Emma Thompson smokes Marlboro cigarettes.

If only it were true.

The expression "no words can describe" is a hackneyed, obfuscated, overused and ostensibly meaningless statement.  In certain cases, however, its poignancy is tangible; palpable.

I was hoping to sit down and scribble the encapsulate - with a similar poignancy - for my friendship with one Brant Lyon.  This is, however, an equally-meaningless gesture, and I would consider him too humble a man to wish for such an effusive outpouring. 

Instead, dear reader, I'll simply tell you our story:

Craiglist ad - looking for musicians to accompany performers in an "open-mike" sort of setup.  I answer, and my phone rings shortly thereafter.  A man who refers to himself with multiple names, eventually settling on "Brant", holds my attention.  A garrulous man; an especially literate man.  He challenged me routinely during our lengthy conversation - I on foot, in Queens, buying pet food for my guinea pig, also no longer with us - with his unprecidented vocabulary.  Despite our extended chat, he is swift to indicate his desire to "demo" me and my musicians - who have numbered a solid dozen, I think, at this point - over the course of the ensuing 3 1/2 years of routine performance, at various clubs and in various incarnations.  Performers with sheet music, with improvised words and melody, with book readings, with acting, mostly with poems - we provided the soundtrack, and rarely did the band miss the mark.  We had, in certain instances, some rather "off" nights - we'd show-up hung-over, strung-out, hating each other and everyone; Brant was unwaveringly supportive of every single person I brought into the fold, and every note, every utterance we had to offer.  Each show, in his mind, was better than the last.  POEMUSIC happened and he insisted he couldn't do it without us.  In truth - it never would've occured without him. 

He would rarely miss any of our other gigs, oftentimes showing up alone to endure what was occasionally an awful scene of disarray, especially as my marriage unraveled in front of him.  He continued his unwavering support of me - the person, as much as the musician - in all instances of our working relationship, which really turned into a full-fledged friendship.  There was never an idea that he did not toss my way first, before coming to his conclusion on it.  There was never an opportunity to propagate our collective talents that he did not pursue with an ardent furvor.  There was never a time he ever was angry with me, even short with me.  Our last meeting was left with him looking sickly and scared, but smiling.  He knew that I was always in his corner, I hope.  I knew he was always - and will always be - in mine. 

And those are the words I can muster.  It's been a long May.  June - be good to us. Brant - be good in the next. 

-dp