LESSONS FROM A FAVORITE MUSICIAN’S LAST CONCERT
I stood at an industrial dish-washing machine, slowly rinsing my classmate’s cereal bowls. The one year Bible School I was attending required each student to take a few stints on “dish crew” throughout the year. Although somewhat inconvenient, the job was made bearable by listening to the music of your choice as you worked. While unstacking steaming clean plates, a fellow crew member asked,
“Have you heard of Del Barber?”
The question dripped with intrigue, as if on the cusp of a discovery. Before I could confess my ignorance, she interrupted,
“He went to school here last year, he’s from Manitoba, and his music is sooooooooo good.”
The next day we listened to him while we worked. Musical genres feel as helpful as emergency exit instructions on an airplane, but his sound was folksy and character-rich. (I’ll refrain from the presumptuous labeling of a Canadian singer as Americana) With no strain his voice drifted from a rich middle register to an occasional winsome falsetto. The first verse was only half done, and I was hooked.
Three months later he played at our school. Half shy that he had to stand on stage, his straw-thin body belted notes that he had to squint to find. Only 19, he’d already mastered the self-deprecating between-song banter that the best artists have. He mixed Ryan Adams and Lyle Lovett covers alongside his own delightful originals. If our attachment to musicians in our late teens is a special kind of addiction, I was gladly willing to overdose.
His humble, recorded-in-his-basement CD became my favorite album. Every year or so after that he’d release a new album. Despite my astronomical expectations, his music delivered. I evangelized my friends and family, expecting them to be moved the same way I was. Luckily, my fiance enjoyed him too. When picking our wedding music, we easily agreed to play an upbeat and catchy song from his latest album fitting for our walk down the aisle after the ceremony. Nevermind it was titled “Love Is Just a Wrecking Ball.”
His music also accompanied our young family. During a particularly difficult summer, I listened to his album each day on my commute. By that point, my groupie vibe had (hopefully) lessened. The wash of awe gave way to an aged familiarity. I didn’t need flash or polish on those long drives. Just someone to join my doubt.
On that album he tells the fictional story of a small town waitress slogging through life:
There ain't no good fight
Ain't no heroes
Ain't no bad man out to get you
There's just a tough job
That'll swallow you, In the darkness of another day.
Tragic but true, the song reckoned with a life unable to grind its way to a storybook resolution. One evening I stumbled onto a video of Del playing the song in a crowded bar in Winnipeg. Through the grainy footage I heard the neon buzz and smelled Molson Light. I kept rewatching it. The pedal steel was other-worldly. The melody felt natural and known, as if you heard your mother sing it for years. But beyond the sound, as wonderful as it was, I was drawn to the act of my friend offering his voice. Not just his physical voice, but the expression of what he worked hardest after and cared most about. Maybe that was my first realization of the courage required to offer one’s craft. In hearing the harmony of desire and risk in his voice, I was invited to listen to the same faint melody in my own soul.
A few months ago Del announced the end of his musical career. No specifics were given, but I can imagine the toll of the music industry on his young family. His music has been more companion than backdrop in my life, and it will be missed. I’m also grateful. There’s no shortage of stories of folks wringing a living out. Far fewer of those making the unglamorous decision to end something. The kind of stories needed when holding a fraying dream.
In a wonderful and generous surprise, my wife bought me tickets to his last concert. We traveled to frigid Winnipeg where the ice felt welded to the sidewalks and the wind whittled at our exposed skin. We were thrilled to hear our friend play for the last time. Three hundred people packed that small theatre. Some had traveled across continents, like us, to celebrate music that had fed their lives. The set list was superb - arcing wonderfully through his best tunes. For two hours we grinned, bounced our heads, and tried to somehow preserve goodness we didn’t want to end.
For weeks leading up to the concert I wondered about his last song. What would he play? And what would his face hold after that last note? I figured his emotions would run high. What else could you do after pouring your life into something so personal yet challenging? The song ended and we all came to our feet in appreciation not only for that night but for the past two decades. His face wore a smile, not tears. With a sincere nod he paused, took in the moment, then exited.
For 20 years he opened his life wide so his experience and creativity might merge. I’d imagine he knows the music of hope and desire is played by more than musicians. And that the time has come for his life to sing in new, but no less brave ways.
I hope I’m willing to do the same.
Jesse French
Restoration Project Executive Director
