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In Memory of Jack Rose
 The first time I met Jack Rose, I did not like the guy. My brother introduced me to him one night at some long gone performance space in Philly in the late 90's and I remember Jack coming at me with both barrels blazing rattling on and on about records he recently bought, records he wanted, and just records in general. These were subjects I had no problem holding my ground on, but as the conversation went on; it was clear he would command the proceedings no matter what I said or did. Any dissension from his opinion on anything - be it John Fahey, Tony Joe White or Yoko Ono - would be met with a scornful bellow delivered with a ‘motherfucker!’ at the end of the sentence to get the point across. After awhile, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise with the guy and excused myself for a false bathroom break. ‘Jesus Christ! Thanks for leaving me with that asshole!’ I told my brother when I came back from my pretend pee.
After that night, I ran into Jack here and there after our initial meeting and I tried to steer clear of him, but he always managed to find me or my brother to talk to about music. After a few chin wagging sessions with him, I not only proved I could hold my own with him in a shouting match, but I came to realize why the guy (and myself as well) got so huffy when it came to sound. It was the be all and end all of his existence and how the hell could you not be bowled over and in debt to these people that laid it all on the line for your sorry ass?
As time went on, I looked forward to seeing Jack and felt privileged he would cross a room to talk to me about whatever his latest vinyl find was, be it a later Kottke record or the latest Watery Love single. The last time I saw him was a few months ago when he played some friends of mine down the aisle on their wedding day. As the night went on, Jack and I talked about the usual what-have-yous while he tried to school me in the art of pizza dough (‘You and Danielle come down to Philly and I’ll show you how it’s done’) He was talking about wanting to try out Dominick’s Pizza down where my parents live in Pennsylvania. I told him next time I was visiting them, I’d get in touch and we’d work something out. When the festvities started to wind down, Jack suggested we meet in the hotel bar for a quick one around midnight. When I got back to the room, I was tired and already pretty drunk, so I said ‘Fuck it’ and called it a night. I keep wincing thinking how I blew that opportunity for one last drink with him. But how the hell was I supposed to know?
And now it’s all hitting me. No more Jack. No more pizza. No more drinking/rapping sessions. What the fuck? I guess I should just be happy and celebrate I was lucky enough to know the man and his music in his time on this dirt clod we call the earth.
I’ll tip one to you tonight, Jack. You were always a great hang.
by
TONY RETTMAN on
9/5/2010
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