Sometimes I Feel
Chris Cornell’s death left me incredibly sad. I cried a bit, I listened to a lot of Soundgarden for a few days, I mourned the way one does when a celebrity they loved dies. But I was already in my 30s when grunge was big and while I enjoyed Cornell’s music (and oh, that voice), his death didn’t hit me as hard as it did for those who grew up with Cornell as the soundtrack to their formative years. There’s something about losing someone from your youth that both humbles you and breaks you.
And so it goes for me with Gregg Allman.
My love of Gregg and the Allman Brothers Band started with my older cousin’s boyfriend (later husband, then ex-husband), Bill. A big, heavyset guy with shocking red hair, he was a constant in my life. Whether that was a good thing or not is left to be said; there were a lot of things I didn’t like about Bill — truth be told, he was intimidating in both stature and behavior — but there were two things I remember about him that were good: his love for his kids and his love of the Allman Brothers.
He lent me his Allman records; he wanted to share that music with anyone who was willing to listen, and I was always willing listen to new music. Oh, I knew of them before Bill — but I didn’t really know them until after he taught me all about them and their songs. Through that act, I grew to love the band in much the same way Bill did — and that love is what kept the tenuous relationship between Bill and myself intact. To be honest, I felt like I owed him for introducing me to the Allman Brothers.
That affinity for the band stayed with me and in high school I found like-minded friends and we went to concerts and wore Allman Brothers pins on our denim jackets and listened to Allman Brothers albums through a haze of smoke within the paneled walls of Long Island suburban basements.
Once we started driving, the Allmans became the de facto road trip music. We memorized lyrics, drummed out beats, and, of course, played air guitar on “Whipping Post” as if our lives depended on it.
The music of the Allman Brothers weaves in and out of my best and worst memories; as with all music, it’s there for the good and the bad, for the parties and the break-ups and everything in between. That they were so intrinsic to my teen years makes them part of the fabric of my life, and with each passing death of the icons of my youth, that fabric unravels a bit more.
When I heard the news about Gregg Allman (on twitter, of course), my heart immediately felt heavy. I went right away to Spotify, loaded up their “This is the Allman Brothers” playlist and started reminiscing and mourning.
But what am I really mourning? Just the death of a gifted, treasured musician?
No. I am mourning the passing of time. I’m mourning those afternoons in the parking lot of my high school listening to “Jessica” on repeat. I am mourning the basement parties and the keggers in the park soundtracked by “Blue Sky,” the sparse shared moments with Bill listening to “Melissa” — a song he named his daughter for — , the long drive to visit a friend at Southhampton College with “Ramblin Man” blasting out the windows, the lighters held high at concerts, the moments alone in my bedroom listening to Brothers and Sisters while trying to get over a breakup.
The Allman Brothers represent so much of the years when I was trying to grow up while simultaneously holding on to my youth. When someone who soundtracked your life at that intersection dies, he takes a piece of you and your life with him. Which is why this hits me so hard, why I take it personally.
As I write this, “Whipping Post” is blasting and I’m having difficulty keeping my hands on the keyboard, instinctively needing to furiously air-guitar toward the climax, just waiting for Gregg to shout out SOMETIMES I FEEL…
And all those feelings rush back.
I’m gutted by Gregg Allman’s passing — but I will be forever in his debt for those feelings.
