Dream World

In one of last night's dead musician dreams, I was at a huge house party. A guy, who I haven’t seen since my late 20s, walked in the door wearing an elegant white, James Bond type tux jacket over black jeans. Not a sartorial statement I would expect from him.

Dan and I used to work together at a copy shop in Harvard Square. We got off to a bad start with him, as we were introduced, making some dismissive cuts about me being a Deadhead (amazingly, at the not so tender age of 22, I was wholly unfamiliar with the Dead). I asked him what kind of music they did—were they anything like
Talking Heads or Mission of Burma? Ah…no.

An aside: to be fair, Dan’s Dead assumption didn’t come out of thin pompous-ass air. I’ve always favored brightly colored tribal prints, paisley, tie dye and Guatemalan vests. Sure, I wore Docs but they were bright purple. I had a black leather vest but wore it over psychedelic blouses. I just couldn’t manage the black on black punk uniform.

After I’d passed Dan’s musical taste test, I was always invited to his gigs and loft parties. Sadly, I never made it to the parties. I was young, horribly insecure and living with Stan. He’d made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t into doing any social stuff that wasn’t centered around his interests and pals. Yup, 40 years later and I’m still peeved with myself for not being independent enough to go off on my own. That, by the by, changed after Stan and I called it quits.

I did eventually manage to catch Dan perform with two of his bands—Christmas and The Flies. They were def cool but none of their tunes remain in my head.

Dan was fun and witty in a sarcastic, misanthropical yet endearing kind of a way. I think I’ve always wished that I’d gotten to know him better, that I’d gone to those loft parties and met other artists and musicians. This was where I, as a fellow starving artist, was supposed to be—not hanging at brightly lit, dull dinners with a bunch of engineers. Right?!

Why’s Dan showing up in Dream World now? //shrugs// I googled him and, waddaya know, he’s dead and has been for the past 13 years. Discogs tells me that after his musical career, Dan became an indie film maker and director of photography in Paris.

In the next phantasm I was watching an old friend playing trumpet in a funk band. He was totally, brilliantly nailing his solo to the wall. In real life, Ross played trumpet in our high school band but went on to study art in college. Sometime, in our mid-20s, Ross and his wife were killed by a drunk driver.

I dream dead people. I wonder what this means.