Boutch's harmonica
We’re at the Armadillo Ball, sitting at a low table off to the side when Boutch looms up behind me. Usually his eyes are glimmering with a joke or quip about to launch, but now they’re serious, a little mournful. He’s got something in his hand. “I want you to take this,” he says.
We’d known him for years, seeing him at the national and regional conferences as his jobs took him from one information vendor to another. It hadn’t been long to find out he was as mad for music as we were. In 2009, when Dook couldn’t make it to the MLA annual in Honolulu, he took over on drums, barrel chest rising behind the kit, big arms churning the beat. And at the chapter meeting in St. Petersburg the following year, one of my favorite musical experiences ever was him on harmonica, me with my guitar, and Lynn with her percussion toys playing an acoustic set in the round for some thirty people who’d decided they’d rather listen to us than be line-dancing to the show band in the ballroom down the hall. It was exquisite.
“This is my traveling harmonica,” he said. “The one I always have with me.”
Now, though, it was 2014 and my hopes for a six month resolution of the symptoms from the short-circuit that’d hit my spinal cord six months previous had long faded. My hands remained stiff and weak, I could no longer walk unassisted, and although I tried to pick up the guitar at home for 20 or 30 minutes a few days a week I was clearly a long way from ever playing in front of an audience again. At the MLA meeting in Boston the year before I’d done vocals only; same when we gathered in Memphis a month or so later.
“I want you to take it. You might never play guitar again, but don’t ever stop making music.”
It was while we were at that 2010 meeting in St. Pete that Jen called him to confirm that they were pregnant. He sought Lynn and me out. We were the first people he told. He was terrified. We took him to the bar, talked him down off the ledge. It was pretty typical new dad jitters – he wanted it so much and he was so afraid he wouldn’t be able to measure up, couldn’t be the kind of father he wanted his child to have. We knew how wrong he was, that his generous heart and sensitive spirit, the love of fun, the wicked humor, his deep intelligence and natural empathy, his partnership with the love of his life would unerringly guide him. They named her Riley, after one of his heroes,1 and on said hero’s birthday dad & daughter would play hooky from work and daycare and dance to the blues. Family love was his bedrock. Music was the air he breathed.
“This is the one I always have with me. I want you to take it.”
Oh, what a gesture. Oh, that man. I hugged him, embarrassed, feeling humbled and grateful and undeserving. Kept it as a talisman, kept it nearby. Traveled with it, just as he had. Occasionally I'd blow into it but I didn't know what I was doing, so I didn’t give it much time. And then, in the fall of 2015 word came ‘round that Boutch had died, suddenly. He’d been at another conference, hadn’t felt well, assumed it would pass, and it didn’t.
“I want you to take this ... don’t ever stop...”
To say that I now felt an obligation makes it sound as if it was a burden, but I certainly don’t mean it that way. I’d been deeply moved by his gift, but that hadn’t stopped me coming up with plenty of reasons on any given day not to pick it up. But now I felt I owed him. Maybe I owed Jen and Riley.2
By the summer of 2016, when the Bearded Pigs gathered in Memphis for the sessions we called “When Pigs Waltz” I had several more harmonicas and was learning to fake my way. I didn’t know what I was doing, but sounds would come out that meshed with the band, enhanced the song. I was surprised as anyone. Boutch’s Facebook page is now a remembrance page and when I got home I posted, “You must've been sitting on my shoulder helping bend those reeds. Thanks for sticking with me.”
Soon the Bearded Pigs will gather in Rockfish Valley. I still don’t know what I’m doing, but my confidence is building. I think I know what song I’ll use his harmonica for.3 Every day now I bring the mysterious little machine to my mouth. Breathe. Listen. Don’t think. Remember. Trust. It’s the blues. The heartache in the joy.
“Don’t ever stop making music.” No, sir. I will not.
(photo courtesy of Jen Boutchie)
Riley B. King, professionally known at first as Blues Boy, and then just as B.B.
Neither of whom I’ve ever actually met.
Not an easy choice. Who the hell travels with a harmonica in the key of A flat? So far I’ve come up with 3 possible reasons.
This captures Dan perfectly. He didn’t care what instrument someone played or how well they played, just that they loved making music. He had 2 rules for Riley, that I tell her about all the time: she has to go college and she has to play an instrument. She has chosen to play the saxophone although I keep hoping she will start strumming on one of Dan’s guitars. Thank you much for writing this
He was such a good friend to me. Always, but particularly one night in Hawaii when I really needed one. His capacity for compassion was endless and seemingly effortless. I miss him all the time. Thanks for posting this.