the tissue reforming around a sudden, profound, seemingly irreplaceable loss. And somewhere, John Fahey will delight at whatever strange new creature begins to take shape.