Dave Marsh Kicks Out The Jams

They were titans to us, Midwestern kids enthralled by rock music, mythic Greek figures who communicated truths about, directly to the rock stars we loved. Unlike the self-congratulatory DJs, the rock critics told us who they were, who the bands were, what they meant, why the songs and albums mattered.
Growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, a city that declared bankruptcy, saw its lake die and river catch on fire as the ‘70s reduced by hometown to toxic rubble, rock & roll was the only thing that seemed to matter. Our football team sucked. The baseball team was no better. Don’t even consider the hockey or basketball organizations. It was bad. But, there was always the furious spirit of rock music, tilting against the norms and exploding with a rage – or euphoria – that captured you.

No brothers or sisters, only babysitters and reprobate golf pros, I got sucked into music young. But where that often felt like personal taste (and some was really good personal taste), Jane Scott at the Plain Dealer offered authority without being condescending. Looking like somebody’s spinster aunt, the musicians loved her wide open approach and love for what they were doing. Reading her made me curious.

CREEM, a snarky magazine from Detriot that felt like it was typed with dirty fingernails, had a real thrust that matched the music. Snide, passionate, at times unhinged, writer’s names like Lester Bangs, Jaan Uhelszki (who turned out to be a girl) and Dave Marsh jumped off the page, all were visceral writers who threw down with a sense of urgency that matched the music.

Rolling Stone, which the reprobate golf pro who lived with us the summer before 7th or 8th grade, was very smart, very “in the moment.” But CREEM, which I found on the magazine rack in the back of bookstore a block from where Mom got her hair done, was funny, wrote about bands that were more than merely pristine or selling hard.

One day, I saw Dave Marsh’s name in Rolling Stone. Hmmmm, writers can move? And from Detroit (Rock City!) and snotty bludgeoning to something more measured. Pay attention, I thought, and read on.

I never thought I’d be a music critic, just a kid who loved music, who wanted to understand where Jackson Browne found that bruised introspection, Rod Stewart and the Stones that bottomless sex, Lou Reed the darkness and Bruce Springsteen that blue collar need to outrun the fates that yoke you. It was fascinating seeing Marsh hold “homeboy” Bob Seger to a standard that slagged Against The Wind as basically feckless, betraying his Motor City bona fides…

Damn.
College came, freelancing followed. It beat answering phones all night in a hotel that paid well because drug deals were done there on the regular, and not local commerce, but the big deals between America and Columbia, Peru and places below the border.

Once publishing, I wanted more. In Record Timez, Black Miami Weekly, Grapevine in the Grove and concert business trade Performance led to the Miami Herald, Trouser Press, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Rock & Soul, Country Song Round-Up. The bigger the publication, I came to learn, the better the access.
Watching fellow Herald freelancer (and touring sax player)Tom Moon crack Musician – with Joni Mitchell, no less – my lust for bigger publications blazed. Letters were sent to Tower Pulse, Rockbill, and two start-ups: SPIN and a Rolling Stone spin-off called The Record. If SPIN was the spawn of Penthouse publisher Bob Guccione, The Record had Dave Marsh on its masthead.

Letters and physical clips were sent – back when that was how it was done. Pulse and Rockbill responded with assignments; SPIN was back and forth conversations that delivered – eventually --assignments ranging from Merle Haggard to Lita Ford.

But the one I wanted was Dave Marsh. I said as much in my letters, pitching away and flattering enough to suggest I knew the vigor in his words – typed it seemed with a slashing sense of swagger that meant he meant it. Every manilla envelope soared into a staggering void, a silence that never echoed.

My father used to tell me “No, NO!” meant “Not now.” He’d laugh, say, “Add a couple consonants and get over it…”

Still the lack of response, the indifference.

One day, the phone rang – back when you’d also put your number several times in your queries – and a man’s voice I didn’t know asked for me. The vowels were a little flat. The cadence tilted forward, suggesting they meant business more than the cocaine-fueled urgency of Miami in the ‘80s.

“Yes, this is she.”
“Huh…” said the man on the other end of the line.

“Can I help you?” I said, wondering if it was a creep from the Hotel Mutiny, who’d found my number.

“I didn’t think you’d sound so young,” came the honest response.

“I’m 21,” I said. “That’s not young.”
“Depends on how you look at it…”

“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Dave Marsh.”

Holy crap! Dave Marsh. THE Dave Marsh, who’d written about the Messiah of the Midwest long before he became a genuine superstar – and delivered a sense of Bruce Springsteen’s ability to hold the hunger of blue collar factory people in a way that fired not just dignity, but a sense of power.

“Wow…” Not my most compelling response. Regaining composure, I swung big – and hopeful. “Do you have an assignment?”

Laughter. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Huh,” I grunted, disoriented by the surreality of it all. If there wasn’t work, why would he bother.

“Yeah, no assignment,” he reaffirmed. But before I needed to say anything, he threw me a line. “I figured you were the person in Florida who’d been sending the packages, and I wanted to tell you…”
My jaw was slack. He had seen them, connected them and remembered. My clips weren’t lost in the void.

“Oh, sorry, uh, you wanted to tell me…” I’d zoned out in panic and awe. I needed him to repeat.

“I saw your Steve Earle story in Tower Records magazine. It was good.”
Damn. Damndamndamn.

“Thanks.”
“Yeah, it piqued my interest. They sent me the album. It’s good.”
“I think Guitar Town is great,” I blurted, maybe a little too young and enthused.

“Really?” His tone was amused.

“Yeah, I kind of do,” I tried not being so rah rah.

“No, Holly, either it is great, or it isn’t.”

He was going to make me own my real estate.

“It is,” I said, brow furrowed as I cowboy’ed up and owned my position. “I don’t know how much time you spend in the South or Southwest. But I think not only did Steve capture how the blue collar working people who’re as redneck as they are rust belt live in a world that doesn’t see them, he brought that same rush of the music that Bruce has with the way he leans into rock. You know, the rock that’s the heartland.”

“Is that so?” he asked.

“Well, yeah,” I responded, a little uncertain, but thinking it was important to hold my line.

“And you’re from Cleveland…”
“Yes,” I affirmed.

“Well, then your opinion holds.”

I broke out in a cold sweat. Also, being brash and young, I wanted to crack the Rolling Stone perimeter. “And really… no assignment?”

He laughed, an oak laugh that was solid, firm. “No, no assignment. But you’ve sent me so many packages, when I saw your name, I thought I’d give you a call. You’re a good writer. Keep writing.”

“I will,” I said. “I don’t really have any choice.”
“Sometimes that’s the best way,” he said. “Write. It’s important. Especially if you care.”

And then he was gone. There wasn’t anything else to say, but it was a moment. Worst part was I didn’t know who to tell. Most people in my world didn’t read the rock press, wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care. But that was okay. I knew.

Being real life, we didn’t become besties. I kept sending pitches, not hearing back. Most of th stuff you do at a daily paper is tour-related, or special interest-driven. Country music wasn’t The Record’s thing, and they had better, more local people to do Black music.

There was one more call. Towards the end of my senior year, Neil Young released Old Ways, a porous hippie-country record. He only wanted to talk to “real country writers.” I, along with the Chicago Tribune’s Jack Hurst and the Houston Post’s Bob Claypool were among the four, five, six journalists chosen. Between Tower Pulse, MIX and Country Song Round-Up even without the cover, plus the Miami Herald and Jacksonville’s Times Union for tour press, I made the cut – and flew to Cleveland to experience a band that included blind Country Music Hall of Famer Hargus “Pig” Robbins on piano, wunderkind multi-instrumentalist Anthony Crawford, Louisiana fiddler Rufus Thibodeaux, and steel player Ben Keith.

“How’d you do it?” came the voice down the line. No hello, no identification. Matter of fact, to the point and filled with respect.

“I’m sorry…” I said, laughing.

“Neil Young. How’d you make that happen?”

“Do I know you?” I asked. There’d been some petty back-stabbing, even from friends. I just wanted to establish what this conversation was.

“Holly, it’s Dave Marsh,” laughing now as well. “I read your Pulse piece. It was good. I really enjoyed it. And I was impressed you got that interview, knowing how many people wanted to talk to him.”
“Oh,” I said, getting the lay of the land. “Yeah, Neil wanted to talk to ‘real country writers,’ or so they said. It was crazy. One of the Herald writers tried to pull it out from under me.”

“They didn’t, though. Did they?”
“Are you kidding? I wasn’t giving that interview up. I have to talk to Mickey Gilley and Lee Greenwood, that guy didn’t… So who’s the ‘country writer’?”

He laughed harder. “Guess it’s a bad idea to pick a fight with you…”

“Come on. If he wants a country writer, the person slogging through TG Sheppard and Sylvia’s the one.”

“Yeah, but it’s funny. And you know what?”
“What?”

“You nailed it. You got the authenticity he obviously wanted, but you also leaned into that part of him that comes from rock. You brought them together without making anything feel forced. That’s a good thing.”

I let the words settle. Praise. From someone I read, no, revered.

“Thank you.” My Dad said it makes the embarrassment stop. Acknowledged the compliment, the other person moves on.

“And that’s not an easy thing to do, either.”
“You don’t think so?” I knew he knew much more than I did. I knew how hard I worked on my stories. But I was still a kid, never mind one with a God-given gift that was far larger than actual experience.

“No, to make it seamless like you did, that’s a big deal. It never felt like you were propping one thing or the other up. And you really do know the country stuff, that was clear.”

“Damn,” It escaped before I realized.

“Do you have good editors?” he asked.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“What does that mean?”
“Some think I’m a kid, or a girl…”
“You are a girl,” he echoed, not sure what I was trying to say.

“Yeah, but like a girl who’s not as good as a boy would be.”
“I see.”
“Does that make sense?” I asked. Sexism was so baked in, people didn’t always notice.

“Look, you’re a rock writer. Period. Your gender isn’t part of it, your heart is. That’s what matters. Just don’t sell your heart out. Don’t fall for garbage. Don’t write someone else’s agenda.”
“Got it.” I said, sensing the spot for punctuation.

“I don’t have an assignment for you,” he said. “But here’s my number. If you need anything, call.”
“Like what?” My inside voice had escaped again.

“I don’t know. Even to talk about getting inside a story and not being able to get out.”
“Got it,” I lied. I had no idea. But I sure wasn’t calling to tell him I didn’t know how to finish a story.

“You’re better than you know,” he said. “Keep writing.”
“Thanks.” Heart-racing, I wanted to get off the phone before I said something stupid.

“I mean it,” he said, probably sensing my awe, or doubt, or youth.

“Got it,” I replied, wanting to make it stop.

“Good. Who knows where this goes? But find out.”

I didn’t send stuff as often. He knew who I was. I didn’t want to be annoying. When Rock & Roll Confidential started – as a folded newsletter to keep the activism piece of rock & roll collected in one place, an almost fanzine of doing the right thing, racial awareness, bad deals – it was Dave Marsh leading the charge. It was a nominal fee – maybe $5 – as I remember, but it was like joining the club.

“Sun City,” the Little Steven Van Zandt-driven all-star protest record that brought rock, pop, jazz and rap stars together to speak out against apartheid, Marsh was there as chief writer and witness. His book Sun City: Artists United Against Apartheid – The Struggle for Freedom in South Africa: The Making of the Record was published by Penguin; its proceeds, like those from the song and the documentary went directly to the Africa Fund, which helped the people in prison, their families and raising awareness of what apartheid was.

But unlike the global food crisis pop culture moments, “We Are The World,” which felt glossy, and Live Aid, held as massive stadium concerts on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, this was gritty, diverse. Afrika Bambaataa, Lou Reed, Pat Benatar, Miles Davis, Joey Ramone, Jackson Browne, George Clinton, Jimmy Cliff, Hall & Oates, Gil Scott-Heron, Bono, Bonnie Raitt, Run DMC, Pete Townsend, Peter Gabriel, Ruben Blades, Stanley Jordan, Springsteen and so many more – captured on the fly, singing, rapping, blowing their horn on a bold declaratory fist punch designed to make America’s youth aware of a shell game being played that took South Afrucan segregation to asphyxiating levels, misled the world and drew performers under false pretenses. Today, Nelson Mandela is an icon. Then he was a prisoner, mostly buried so the symbol of what he represented couldn’t throw light on injustice. “Sun City,” with its forceful, euphoric chorus, did just that.
It was 1985, as Springsteen was truly ascending to his own stadium-sized uniquity, no one really knew.

Dave Marsh, who’d hit the New York Times best-seller list with 1979’s glorious Born To Run, which chronicled Springsteen’s early years and ascendance, recognized what mattered. He rolled up his sleeves, dug in and started raising consciousness, using his own media credentials to leverage and legitimize what Van Zandt was doing.

Suddenly – and thanks to MTV and BET: Black Entertainment Television, both the hottest thing in music programming – “Sun City” had meaningful forward motion. Roy Thomas Baker, who co-produced the track, knew how to create “hits.” Even if radio didn’t take it Top 10, the swerve in the grooves made it a song you heard coming out of windows, cars, breakrooms and floating as a topic people were discussing in bars, school and anywhere they got together.

I didn’t get the assignment for the Herald, but I had that number. I left a message, and Dave Marsh actually called me back. It was a brief conversation; I spoke of the Dazz Band, some Black music things I was doing beyond country music. He laughed, said, “Take it anywhere, everywhere. You know, Holly, Gram Parsons left the Byrds after Sweetheart of the Rodeo because they were supposed to play South Africa – and Keith Richards told him what that was all about.”
“I thought it was because they just got too high and wanted to party.”
“Probably, but it was Keith who explained apartheid to Gram, who being a Southerner from Georgia and Florida, he got it. Gram wouldn’t get on the plane, tried to talk the other guys out of it, they say….”
“Damn…”
What you don’t know, right? Dave Marsh was such an agent of that. Pull back the carpet, draw the curtain, see what’s behind what you’re shown.

“Some of those country people might be good allies, or not. Just talk about it where you can, okay?”
“Yes, sir…”

That was our relationship. Quick hits, landmine truth, maybe a laugh. It was glorious.

When I was booked to do the Critics Panel at the New Music Seminar in 1990 – a summit of the coolest music acts, cutting edge execs, writers, producers, and people who loved all that – it was a behemoth grouping. Greg Sandow, the original music editor at Entertainment Weekly, JD Considine from The Baltimore Sun, also known for his hilarious “Quick Hits” in Musician, Nelson George, the pre-eminent Black music critic in North America and editor for Billboard, Anthony DeCurtis, Rolling Stone editor and primary writer, Robert Christgau, the Village Voice’s legendary Dean of Rock Critics, Milo Miles, the music editor of the Boston Phoenix, myself and Marsh were set to discuss the state of criticism, shifts that were happening, the impact of video, what mattered to us.

Looking at the names, I knew: I was a token. By 1990, I was in Rolling Stone every issue, the Los Angeles Times multiple pieces some weeks, features editing at HITS, Harpers Bazaar, Saturday Evening Post, even CREEM and so many more. That wasn’t the point, women critics hadn’t moved from the margins – next wave Ann Powers, Evelyn McDonnell, Karen Schoemer, Gina Arnold and Joy Press hadn’t powered through – and I was one of the few.

I called Dave, who listened.
“But you’re going to do it?” he said as I whined.

“Of course,” I said. “If I don’t, there are no women.”

“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t want to go up there and have to talk about ‘being a woman critic’ like that’s my deal… I don’t want to be sitting there because I throw ‘good for a girl.’”

“I see…”

“Well, do you?”

“Yeah, you don’t wanna talk about how being a woman influences what you do, or say that you get jobs because you’re a girl, because of how that looks.”

“Yeah,” I replied gratefully. He understood.

“Then don’t.”
“Huh?”
“Look, I love the way you write. I’d never write like that, your voice is so your own – but I love your voice and your perspective. You show me things no one else does, make me feel the music…”

“Okay…,” I offered, not sure what he was saying.

“Is it because you’re a woman? I don’t know. You’re pretty tough to me. But I do think you go places, especially with songwriter artists, most guys wouldn’t – and I think you care about the story without it having to be all about who you are in the telling, why your life is what the litmus should be.”

He stopped talking. We sat there for a beat.

“Holly, is it because you’re a girl? Because you’re a writer? Because you love music for everybody, and what it does to people? I don’t know…”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever thought about it.”
“Well, there’s nobody who writes about music the way you do, or brings what you bring. To me, that’s your value. And, if you are the token girl…”
“Yes,” I said, blushing and chastened.
“Maybe there’s something in that you need to address.”

Damn.

Looking around the holding room at the Times Square Marriott, the assembled critics were so classically unassuming, it would be hard to understand the power they wielded. Back when music magazines could change the trajectory of a band’s career, when a few positive reviews changed an overlooked band’s fate or added gravitas and meaning to a pop star’s shine, these were the people doing it.

And me.

Marsh walked up with his dead end kid/leprechaun grin, stuck out his hand and said, “You must be Holly…”
We both laughed as I riffed on the obvious, “How’d you know?”

“You think about what we talked about?” he asked, seriously.

“I did,” I replied.

“And…”
“I just hate having to talk about being a woman in rock…”

“Yeah, I get that.”

We talked about how marginalizing it was, what we were listening to, were working on. I mentioned sneaking out to see “Do The Right Thing,” which had just opened, later that afternoon, wanting to see Spike Lee’s breakthrough film in the city it was set in. He told me he’d been a screening; that he wanted to know what I thought.
Someone said we’d be seated in alphabetical order, to help us find our places on the dias. That it was about time to go out into this massive ballroom. We all nodded. As we shuffled towards the door and into the room service/kitchen hall that led to where we were going, Dave looked over his shoulder at me, nodded and mouthed, “You know what to do.”

After opening remarks, introducing ourselves, addressing the impact music video had on both breaking acts who couldn’t get on radio and shifting the focus to visual from songs, people went down the table, saying a bit about how they got there and what was important to them.

When it was my turn, I looked out – and saw so many college aged girls, young and not so young women. I closed my eyes. “You’ll know what to do…” swirled in my head.

Exhaling, I smiled. Looked at Nelson George, then J.D. Considine, then out into the packed ballroom. After that one beat, I announced, “I’m a token.”

Some gasped. Some laughed. Some looked on speechless.

“I am,” I explained. “I stood in the greenroom, vowing before I came out here, I wasn’t going to talk about being a woman in rock, that I wasn’t going to work that worn out track. But then looking at all of you, I realized: you need to hear this, to see it and know if you want to write, insist and keep coming back, keep pushing forward and trying.”
I talked about a lot of rejection, and not caring. I spoke about editors who’d say sexist things, diminish you because you don’t write like a straight guy who didn’t date much, which got a laugh – even from some of the panelists. I spoke from my heart, spoke truth to what it feels like when you know you’re seen as less than but keep doing it anyways.

From the corner of my eye, I swear I saw a fist punch forward from the other side of the table. Maybe it was wishful hoping.

When I finished my four minutes, people – not just the girls – cheered. In talking about other perspectives in how music is seen, I’d made the point there isn’t just one way to love or embrace music, that different kinds of music speak to different people, invoking country as a perfect counter example, and that in that truth, why wouldn’t any kind of music also speak in different ways to people who aren’t like you can embrace it.
“Except for Rush, Rush is its own ecosystem.” Known for their heavily male audience, people laughed.

Dave Marsh was right, of course.
Take it personal, make it personal. Hang tough for who you are – and know what you believe in. Then stand up for those things, use your voice and honor the people you’re speaking to with something they need to know and maybe haven’t considered.

When the floor was opened to questions, the man who’d had a major hand in getting me fired, a competitor critic who’d been envious of my ability to freelance and connect with artists, strode up to the mic. Scanning the table, but lingering only on the most important, he jammed his hands in his pockets and asked, “So, hhow close it too close? How acceptable is it to be close to these artists you write about? When does it become a conflict of interest?”
My face flushed. I’d left South Florida, moved to Los Angeles to be with my boyfriend and flourished as a writer. This guy, who’d done nothing except take the job he got me shoved out of with a bunch of lies, was still coming for me.

I whispered to JD, “That’s about me.” The calm, bow-tied critic put his hand on my elbow.

Marsh, whose wife co-managed Springsteen, thought he was the one being attacked. Leaning forward, he said, “It’s a conflict of interest if you’re looking to get something out of it, if you’re thinking it’s about friendship or access. If you know the people you write about, it’s your moral obligation to tell the truth, to set them straight when they’re wrong.

“Access is responsibility, and if you have it, there should never be a question you’re going to tell the truth… Ever. And a lot of time, those truths aren’t easy, or fun.”

My eyes were massive. I put my fingers under my thighs and bit the insides of my cheeks.

Greg Sandow, who’d been the critic at the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner and was known for his parties where Ice Cube and Tiffany would both show up, picked up right.

“How can you write effectively about someone you don’t know? How can what you say be valid if you don’t understand who these people are? Do you really think that having a few meals or spending time with an artist compromises you? Maybe the question is: who are you that it’s being questioned? Maybe that’s the larger issue…”

I thought I was going to die. Sometimes God does what you can’t.
“See…” J.D. whispered. I nodded.

The panel wrapped after a few more questions. People flooded Marsh, Nelson George, Christgau; a few grabbed Sandow to ask about writing for the fairly new Entertainment Weekly, and I had a bunch of women or men with sisters or friends thanking me for what I’d said. It was almost a blur, because that question had thrown me.

When it was over and we were going back to get our things, I loitered to walk back with Dave. He could tell I was waiting, and held up a finger while he finished a very passionate exchange.

“You did great,” he said, eyes sparkling like they did when he was lit up on a topic. “I knew you would know what to do, and I knew how much people needed to hear that.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, taken off-guard. “Thanks… But that wasn’t what I was gonna tell you.”
“Oh,” he seemed surprised.

“The guy who asked the question…”
“What an a%*&$!#,” he laughed. “Who does he think he is? And that book was so long ago.”
“He wasn’t coming for you, he was coming for me…”
“You?” Now the great Dave Marsh was genunely surprised. I explained pettiness, small town jealousy, getting fired. He loved every bit of it, “because you, Holly, have real talent. You understand artists and how to connect, and they see that. I read you, and I watch. That guy? Clearly he doesn’t…”

“Well, I wanted to apologize – and say thank you,” I began. “You didn’t deserve that, but I loved every bit of what you said to him. Last thing he saw coming.”

A perfunctory nod. Dave Marsh didn’t love compliments.
“Look, you’re going to do this a long time. You have to know: lesser people are going to swing at you, try and even take you down. You’re a Midwestern kid, Rust Belt, you know the deal: They don’t respect us, but we don’t quit. We keep coming. We know our worth and our truth, and they can’t take that.”
Now I was the one nodding.

“Know that: they can’t take it from you. Just make sure they don’t talk you into giving it away.”

And so, Dave Marsh fixed me with those eyes that saw all the way into you, pressed his lips together and paused to know I got it. I had a movie to get to; he had a meeting with someone far more important than I.

We kept talking over the years, always about music, but also the moral compass, issues that mattered, how you keep raising the bar when nobody else wanted to even think about basic standards. Sometimes I’d call when I was sad, other times when I was fired up; but always when I wanted to get my clarity on. It was hard to leave a conversation with Dave – even something as mundane as pitching an artist for him to write about in Playboy, where he reviewed records for years – without being fired up.
When his daughter Kristen Ann Carr spent two years battling sarcoma before succumbing in 1993, he was very open about how vulnerable it felt to not be able to find a solution, to create a way to get where they had a cure. He was a father, and it hurt, took strength and determination.

As a young woman not many years older, I could feel the angst, but also his will to fight however they could. I said a lot of prayers, a lot of rosaries and always made sure to let him know he was in my heart. Listen on the rare occasions he went there, distracted with talk of Detroit songwriter/rocker Stewart Francke, Patty Loveless or whatever.

When my own father fell into extreme lung cancer, I didn’t know who to call. Overwhelmed – as he’d hid the diagnosis, the largest part of treatment from me – I’d cold-called the stepdown facilities in Palm Beach County until I found him. Alone, too weak to go through chemo and live at home, he’d been checked in – and mostly forgotten about by everyone but his brother, who was co-ordinating the treatment.

Once I knew, I was on a plane. Unprepared to see the gaunt, skeletal man in a hospital bed, I went into shock. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to when I got better….”
Delusional? Or Marine tough, not wanting to put his kid out?
“Dad, this isn’t the flu. It’s not like that.”
“Don’t lecture me.”

When you see someone so frail, so barely alive, lecturing is the last thing you’re going to do.

“Well, I’m here now, and you’re stuck with me.”
“I don’t think you should. You have a business to run.”
“I talk on the phone, Dad. I can do that from anywhere…,” which isn’t quite true. You have to show up, to cover things, to make sure execution is done properly.

The nurse came in. “Mr. Gleason, is everything alright?”
He eyed her. Clearly he wasn’t big on being trapped in this moment. Dad knew how to make friends with everyone.

“I’m his daughter…”
“Daughter?”
“Yes, ma’am. Dad didn’t want to tell me he’s sick. He was going to tell me when he was better.”
“Mr. Gleason, this isn’t the flu…,” she said. “But it is almost dinner time.”

Clearly, she was trying to get me out of there.

“Okay, tell you what: Dad, I’m coming back tomorrow. Tell me what you want. Tell me what’s going on then. We’ll figure this out.”
The lady sitting by the other bed whispered to an older man, “He has a daughter. How ‘bout that?”

I waited near the door, told the woman I’d heard from one of his friends he’d not been coming to their group. Calling my cousin, I knew it was lung cancer, but he wouldn’t tell me how bad. “Looking at him, it’s terrible, maybe terminal, right?”
“I can’t really talk about it,” she said, regretfully. “Florida HIPA laws. You’re not on the list. I didn’t even know you exist. I’m so sorry.”

“I get it. But they’re not coming to see him, right? His friends don’t know where he is.”
“I can’t really tell you that, either.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. Florida and bad kids circling the will… I get it. Thanks for being nice.”
I fished the rental car keys from my purse, walked away. She needed to know I wasn’t going to be a problem,

Bursting into a thunderhead of tears in the car, I let it out. No one is prepared to see their parent that close to death, or in that kind of shape. I ran a boutique company with one employee and a very high rate of placement, awards nominations, cultural impact. I was always stretched thin, but ready to make it happen. This wasn’t on my dance card.

Howling and shaking, I knew giving into this wasn’t productive. What could I do? Who could I call? My father always said when you didn’t know, think who you knew who had the closest experience. Was there someone who’d been through something similar? Even if it wasn’t the same, they might enough insight to get you moving.

Dave Marsh. But, whoa… Was this cruel?
Our most recent interactions had been around the CMA Song of the Year winning artist/songwriter Gretchen Peters and pop-country’s Hal Ketchum, who’d made a country album with Austin’s legendary guitarist Stephen Bruton. He’d loved Gretchen’s starkness and whisper-to-merlot full voice, if he’d not loved the radio-friendly additions to Bruton’s original Ketchum production.

The car’s windows were steaming up, and I needed to puncture this rush of emotions. I pulled out my little phone book, punched the numbers into my cell phone and heard the ring. Was it dirty pool? Did I have the right to ask for this kind of help?

“Hello.” That voice, so direct and ready.
“Dave, it’s Holly…” All I could get out before I started to break.

“Everything okay?”
“No,” I said, “and I didn’t know who to call.”
I explained what my father had said about “the person who had the closest experience to what I needed.”

“Smart man,” he said.
“He has cancer. It’s bad.”
Dropping the anvil, I could feel a little bit of air go out of the other side of the phone.
“I’m sorry, I almost didn’t call. It’s only been a few years, and I know what my aunt went through losing her youngest to leukemia.”

“No, no,” he came back. “This is important. How did you find out? What do you know?”
Dave was aware of my messy family. I walked him through the surprise, not knowing anything.

“Okay, here’s what you need to find out,” he began, in full field marshall precision. “You need a read on what stage, what kind, has it spread… You need to find out who the social worker is, if there’s a liason… Are you writing this down?”
“Yes, I’m writing it on the rental agreement. I’ll transfer when we finish.”
“No, get a notebook. I know you’ve got one.”
When I was ready, he continued. Protocols, questions to ask, things to make sure were in place.

“Your uncle isn’t going to tell you?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Fine, you can do this. No, you have to do it, because I know how much you love your father.”
I snuffled a bit. Overwhelmed by his encouragement.

“And Holly, call me. If you need help, reach out.

That began a whole new line of calls to Dave. Not about records or artists I felt betrayed by, clients I was working, or events I was hoping to see him at, but what to do.

I deemed him “my cancer coach,” and cross-checked everything I was told.

I took a Public Enemy approach – by any means necessary – and got the President of the hospital Dad ate at to intervene with the social worker. She couldn’t talk to me, but the President gave me her name, got her to leave Dad’s folder on her desk while she was “at lunch.”

People could’ve been fired, but the man knew me from all those cafeteria dinners, from cassettes my father had given him over the years. To have that kind of grace helped.

“What does this mean?” I’d ask, and get an explanation, a suggestion.

When the oncologist basically said it was about doing the chemo, but knowing it most likely wouldn’t work, I called Dave desperate.
His response was blast furnace intense.

“Holly, it’s Florida. They’re in the business of wringing out these old people’s Medicare, then dumping them in the ground. You go get in his face…”
“If I’m too agrressive, I’m afraid they’ll be mean to Dad or not care.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Where is that punk rock kid? That girl from Rust Belt Cleveland? You’re tougher than this…”
“I just…” I stammered.

“Well, okay, Holly. This guy clearly doesn’t care. It’s one more file. He’s not invested. If you’re not going to go give him hell, then you might as well go out back of where he gets his chemo and dig a hole and the two of you can push him in…”

I gulped. “What?!”

“I’ve known you a long time, and you’ve always been a fighter for what you believe in… You’ve always stood up for what’s right. What’s going on? This is your father’s life…”

“But if I yell at him…”
“AND WHAT? Make him do his job? Get him to engage the way he should – and probably rarely does Screw this guy. That’s… your… FATHER…”

I could feel something rising inside me. A sufferer of panic disorder, I was terrified it was an anxiety attack – as I was far from my hotel, and knew I’d lose sense of place and time. Whatever it was, it was not going to be denied.

“Oh, oh…” I said, feeling the surge. Then it hit me: it wasn’t a panic attack, it was resolve.

“Dave!” I uttered.

“Yes…” he was tentative, concerned it might’ve been too much.

“You’re right. Oh my god, he doesn’t care… He sees this all day long. One more corpse on its way to the funeral parlor…”
“That’s what I was trying to get you to understand. He’s numb. His job is get that Medicare money. Other than that, maybe not suffering. But he’s not about keeping people alive.”

“Whew…”

“You okay?”
Exhaling, I wasn’t sure. “I just need a few minutes to regroup.”
“Take as long as you like, call me back if you need to.”

I said goodbye, turned over the ignition. There was so much adrenaline, I was trying to control my breathing to manage it. Clearly not cortisol, because I wasn’t shaking or fearful, I felt empowered and clear.

Taking the car over the Lake Worth Bridge, I drove up A1A with the window down. I smelled the salt in the air, thinking about driving this road with my father before all the condos happened. It was a waste of scrub pines, dunes and saw grass, dotted with trailers selling the buildings before ground was even broken.

We’d stayed at the Howard Johnson on the ocean side of that bridge, the middle ground between fancy Palm Beach and Golf Road, where the good courses in Palm Beach County were. Now I was driving myself, thinking about the state that my father was in.

Yelled at by a man whose passion was his greatest truth, but he wasn’t yelling to offload his own aggravation at life, but to help me protect what he knew was precious to me. It worked.
Where there was a break between the buildings, the ocean was still tossing waves with white foamy heads towards the shore. It was summer, and it was hot. The pace was so slow, yet, everything for me was moving in fast forward.

When I hit the curve where the mansions got serious, I called him back.

“Thanks,” I said when he answered.

“For what?” Dave Marsh seemed genuinely perplexed.

“For yelling at me,” I said.

“Most people don’t thank me for that.”
“Yeah, but you had to get through. I don’t think I could’ve heard you otherwise.”
“I know,” he said. His tone was kind. He understood.

“Thank you. I’m so conditioned to ‘be nice,’ to ‘be compliant’…”
“You’ve been in the South too long. Those people are ruining you.”
We both laughed. He was probably right.

“The girl I know is a fighter. She knows what’s right, and she doesn’t get along to go along… She stands up for what she believes in…”
“I know,” I said chastened, but still overwhelmed.

“I can’t think of many things you believe in more than your father. You’re always telling me something he told you, how valuable the lesson was. Nothing’s more important than that… But those people don’t care.”

“Yeah. So what do I do?”
“Go yell at that doctor. Give him no uncertain terms, and let him know you will make his life miserable.”

“Got it,” but even I was convinced.

“And if you can find a way to throw that President’s name around, making sure the oncologist knows who he is. Let that guy know how much he loves your Dad – without getting the social worker in trouble – and you’ve got leverage.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Of course, I am. This isn’t easy stuff, kid. It’s hard, and you’re feeling all of it because you care. Use that to your advantage. God knows: I’ve seen you lay people out. This is your wheelhouse.”

I took his advice. My father had been researching a book on the history of men’s American amateur golf for seventeen, eighteen years. I used that to get dad engaged and invested. I gave the oncologist, who kept pushing back, a very clear sense that it wasn’t going to work on me.

I flew back and forth every three weeks for every single chemo appointment, setting in the hall outside the big room with all the people in the recliners getting their chemical IVs and made calls. When I was exhausted, couldn’t find the heart, I’d call Dave with an update.

He’d read between the lines for me, tell me what was up. Encouraging me to keep bringing him food that wasn’t hospital food, it started working. Lo and behold: he gained weight, got stringer, defied the odds. Dad got 17 more months. He didn’t finish that book, but he got to really live and love life even more than he already had.
When Daddy passed, Dave and Barbara Carr sent flowers. When I explained to my aunt who they were, she seemed impressed.

That’s the thing about Dave. Whether you heard him on SiriusXM doing “Kick Out the Jams,” “Live from the Land of Hope and Dreams,” or “Live from E Street Nation,” sat on boards or panels with him, saw him play in the Rock Bottom Remainders, a band featuring several best-selling authors, he was always impressive.

The work for the Kristen Ann Carr Fund at Sloan Kettering, the Rock Hall nominating committee, several blues and folk organizations, he came hard and he came proper. If there was work to do, whether raising consciousness or money, he was game. And smart. He had ideas, and wasn’t afraid to color outside the lines.

Never mind that he dropped out of Wayne State University, left Pontiac, Michigan and became a cultural force. He never lost that blue collar punch, never forgot it was the people nobody looked at who really mattered. He was a populist who knew more about wine than almost anyone I knew. He existed in the rarified air around not just Bruce Springsteen, but too many at that level of fame to reckon. He won a Grammy for co-writing the liner notes for Aretha Franklin’s The Queen of Soul – The Atlantic Years.

And his books, especially Born to Run and Glory Days, but also about the Who, Black Sabbath, Creedence Clearwater Revival and even “Louie, Louie,” brought the music to life. Not a stack of facts, but the way one’s heartbeat was impacted by what you heard on the radio.

He was generous, blurbing Woman Walk The Line: How The Women of Country Music Changed Our Lives and Prine on Prine: Interviews & Encounters with quotes that spoke to what each book truly meant. Not just phoning in something gushing, he took it to heart – and he made sure the potential reader did, too.

The last time I saw Dave was at the Southern Festival of Books. He was there with the equally compelling Daniel Wolff, who writes about social issues, music and America from a history-driven place. He’d made my friend Daryl Sanders, whose Thin Wild Mercury Sound was also being presented that year, get me.

We were standing by the book tables joshing and talking about all three of their book tours. Clearly Dave was in his element, feeling the intellectual joy of the conversation.

He looked at me. “You got a copy of Woman Walk The Line?”

I didn’t, but was able to get one from the University of Texas Press table. Chucking, he slyly looked at Daniel and bragged, “Did you see the marketing campaign for this?”

I was stunned. I thought he just wanted me to give it to Wolff, who hadn’t read it. Dave was explaining all the famous people who’d posed, reading the book – or holding it out in endorsement.

“Come on, I got an idea,” Dave said out of the corner of his mouth. Then to me, “Get your phone out.”

The two legends riffed back and forth with a couple dollars and the book, making it like it was some kind of contraband deal going down. Delighted, they were doing “the thing,” but putting a slightly subversive twist on it.

Snickering, adjusting how the money was changing hands, they wanted maximum impact. Shania Twain on a jet… Alice Cooper like a centerfold… Keith Urban in a hotel room… Emmylou Harris on a documentary set… even Lyle Lovett, the OG WWTLer, backstage at Cain Park… Nothing packed the sheer relish these esteemed authors were feeling.

“Thanks,” I said when they finally created the image they wanted.

At the window-boxed Author Reception seven stories up, we were all in a darker corner quietly talking that night. Some was history, some was life. Knowing how much he hated compliments, I wanted to say “thank you” for all of it, but I picked something I thought he’d find benign.

“That picture today was crazy.”

He smirked with glee. “Real spirit of the underbelly,” he agreed.

“It was so cool, and an endorsement that’s subversive…”

“Yeah, that was the point.”

He could feel me ramping up. He wasn’t having it. Before I could talk, he kept going.

“You know what’s funny,” he said rhetorically; a question he didn’t want an answer to. “All those years ago when you didn’t want to talk about being a woman in rock at that panel, and then you did….”
“Yeah,” I said, knowing this was the final word.
“That book makes good on all of it.”

That was Dave. Maddening, opinionated, willing to go deep and keep going. Closing bigger circles than you ever realized.

Everywhere he went, he stirred the room, challenged what people thought. But in the end, when you look at all of it – what he celebrated and decried, what and how he loved – his life is like that: something that made good on all of it.