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I was nineteen the first time I met him.  I'd just gotten a copy of About to Choke, was just beginning to fall in love with Vic Chesnutt's southern-cerebral storytelling.  My friend Liz, whom I met in fourth grade during a spazzy softball practice, is Vic's niece, and though we'd known each other and grown up in the same town, Liz and I had become fast friends again like we'd only just met when we were reunited one summer when we were eighteen. 

Liz had a gig in Athens opening for Vic and I was to accompany her on stage at the 40 Watt.  It was like my big debut.  Even though I was just singing some harmonies and playing some guitar fills, I was opening up for a man who was fast becoming my hero.  Not only that, I was staying at his house.  I was going to be hanging out with him!  Practicing in his garage. 

On the way to Athens in the car, I'd begun to imagine just how cool and impressive I was going to be, how I would regale him with stories that would just charm him to pieces.  But Liz warned me - she could already see the overeager rising in me - Vic was sometimes a little intimidating.  Instantly, I was rightfully sedated. 

When we arrived at the house, through the front screened porch and into the living room, Vic was at the piano in the dining room, cooing in falsetto, "Hellooo, Liz, how are youeewwww?" over sparsely laid chords.  "And how's your-a li-tuh-la frieyeennnnnd?"  Vic's sense of humor permeated everything, whether he was manic-happy, pissed as all get out or despondant and couldn't be convinced otherwise.  His wit cut through everything, right down to the root of what made something funny.  And anything could be funny.  Yet, it could be wholly inappropriate to laugh.

That weekend, I was fortunate enough to play in ensemble with Vic and Tina on Liz's songs as well as some of Vic's.  After our show, we stayed up late eating pizza, listening to stories from Vic and Tina about friends (none of whom I knew) as they caught Liz up on friend and family gossip.  I had a few more weekends such as this one at that age, a gift that I still cannot figure out how I was lucky enough to recieve. 

Vic's ability to tell a story through song was supported by its conversational lilt.  Never obtuse, each song's characters were rich and fully formed, the story wholly livable.  Vic's stories were so often pulled from his own life, establishing an intimacy with his listeners that created some of the most fanatical followers I've ever come across.  An obssessed fan could seem completely normal when they first approached Vic for an autograph, and, within seconds, would morph into crazy.  These people would feel so touched by his songs that they felt they knew him, owned him. 

Vic was gracious to his fans, friends, and to all who knew him.  Full of equal parts love and disdain for his fellow humans and himself, every album contained a hard earned life lesson or ten that Vic passed on to us.  Warnings of what might arise if we didn't straighten up and fly right.  Warnings that couldn't come from your father because they were too frank and bleak.

Truly, I have often lived vicariously through Liz, shying away from personal, full conversations with Vic out of fear of embarassment.  Instead, I watched their interactions from the sidelines, listened intently to every story she told about her own time with him.    The older I got, the more shy I became, the more I needed to simply observe him and listen to him talk to others.

A couple of months ago, I saw Vic for what I somehow felt would be the last time.  I found myself unusually stumbling to speak when we approached him at the Bowry Ballroom during load in.  I smiled and nodded dumbly as Liz talked, and finally managed to croak out some pleasantry such as, "Really great to see you."  Everyone was a nervous wreck that night.  The opening band was gimmicky and slick and just didn't fit with the earthy Georgian folk of Liz and Vic.  All my senses heightened, when Vic and his amazing ensemble began their first song, I felt as though my heart was pushing through my solar plexus. 

That night at the Bowry and the following night at the Music Hall of Williamsburg will remain epic in my memory for both the immense artistry of those two performances and for being the very last time I got to see Vic Chesnutt perform, the very last time I was near him, had the opportunity to thank him for all that he has taught me, lo these 13 years, and didn't. 

So now, Vic, posthumously, I thank you. 

I continue to learn... 

Here is a nice tribute someone posted on YouTube to Vic's song, "I Flirted With You All My Life."

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