Roxanne Tellier – We All Loved You, Frank Gutch Jr – Tributes, Tales, and Tears

Yesterday I went through all of the private messages I’d shared with Frank Gutch Jr, since I’d first encountered him. It was in 2013, just after I’d begun writing this weekly column, and right from that first message, it was as though we were separated at birth.

Frank Gutch Jr: Dad Gave My Dog Away (A Look At Letting Go); A Music Tsunami (The Real Shade, Wilson Marks, Diane Patterson, Rich DePaolo, and— holy mackerel!— The Green Pajamas!); and The Irrepressible Ricky (Okay, Not Ricky, But We Got Notes, By the Gods!)

 

My dad?  Give my dog away?  Give me a break!  My dad was the coolest when it came to animals, though he didn’t want them unless it was necessary.  Sure, he caved when we were kids and begged and begged a dog, one my sister named Putsy after Slim Gaillard‘s hit Cement Mixer Putty Putty, but it wasn’t his choice.

Frank Gutch Jr: Thompson’s and Chrystalship: The Changing of the Guard; A Video Guide to Boulder’s Zephyr; and A Short String of Notes

The first record store I ever frequented was in Eugene, Oregon— Thompson’s.  I wanted to put “Record Mart” behind it but I am not sure how they labeled themselves.  A building on the north end of the city, not too far from Skinner’s Butte, it was small, square and as I remember it, white, with large storefront windows behind which racks of records were displayed, mostly 45s, a small wall of listening booths, and stereo equipment— lots of it.  I have no idea how I found out about it, being a small town boy who hardly ever visited the big city (and to me Eugene was big and a city), but I found myself one day, after much begging and emotional pyrotechnics, entering this Taj Mahal of vinyl.  I remember it like it was yesterday.

Frank Gutch Jr: Byron Isaacs: The Disappearing Man; Dumpster Diving (The Album Chronicles); and Notes of a Lugubrious Nature (Or Maybe It’s Luxurious… Damn it! Where’s My Dictionary?)

 Byron Isaacs is the kind of guy that makes you want to shout, Hey!  I know that guy!  I do, you know.  Well, not know know him, but know him.  Know his music.  Know his professionalism and his makeup.  Know his importance to the world of music.  Sure, I only met him once, but that once was enough to tell me who he was and is.  I mean, I know him.  Get it?

I would have to explain the whole degrees of separation thing for you to understand how we met.  What the hell.  I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes version.

Frank Gutch Jr: Too Good To Miss: Phoebe Bridgers, Kora Feder, Audrey Martells, and Jim Page, with Sidebars on David Bullock (Space Opera) and Jane Gowan (The Real Shade); Plus Another Weekly Dose of Notes

I think Phoebe Bridgers was twelve when I first heard of her.  I had just discovered Kim Grant, then cranking up Grand Ole Echo shows in L.A., and those shows quickly became legendary to me.  She (and a colleague, whose name escapes me at this moment) was booking everything below the radar in L.A. and many of those became inspiration for columns or reviews— Old Californio, I See Hawks in L.A., Pi Jacobs, Little Lonely, and so many more.  Occasionally she would mention Phoebe in her newsletters— mere mention of a young girl threatening to become a serious musician.