RIP, EVH
J. J. Thayer - 8th October 2020
On Tuesday, October 6th, 2020, we lost a great one in Eddie Van Halen. I’m not writing to praise his musical genius (that’s obvious, and well-covered), recount his formative years (try Greg Renoff’s excellent “Van Halen Rising” for that), nor chime in on the Sammy Hagar-vs-David Lee Roth debate (they’re different bands). Rather, as the news broke, and the texts came in, I was struck by how widely Eddie Van Halen’s music has affected my life.
My first introduction to Eddie, and his band, was through “Jump”. I’d received a cassette copy of 1984 for my tenth birthday, and brought it to school for Record Day in Ed Krzos’ music class. That’s the only song anyone wanted to hear, but he let us play it only three times before switching us to Huey Lewis (boo).
I went to our local music store and ordered the sheet music, then took that to my piano lesson to the delight of my classically-trained teacher. He loved dissecting some of the music theory behind the song, especially the bridge. I loved the fact that when I broke out the keyboard intro part at sleepaway camp that summer, the girls gathered around the piano to hear me play. I’ve been in bands ever since.
Fast-forward to college, where Tim, a terrific guitarist, lived in my dorm. I desperately wanted to form a band with him, but I didn’t know any of the super-cool groups he listened to. Common ground? Van Halen (which eventually led us to Otis Redding, of all places). We opened shows with “Cathedral” for years.
Mike, my best friend, and eventual roommate, played 5150 on his boombox all the time. All. The. Time. Even the crummy tracks. Senior year, Mike and I dragged our girlfriends and our buddy Kevin to see Van Halen play at the Meadowlands. We had to peel a drunken girlfriend out of the ladies’ room in time to hear Sammy sing “I Can’t Stop Loving You” (Kevin’s favorite).
My skater-punk-cum-Google-exec friend Pete reminded me that we saw an earlier Van Halen show at the same arena. I’d borrowed my mom’s blue Honda Accord, and we went with our high school friend Danny, a dreadlocked half-black Jewish kid, and tried to circle the top of the arena when they played “Runaround” (we didn’t make it).
Van Halen music has worked its way into my family too. My twelve-year-old son, a car nut--and aspiring drummer--likes the revving Lamborghini on “Panama”. It’s been a great way to hook him on rock music. Even my wife, who prefers Sirius XM’s The Bridge to my Ozzy’s Boneyard, calls them “awesome”. She points out that Eddie seemed so happy playing the guitar. “He was always smiling”, she said, as he spread joy through his fingers and his Frankenstrat.
I’ve got enough examples to fill another three pages. Eddie’s gift to all of us--his music--has allowed me to connect with a disparate group of people, and enabled us to become lifelong friends. I am richer for having them in my life, and for the soundtrack we share. Thank you, Eddie.
J. J. Thayer - 8th October 2020
On Tuesday, October 6th, 2020, we lost a great one in Eddie Van Halen. I’m not writing to praise his musical genius (that’s obvious, and well-covered), recount his formative years (try Greg Renoff’s excellent “Van Halen Rising” for that), nor chime in on the Sammy Hagar-vs-David Lee Roth debate (they’re different bands). Rather, as the news broke, and the texts came in, I was struck by how widely Eddie Van Halen’s music has affected my life.
My first introduction to Eddie, and his band, was through “Jump”. I’d received a cassette copy of 1984 for my tenth birthday, and brought it to school for Record Day in Ed Krzos’ music class. That’s the only song anyone wanted to hear, but he let us play it only three times before switching us to Huey Lewis (boo).
I went to our local music store and ordered the sheet music, then took that to my piano lesson to the delight of my classically-trained teacher. He loved dissecting some of the music theory behind the song, especially the bridge. I loved the fact that when I broke out the keyboard intro part at sleepaway camp that summer, the girls gathered around the piano to hear me play. I’ve been in bands ever since.
Fast-forward to college, where Tim, a terrific guitarist, lived in my dorm. I desperately wanted to form a band with him, but I didn’t know any of the super-cool groups he listened to. Common ground? Van Halen (which eventually led us to Otis Redding, of all places). We opened shows with “Cathedral” for years.
Mike, my best friend, and eventual roommate, played 5150 on his boombox all the time. All. The. Time. Even the crummy tracks. Senior year, Mike and I dragged our girlfriends and our buddy Kevin to see Van Halen play at the Meadowlands. We had to peel a drunken girlfriend out of the ladies’ room in time to hear Sammy sing “I Can’t Stop Loving You” (Kevin’s favorite).
My skater-punk-cum-Google-exec friend Pete reminded me that we saw an earlier Van Halen show at the same arena. I’d borrowed my mom’s blue Honda Accord, and we went with our high school friend Danny, a dreadlocked half-black Jewish kid, and tried to circle the top of the arena when they played “Runaround” (we didn’t make it).
Van Halen music has worked its way into my family too. My twelve-year-old son, a car nut--and aspiring drummer--likes the revving Lamborghini on “Panama”. It’s been a great way to hook him on rock music. Even my wife, who prefers Sirius XM’s The Bridge to my Ozzy’s Boneyard, calls them “awesome”. She points out that Eddie seemed so happy playing the guitar. “He was always smiling”, she said, as he spread joy through his fingers and his Frankenstrat.
I’ve got enough examples to fill another three pages. Eddie’s gift to all of us--his music--has allowed me to connect with a disparate group of people, and enabled us to become lifelong friends. I am richer for having them in my life, and for the soundtrack we share. Thank you, Eddie.