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Dear Roger,
I dreamed about you last night. We were at a big club or ska festival, and for some reason you decided I should be the one to show you around. I had to go help someone else but you were happy to wait for me, a big smile on your perfect face.
You died yesterday. You asshole. I cried for an hour. You were only 56. You were supposed to live to see your book published, to tour on your latest record, to maybe let me see you perform one more time. You were way, way too fucking young to die.
I only saw you once. We spoke briefly, but you wouldn’t remember it. It was in the sound booth at Metro in Chicago. In 1992, on that first Special Beat tour. But I need to explain how I got there in the first place.
I never saw the original Beat play. I was too young. Doing the math, when this early Beat show happened, you were 17. And I was only 8.
I had no idea what ska was until I met my college boyfriend, a DJ at the college radio station. Through him, I discovered this whole other world that made me see, hear, even think differently.
99% of the people on my college campus looked like they had stepped out of the L.L. Bean catalog. Most of them were studying to become lawyers, engineers, management consultants. But the ska world was something else entirely. Punk rockers, mods, and people from Jamaica! Chic vintage suits and dresses! Musicians whose lives and backgrounds were wildly different from mine, whose fucked up senses of humor both challenged me and made me laugh until my stomach hurt.
And the music itself – the offbeats and the horns and the energy – it made me feel so ALIVE. Granted, it took a few shows for me to “get it.” I was intimidated by all the cool kids, and maybe the first few bands I saw live weren’t that great? But then we drove to a restaurant in a Chicago suburb to see this new California band called Lets Go Bowling. And that was it. I was hooked. I was in love. I was ALL IN.
Once my boyfriend realized I was into the music, he spent an afternoon with me, making a proper mix tape from original vinyl. He started with the Skatalites, Desmond Dekker, Toots. Worked his way into 2-Tone. For your band, he chose Ackee 1-2-3 and Hands Off She’s Mine. He used to like to hug me and sing the chorus of the latter. After some Specials, Bodysnatchers, etc. he got into the (then) modern stuff of Bim Skala Bim, NY Citizens, Scofflaws. He carefully decorated the case with ska clip art and wrote me a little love letter on the inside about how the only thing better than these songs was the time we spent together while making the tape. I still have it somewhere, I think.
By the time Special Beat formed, my boyfriend was the guy promoting local shows, making the flyers, dropping them off all over town, and DJ-ing before and between bands at Metro. As his permanent “plus-one,” I got to hang out in the sound booth too. It was about as high as the stage, so no one could block my view, with room enough to dance behind the lights guy and the sound guy. It was my favorite place in the world.
I was so excited for the Special Beat show. I loved your voice on those old records and couldn't wait to hear it live. I'm sure I put on my best vintage dress and took extra time with my makeup that night. An hour or so before your set that night, you walked into the sound booth. I froze. My god, you were the most stunningly beautiful man I’d ever seen in real life. Cheekbones up to here, wide and gentle face, hair not quite to your jaw, your presence somehow radiating quiet humility and total confidence at the same time. I waited until you were done talking to the sound guy and then approached you, shaking, to ask if you’d play “Stand Down Margaret.” You smiled (I melted) and said something like you didn’t play that one anymore because Thatcher had finally resigned. I don’t remember if I told you my name.
I hate that I can’t find video of that show online because it was perfect. You and Neville in your white boilersuits, racing back and forth across the stage with wireless mics, while Finny from the Loafers channeled his best Terry Hall. You didn’t seem to run so much as float. You made it look so… effortless. I found a video of that same tour (linked from your photo above) when you were in Japan. I’ve watched it at least 10 times since I heard the news yesterday. I start crying when you get to the “goodbye everybody” part.
From this fan’s perspective, your music, your stage presence, your life’s work – they were all about creating and spreading joy and unity. I’ve been thinking a lot about how most people measure success in terms of what they acquire or consume: Cars, homes, job titles, expensive shoes, fancy restaurant dinners, etc. We’re so sick as a culture that we even talk about our possessions as things that “spark joy.”
I’ve spent most of my life as a consumer, not as a creator. This is largely because I don’t have confidence in my ability to create anything valuable or meaningful. That needs to change. I’ve got to put my head down and figure out what I can offer the world, not what the world can offer me. I don’t know what that will look like, but writing this letter to you is one way I’m reminding myself. When the tears dry and I’m done dancing to YouTube videos, I’ve got work to do.
Thank you. For everything. If there is a heaven, you’ve got enough ska people up there now for the ultimate supergroup.
Jobs, careers, and callings
Last week I asked if you thought of your work as a job, a career, or a calling. Some good responses:
"My job is also my career and sometimes I’m passionate about it because it’s worthwhile and meaningful (relatedness) work but it’s also something I’m extremely good at (competence). I’m a natural for the career and profession I’ve chosen (but sometimes I feel like it chose me) and, thus, I’m trusted which leads to daily autonomy…. I’ve found the most happiness in enjoying my passion separate from my paycheck. This gives the space for me to create and 'be' in the passion as I prefer. My paycheck and career are still important to me, yet knowing I have a whole other outlet that gives me satisfaction helps me to do both, not take the work so seriously and not be so invested in the outcomes, politics, and ups and downs of job and career."
"I feel lucky because as a college graduate, I had a 'passion' and a 'calling' but also a blue-collar work ethic and parents who scoffed at the idea that work should 'fulfill you.' So as an intern, I did every task with gusto, never whined, took initiative, submitted ideas without asking for credit—basically worked hard and stayed humble. I continued that when hired as an assistant. I do remember times a few years into my career when I felt entitled to a promotion before I was given one but don't we all? Eventually I did get all the promotions and finally left when my daughter was one. Now that I have a passion-filled, satisfying freelance career as well as the stresses of cash flow, parenthood, and terrible benefits, I wonder if I should just go get a 'job' and keep the passion on the side. We shall see!"
Good stuff
For next week
From a reader: "What do you do when teams at your firm think that this place (basically a Hooters) is a perfectly fine place to conduct a team meeting? Not social hour. Actual work. Because ‘it has TVs so we can also keep up with March Madness.’ Is it ever OK? For a social hour? IMO this is not work appropriate. How do others handle this? HR is useless."
My immediate reactions are no, nope, and oh hell no. But I've never had to deal with this IRL. Readers, have you? Any suggestions here? As always, you can reply directly to this email and anything I share will be anonymous.
Pass it on
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