Dan Condon: Sick Tunes, A Tribute

Today I am being selfish. I'm doing it in part because I hope it'll act as some kind of catharsis and in part because I believe in paying credit where it's due.

I lost a friend last week. We were close for years, but drifted apart, as people do. Now the thought of him not being around is almost too much to handle and all I can think about were the great times we had, the things he taught me and how lucky I was to have been a part of his life.

So, this blog is for him. A guy who introduced me to so much music, literature and film in the years we were friends, the years that shape your life more than any other, apparently.

Would I have heard the Modern Lovers without you? Of course I would have. But you had a way of bringing this incredible music to us years before anyone else would speak of it; you'd introduce us to records that you couldn't even buy at the record store, records that made us appear much cooler to their surly clerks than we should have.

It was you who pushed me through that curtain to say hello to my teenage rock'n'roll hero, despite my protestations. It was you who engaged the addle-brained artist, you who confounded and impressed him with your questions and your kinda polite but strident attitude.

We never mentioned his music that night, but spoke for ages about Blossom Dearie. What 18-year-old drunk talks to rock stars about Blossom Dearie?

Then there was that night in Byron Bay where we were floored by the power of a man with a Jack Daniels habit and a weathered way of telling tales that demanded attention. Floored by his contemporary who was far more reserved, but still commanded to be heard, who needed his wisdom to ring out across the scores of people assembled in that tent. A truly affecting discovery.

There was purity to your passion; with your neat haircut and smart-casual attire – perhaps more fitting for someone four times your age – you knew more about The Cramps than any ugly leather jacket-sporting punk. You had no qualms in telling us if you didn't like our bands, and you had no issue in expounding the virtues of Neil Finn and Glenn Richards, to you they were as cool as the punks, the junkies, the goths and the stars you admired.  

One night, heartbroken and almost totally worn down, I sat in your apartment. You poured me a drink, you told me you had something that would help me out, and you put on this record. It was the ultimate proof that, no matter how badly life kicked you in the guts, a drink, a record and a friend can solve just about any problem, if only for a night.

My droog, I could play songs all day long that'll make me think of you. At least we'll always have that, right? May whatever lies in store for you be fulfilling and free of pain. Even if we never get to meet again, a horrible thought, you'll never be forgotten.