One Big Family
Last Monday, as we pile into the van, Andrew shares some unfortunate news: Brian Farmer, Warren Haynes’ longtime guitar tech, a legend behind the scenes of rock & roll and an all-around great guy, has died. Andrew heard the news from our manager earlier this morning. We talk about Farmer on the short drive to Jen’s house just outside the beltway in eastern Nashville. Miles away, the sad news breaks on an official level and spreads in an electronic ripple.
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Jennifer Hartswick whisks another batch of eggs and talks shop with Dave in the kitchen. A few of us linger and converse over cups of coffee and a bowl of trimmed strawberries, while the rest spill over into the living room. Even though it is Monday, we are having Sunday brunch. Last night, Jen, who occasionally tours with an obscure indie musician named Trey Anastasio, graced our stage twice, once with her dulcet voice and once with her blistering trumpet work. Now she is making us breakfast. How awesome can one person be? The food comes out in waves, and between bites we talk about music and try to guess the secret to Jen’s sublime homemade gravy. (She says the recipe changes every time, but today it was a pinch of lemon zest.) We barrage her with compliments, and she ducks: "Sorry I didn’t have any lobster for you guys.”
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Packy Norton, proprietor of the "internationally infamous” Chicken Box and de facto mayor of Nantucket, skids his weathered van into the parking lot of the Beachside Hotel and chirps the horn two times in quick succession. He is likely grinning that marvelous, bomb-defusing grin of his, but it is difficult to tell because his entire head is enveloped in a bright green Kermit the Frog mask. Generally, one would be trepidatious about piling fourteen people (band, crew, and a few girlfriends) into a motor vehicle whose operator’s field of vision is narrowed to the width of the two nickel-sized eyeholes at the back of Kermit’s gaping pink mouth, but this is Packy we’re talking about. It’ll be fine. Packy is a host without rival. Today, before the show, he is driving us out to Fisherman’s Beach to spend the day eating lobster and playing games on a manicured lawn overlooking the sparkling expanse of the Atlantic. Part of the reason it’s so great to come to Nantucket and play at The Chicken Box is that it’s basically a vacation. But even without all of the material provisions, we would still love this place because of its proprietor. Magnetic, vivacious, and relentlessly down-to-earth, Packy Norton is the kind of guy you can’t help but love.
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This is already an awful cliché even before you multiply it by a factor of "we’re at a music festival surrounded by hippies,” but you can really feel the love Saturday at Peach Festival. It’s a beautiful day off for us, and so many of our closest band-friends, people we know just from being in a band and being on the road, are here. Plus, it’s the last Peach Fest for this incarnation of The Allman Brothers Band, and possibly one of their last shows ever. There’s a certain sweetness in the atmosphere, a little bit sad and a little bit beautiful. During the Allman Brothers’ set, Brian Farmer strides across the stage, swaps guitars with Warren, and swaggers back to his post in the stage-right wing. He used to do that exaggerated "duck-down-and-step-quickly” walk that you’ll see most techs walk when they have to come onstage, but he quit doing that when his last boss, Johnny Cash, told him to "stop being such a pussy” and just walk upright. Besides, his tenure with Warren Haynes has made him a fan favorite in his own right. To the spectator, Warren means Farmer and Farmer means Warren. In a way, he is as connected to the fans and as integral a part of the experience of seeing Mule or The Allman Brothers or Warren Haynes Band as the band members themselves. It’s hard to believe that a week from now he will be gone.
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It’s moments like these that make me appreciate just how truly fortunate we are- not just to be doing something we love, but to be a part of this wonderful patchwork community, this extended cross-country family of musicians and crew and managers and promoters and professional appreciators; family that we saw on the west coast last summer, family that we’re looking forward to seeing in New York next month, family that got us on the list for that show when we had a night off last week. Packy Norton is family. Jen Hartswick is family. Brian Farmer was family. There are people back in the real world that we’re closer to- spouses, significant others, relatives, friends- people we see more than a few times a year. But there’s a sense of understanding and fraternity in this upside-down musical community that comes from shared experiences, common challenges, and a unique set of cultural mores. There’s a bond. And Farmer shared that bond with hundreds, if not thousands, of people. Brian Farmer never had to be good to us, but he always was. He was good to everyone. He had a huge soul. He was quick with a joke, full of incredible stories, and, in spite of an occasionally foul mouth and a healthy penchant for ribbing, he was truly, fundamentally, kind. He was one of the best. We’ll miss you, Farmer. The whole family will.
