Duck

Our bass player Doyle recently shared this reflection by music critic Ann Powers with the band message thread. It’s about the state of music criticism in the wake of Pitchfork’s gutting by Conde Nast. I was especially struck by this idea in Powers’ piece:

“Maybe what a writer finds inside an album or a song is ... something she'd forgotten about her own life story, of the hidden coves of her own feeling. Maybe the sonic innovations she confronts cause her to use language in a different way, and what she ends up with is a kind of poetry.”

Some of you will remember Throttle Magazine. Doyle wrote dozens of reviews in its pages, and when I read several in the Library of Virginia’s archive online I was reminded of what a thoughtful writer he is. I asked him if he’d like to share any work here on “Greater Humanity” that might reflect on the themes we’ve been addressing as we approach the release of New Love Stories. He sent the beautiful remembrance below. I hope you find it as moving as I did.

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When I was 15, my friend Rob received a guitar for his birthday and decided that he and I, along with my brother David and our friend Andy, should form a band. Andy had a snare drum left over from his brother’s earlier dalliance with music. David bought a guitar like Rob’s. I would be the bass player.

I had been deeply depressed, struggling with changes brought on by adolescence and a change in schools. My self-esteem needed a boost. Being in a band seemed just the solution. Unfortunately, it did not come easily.

Rob and David were gifted with ears that could pick out notes and patterns with relative ease, but I found it a frustrating mystery. For months, Rob figured out bass parts and patiently showed them to me. In practices and at gigs, I tried to project confidence, but I felt like a fraud. A hobby I’d hoped would imbue me with confidence was beyond my reach. When band practices were over, I started leaving my bass on the floor of the garage, like a discarded garden tool.

My favorite musicians were The Clash, Elvis Costello, and Squeeze. In reviews and interviews I noticed references to a band called Booker T & the MG’s, who had a bass player with the unlikely name of “Duck” Dunn. On my next record-store visit I bought two greatest-hits collections. 

I had never heard music so cool. The grooves were intense but laid-back, the sound was thick and powerful but clear, and for the first time, I could hear the bass clearly. I grabbed my bass, began to play along ... and it was as if a veil had lifted. The songs fell under my fingers with relative ease. What this “Duck” guy played made sense to me.

Duck Dunn, circa 1967.

Eventually my skills improved, but Duck remained my touchstone. I marveled at the way he could inject soul, drive, and sensitivity into so many settings. I’d put on Otis Redding’s “Live in Europe” and play along from start to finish. When a reissue of a Fender Precision bass that looked like Duck’s appeared in my local music store, I pooled my savings and begged an advance on my birthday so I could buy it.

As time went on, I became a better and more confident bass player. Through music, bandmates became friends. I met sweet young women who became girlfriends, and married the best of them. My wife and I worked jobs, raised children, spent time with friends, and cared for our aging parents.

I met Duck late in his life. Booker T & the MG’s played the 9:30 Club in 2008. My wife and I arrived early, located Duck’s amp onstage, and stayed rooted to the spot in front of it. During the first few songs, Duck’s playing was a little tentative. Booker would introduce a song and Duck would look down at his bass with a quizzical look, sometimes saying out loud, “I hope I remember this one!” After a chord change or two, muscle memory would kick in, and a look of confidence would come across his face. My wife would shout, “You’ve got it, Duck!” and he’d nod in agreement.

After the show, Duck stepped to the front of the stage to shake hands with fans. He was a giant to me, but he looked old, exhausted. I wanted to convey how much he meant to me, but that was impossible. I grasped the hand that had plucked its way through so much music and history. All I could manage was “Thank you, Duck!”

For most of the two hours home we drove in silence. Just the sound of the engine and tires on asphalt. In person, Donald “Duck” Dunn seemed less like a legend and more like family. He was just three years younger than my mother. Arthritis and age were slowing down Mom, as they were slowing down Duck. He had battled throat cancer and had lost a son to an automobile accident. He was a guy with a bass who started off making music with his friends, who had a family, who was getting older. Like me.

As the drive continued, I began to see much more clearly who I was, where I was in life, and where I was going. Duck Dunn, God bless him, was once again showing me the way.

Doyle tracks a bassline for New Love Stories at Minimum Wage Recording in Richmond. 

Duck Dunn on Wikipedia.

Duck Dunn’s obituary.