It’s raining in the Bay Area this morning, drops splashing on the windshield of a wealthy person’s office-bound Lexus piloted at a crawl along chewed-up freeways as surely as they wet the day laborers with heads hung low shuffling on and off public transportation, praying no one will ask if they’re supposed to be here or not. There has always been a note of curiosity as to why a country such as Mexico, so widely heralded by those here demanding it be revered by all, is one so many there eagerly escape. But I digress.
A home-cooked Lost Dogs compilation plays on the iPod. Songs both new and dating back a decade and a half sit comfortably next to each other in the playing order, honed by skilled tunesmiths whose individual talents often approach brilliance. Together, they push each other even further, forming a breathtaking whole heard by the fortunate few. Yet this morning, there is a touch of the melancholy in the music reflecting the dingy gray sky.
Gene Eugene is singing, the slightly mad genius who whether with the Lost Dogs or his own band Adam Again created haunting moments never to be forgotten. He wrote not so much songs as stilettos, slicing through all the false defenses and paper tigers guarding the secrets we believe to be locked away in our heart, revealing the fears and sorrows of even those who believe. Especially for those who believe, really; always pointing toward the refuge in Christ as the only refuge. I’d love to interview him for the new book…
… but I can’t. He died in March of 2000.
Listening to the work the Lost Dogs have recorded since his death reminds one of two things. One, the quality has remained unparalleled. Two, even with this quality, there is undeniably a voice missing, a part not played, in every song. The band never replaced Eugene, for he cannot be replaced. Rather, it has continued with the unspoken acknowledgment of one no longer here, heard via absence.
To a much lesser degree in terms of importance, the same can be said of this year’s NASCAR season. From Daytona until now, something has been missing. For whatever reason — too much money, too much pressure, too long a length, whatever — in lieu of exhilaration it has generated exhaustion, a weary wish for it to end. It has nothing to do with results, even though the detested by many Jimmie Johnson has nothing except possible misfortune out of his control between himself and hoisting the trophy next Sunday at Homestead. There has been no joy, no delight. Only gray, as plain and draining as the clouds in this morning’s sky.
I miss Gene Eugene. I won’t miss this season. Not in the least.
