Rick Danko

When I posted the poll about Rick's signature song with The Band, I was hoping for a hundred responses. I knew, as I'm sure all of you did, that "It Makes No Difference" would be the winner--but I had no idea that more than 500 votes would be cast (as of today, there are 538) and that more than 65 percent would be for IMND. I really thought "Stage Fright" would be a close second, not a distant one, with only 21.9 percent. What surprises me the most, though, is that "Twilight" is in last place--and with only 2 percent of the vote.

Interestingly, only 56.6 percent of the 332 people who've voted so far on Rick's signature solo song chose "Sip the Wine," which I really thought would win by a landslide. Please keep the votes coming.

Please check out my new blog/site for Rick,
Sip the Wine, where I have been and will be posting stories, interviews, press clips, photos, and other Rick-related tidbits regularly.

When I created this site, I'd originally set out to make a fixed "page" or information site about Rick that would contain the basics, and also point to lots of other resources on The Band and related artists and topics.

It quickly morphed (happily!) into a more comprehensive site, but this format has its limitations: everything appears as one page, meaning that you have to do a lot of scrolling. In addition, the number and size of photos I can add is very limited. Plus, to see comments, you need to scroll all the way to the end of what is becoming a large site. It is hard on the eyes, too.

I am going to keep this site in place, because it has lots of good features, and I will continue to add to it just as regularly. But, I am linking to a much more user-friendly blog site as well, which will contain everything that is here, plus more pictures, quicker and easier navigation, and more room for comments. The address is www.sipthewine.blogspot.com Here is the link:
Rick Danko

It needs a lot of work (fonts, colors, etc.)--I have just started it--but it is up and running, and I will be adding and archiving regularly. Please comment and let me know what you like and don't like.

In addition, I will, at some point soon, have an interim Band website up and running. The address will be www.thebandonline.org. Nothing is up yet...stay tuned.

Sometimes I forget how long it's been that Rick's been gone. I forget that there's a new generation of fans and that not every fan has had the opportunity to have seen Rick perform in person.

Some artists were born for the studio--you can listen to their entire catalog on record and have a good understanding of the artist.

But Rick Danko was born to perform; you can't get a real feel for what Rick was like as an artist without knowing a little bit about his shows. For that reason, I've made a list of seven of Rick's "essential" live-performance songs. The "seven" was arbitrary--it could have been eight or ten; there are many more. So please don't think this list refers to the only important songs. After I compiled the list, in fact, I thought of five more "essentials."

But for now, here's the list I've chosen:

1. Crazy Mama
2. Mystery Train
3. When I get My Rewards
4. He Stopped Lovin' Her Today
5. Train of Love
6. Chain Gang
7. Rivers of Babylon

To read more about each song--and why it was picked for the "essential" list--check out my Rick site/blog, www.sipthewine.blogspot.com.

If you laughed--or winced--at the above title, you probably know more about Rick than you think you do.

Rick and cars had a love/hate relationship. Rick loved cars, but cars didn't always love Rick. In 1968, Rick had a very bad car accident--the first, the worst, but not the only--which he was lucky to survive. He'd taken his soon-to-be first wife Grace's rare and ultra-expensive Bristol out for a spin, and that's what he did--spin.

Rick ended up in traction and out of commission for many weeks and, though extremely fortunate to be alive, he suffered many broken bones and serious neck and back injuries, which would cause him pain for the rest of his life. While in traction, he also made another decision that one can partially attribute to the metal screws in his head at the time--but that's a story we'll get to later.

In the meantime, here are some other basic vital stats about Rick Danko:

Full name: Richard Clare Danko
Birthdate: December 29, 1943 (though "officially," it is December 29, 1942; that is an error that has been perpetuated for four decades).
Birthplace: Greens Corners, near Simcoe, Ontario
Parents: Maurice ("Tom") and Leola Danko
Siblings: Three brothers, two (Maurice, a/k/a Junior, and Dennis), older; one (Terry), younger.
Spouse: Elizabeth Grafton Danko
Children: Lisa Danko, Eli Danko (d. 1989), and stepson Justin Grafton Danko.
Awards: Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductee, Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award recipient, Juno Lifetime Achievement Award recipient, Spellemans Pris Award winner, Honorary Ralph Kramden "Raccoon of the Year" Award recipient.
Favorite Foods: All
Favorite Drinks: Cognac (pref. Hennessy), followed by milkshakes of various flavors.
Favorite Sayings: "Got a Minute," followed closely by "Pay attention," "F**k that," and "I'll be right back."
Date of Admittance into Rock & Roll Heaven: December 10, 1999

Anyone who followed Rick's career--and especially those who attended his live shows--in the '80s and '90s will remember Sredni Vollmer. For a good part of both decades, Sredni accompanied Rick--and sometimes The Band as well--as both a harmonica player and a backup/harmony singer.

If you were fortunate enough to have seen Rick and Sredni as a duo--a very frequent configuration-- you may remember Sred as highly animated, sometimes almost visually comical in his delivery--contorting his slim-as-a-whip body every which way as he found notes on that harp some of us didn't even know existed, long hair disheveled, eyes closed, one eyebrow raised as he belted out "Little Red Rooster" or "Walkin' Blues" while Rick happily accompanied him with his stacatto acoustic Tock-a-Meanie guitar, smiling from ear to ear as he watched Sredni channeling Joe Cocker.

I've always felt that Sredni's musicianship was underrated; he may have been, in some ways, a musical Tonto or Robin (though, somehow, I can't see Rick as a musical Lone Ranger or Batman), but he was so much more. Rick knew that and he appreciated it. And so did the audience. It was not unusual for fans to shout "SRED-NEE!" in between the many calls of "DANK-OH!!"--he had his own legion of fans.

Of all the musicians who accompanied Rick in a supportive capacity over the years, I think Sredni was one of the most talented, perhaps the most versatile, and definitely the most humble. Not only was he a great player, he also was secure enough in his own musicianship to play in a way that let Rick really shine. There was no ego trip. He was happy to take the "back seat," though Rick never treated him as a "passenger."

Rick talked about Sredni often in interviews, telling the world, in his goofy Rick Danko way, "he sounds just like an aviary."

Their on-stage rapport was a true give-and-take; as I've said before, Sred knew when to come on strong or take a solo, when to ride, when to hold back. He had an intuitive knack for knowing just where Rick was gonna go musically or vocally at any given moment--no easy task--and he just went for that ride so effortlessly.

Whenever I think of Sredni, I smile. If you haven't heard Rick with Sredni backing him, try to find some audio or video. You'll smile, too.

I've received a ton of emails and phone calls in the past couple of days from friends and fans and some people I've never met or even heard of-all of whom feel a bit out of sorts.

These are not obsessive people with no lives of their own, but really nice, intelligent, friendly folks for whom checking Jan's site has been as much a part of their daily routines over the years as brushing their teeth or having their morning coffee. Things now feel a little off-kilter; there's something comforting about conjuring up that familiar image of our five friends with just a couple of mouse clicks. I understand the feeling; I feel that way myself. Rick's not here-well, not physically-so it's been nice to know that I can sort of summon him at will, even for just a split second, and even just to my desktop, by clicking that bookmarked "Band site."

But look at it another way: These guys had a devout following and a strong, looming legacy for three decades before Jan's wonderful site tied everything together in one big friendly place. And that legacy will continue ad infinitum. Because the music will continue ad infinitum.

It's not over, guys. There will be more. Please stay in touch with me, with the other sites, with each other, and stay tuned. I am working on a few things and will keep you posted as they develop. In addition, for Rick's fans, in the coming days and weeks, I will be archiving some of the material here to another site, which will be easily linked to this one, and will also include photos. I will give you the URL soon. I also will be adding new material and links regularly. Rick ain't goin' nowhere. Remember what he always said: He was "easy to get to know, and impossible to get rid of." The same goes for The Band: once they're in your life, they're in your life forever.

On June 1, my friend Jan Hoiberg, founder and operator of The Band's "absolutely unofficial official" website, the man who put the "master" in webmaster, announced that, after 14--yes, 14--years of keeping the Band flame burning bright, his incredible (and much loved) site would be going dark.

As anyone who's ever visited Jan's site knows, The Band website is (sorry--can't yet bring myself to say "was") much more than just a music site. When it comes to resources on The Band, Jan's site is as close to the Be All and End All is you can get.

To some, it may seem silly that the closing of a website can elicit an emotional reaction. But, silly as it may seem, I am a bit emotional about it, and I know others are, too. Not because the site is closing, per se, but because of what its closing represents: another ending.

When Jan first launched his site in 1994, the Internet as a reliable, valid resource was still a novel concept. Quite honestly, I didn't pay much attention to it at first. I was in the midst of working with Rick then and I was almost (I said almost) as clueless as he was about the Net. We were doing everything--correspondence, advancing gigs, sending out promo and press materials--manually then, and the height of "high technology" in music publicity was the "broadcast fax." Going online meant emailing, or maybe checking out a very basic website, which served primarily as a backup for the "real" (i.e., hard copy) stuff. I was still sending out black-and-white press photos in Rick's press kits, which included the asterisked message: "Color slides available upon request."

It was quite a long time--I don't remember exactly how long, but I'm thinking perhaps two or three years--before we realized that this "Internet thing" not only wasn't going away, it was actually a valuable resource and tool.

It took another two or three years before Rick stopped telling people The Band had a site on the "World Wide Web" (he was a little slow when it came to non-music-related technology). But eventually, he caught on, and just started calling it "The Band site," which he thought was the bee's knees.

All I knew about the site was that it was run by a guy in Norway who was an ardent Band fan and who was a teacher or something. In time, I got to know Jan Hoiberg as an extremely intelligent, very kind, very funny guy who had no ulterior motive, no agenda, and nothing to gain--except, that is, for the love, respect, and admiration of The Band, their staff, and their family, friends, and fans. I hope that has meant something to him, because he means so very much to all who love our guys.

Jan worked tirelessly to keep his incredible site not just afloat, but extremely current. It was easy to navigate, extremely comprehensive, and an invaluable resource. Soon, it became The Band Bible.

Without getting too gushy and mushy (I know--too late), I want to thank Jan for his many years as the Keeper of the Flame. That flame, in large part because of Jan and his unconditional love, will never be extinguished.

It's kind of sad--no, very sad--that, particularly in the last decade or so, many fans of The Band have felt the need to choose one of two camps: the Levon Helm camp or the Robbie Robertson camp. And those who don't-or can't-choose feel somehow disloyal to their favorite member.

Choosing "sides" not only is silly and a waste of time, it detracts from the legacy of one of the greatest bands (and, in my opinion, the greatest band) in music. Every member of The Band contributed something unique, beautiful, and vital. The "Hamlet without the Prince" bullshit that has been perpetuated in the media for years is the kind of crap that creates discord and dissension. If you're new to The Band, don't let it sway you. Let the music speak for itself. The Band was not Hamlet. There was no star--it was an ensemble cast. "Dixie" would not have been "Dixie" if Robbie Robertson had sung it-or if Richard or Rick had sung it. "It Makes No Difference" would not have been "It Makes No Difference" if Levon Helm had sung it. If Levon is your favorite Band member, it does not mean that Robbie is a lousy guitarist. If Robbie is your favorite member, it does not mean that Levon sucks. The personal stuff is--or should be--just that: personal.

There was no "leader" of The Band in the omniscient sense. Each member of The Band was and is a strong and charismatic personality in his own right, yet, at their best, they blended so seamlessly into an ensemble; they became five parts of a unit. Why did they blend so seamlessly--and how? Because each member was there for the music, and because, when it came to The Band as a whole, the sum of all the parts was greater than any individual part--they all knew it, and checked their egos at the door.

When they went their separate ways, or when they worked individually on a side or solo project or another collaboration, their individual strengths came to the fore. When it comes to singing, no one would ever mistake Robbie Robertson for Aaron Neville. And when it comes to songwriting, I don't think anyone's comparing Levon Helm to Bob Dylan. But why is that bad? Why is it taboo to say that Robbie wasn't the strongest singer, or that songwriting wasn't Rick's metier? Could Rick have written "Unfaithful Servant" with the same structure and lyrical complexity as Robbie? Could Robbie have sung "Unfaithful Servant" with the same passion and yearning as Rick?

Because I happen to love Rick, does that mean I would say his songwriting was Holland-Dozier-Holland-caliber? I believe that's called pandering. And it's something Rick, like most artists who are secure in their talents, hated. By the same token, because he wasn't Cole Porter does not mean that he didn't or couldn't write songs--and quite a few really good songs.

It's just all so ridiculous. I mean, no one criticizes Robbie for not being as good a drummer as Levon, or Rick for not being able to play the organ like Garth--because, just like most of the criticisms and comparisons, it would be ludicrous.

Please don't allow the legacy of The Band to disintegrate into the Hatfields and the McCoys of rock and roll. That would be tragic. Don't let the music get lost in the shuffle. And please, don't let Rick's or Richard's legacies be tarnished by hatred. For all of his life, Rick was able to rise above the bullshit, make great music, and shine on his own. Let's make that for all eternity.

It has always hurt me that Rick missed the turn of the century--and the millennium. Of course, I feel that way about all the loved ones I have lost, but Rick died so close to the beginning of a new era; if he was destined to leave this earth, why couldn't it have been a little later?

Rick talked about "the new millennium" (of course, he also probably just liked saying the word "millennium") and was looking forward to doing new things-shows, recordings, collaborations. But there was a twinge--the slightest twinge--of melancholia about him that made the tiniest little dent in that indomitable enthusiasm of his. I do think, in hindsight-though, for the longest time, I resisted this notion--that he knew by the summer or early fall of '99, in a very deep part of himself that he wasn't even conscious of, that he wasn't long for this world.

In those last couple of months, he seemed a bit more outwardly philosophical and mellow than he had been before. And reflective, too. There was something melancholy about him then that hadn't been there previously. Looking back, I think it made me a little uneasy, because Rick was always a master of evasion and always--outwardly, at least--tried to keep on the sunny side. But now he was talking about his family, and his childhood, and people he'd lost in ways that he hadn't in the past. There was a longing in him that I'm sure had always been there, but now he wasn't fighting it. It even broke through a little in the last few recorded interviews he did. And I think I just froze and blocked it--because I'd witnessed that wistful schema before, in my parents and in others, and I knew what the outcome eventually was in all those other cases.

Of course, hindsight is 20/20; it's easy to see this now. But, back then, I just chalked it up--consciously, that is--to the fact that he was a little older now; maybe even Rick wasn't immune to age.

It wasn't all doom and gloom--in fact, there was no doom and gloom. Rick never complained and hated talking about problems, though he'd gladly listen to everyone else's. It was that gnawing sense of wistfulness in him that unnerved me but, again, it was subtle.

We talked about some funny stuff, too. He was talking about cellphones and email and wanted to "learn computers." I kept telling him that he didn't have to say "www" every time he mentioned the website in a radio interview, because it always tripped him up and then he'd forget the name of the site. "Come on, Pops, you gotta get wit da program," I joked. Of course, he laughed.

I remember one of the last outdoor shows he did, at Opus 40 during Labor Day weekend, 1999, with John Hall, Robbie Dupree, and others. While one of the openers was gearing up, Rick was sitting on the stone steps talking to some fans who'd gathered, and puffing away on his ever-present Merits. I looked out at the crowded space and saw a raft of greybeards in tie-dyes. And then I looked at Rick, who still reminded me of a kid, smiling constantly and looking and seeming younger than just about everyone in the audience, most of whom were his age or younger. I said "Whoo, man! Look at this crowd. I feel young in this group!" and Rick laughed and said "So now, imagine how I feel!" Everyone laughed.

Rick went onstage and kicked ass. It was a happy day, but I had tears in my eyes watching him perform. Afterward, I said goodbye to Rick, grabbed my husband and my baby, and hightailed it out of Woodstock.

I didn't know it then, but it was the end of an era.

Since this site is not just for die-hards, but for everyone, including those who may have heard Rick's name but not much more, here is a short list of songs you must know in order to have a basic understanding of Rick's music throughout his career, with and without The Band. No angry emails, please! This is just a primer; I'll get to the heavy stuff later--I promise.

1. It Makes No Difference. Clearly, this is Rick's signature song (check out the poll response graph, below). Whether or not it is his greatest doesn't really matter. If you haven't heard "It Makes No Difference," you don't know Rick Danko's music. Listen not just to the studio version (released originally on 1975's Northern Lights, Southern Cross) but the Last Waltz version, too.

2. The Unfaithful Servant. Once you've absorbed "It Makes No Difference," you're ready to move onto the next step. That would be "The Unfaithful Servant," recorded in 1969 and released on The Band, which lots of people consider Music From Big Pink, Volume II. This song is not everyone's cup of tea largely because, like most things worth having or knowing, it is not easy. You can listen to it a hundred times and hear something new each time. But one thing doesn't change: the power, passion, and longing in the vocal. My suggestion is to listen to the song on it's own before listening to the rest of the album. Then, listen to it again in the context of the record. You should be well on your way to conversion--or perhaps, if you're a longtime fan, rediscovery.

3. Stage Fright. Another song with which Rick was strongly identified. I always considered this 1970 song from the album of the same name Rick's "Brown Eyed Girl"--a song that became at once his signature and his Scarlet Letter. It's that young, trembling, insecure country bumpkin voice; yes, it's Rick, but only one (relatively short-lived) facet of Rick. "Stage Fright" became synonymous with Rick, and helped perpetuate the myth of the rags-to-riches country boy turned rock star. Rick's voice quickly outgrew the song, but he sang it at virtually every show throughout his life, dropping keys accordingly along the way.

4. Sip the Wine. The showcase song from Rick's eponymous first solo album, this gem highlights Rick's mid-era vocals. For many casual Band fans, it was, for years, a rarity they knew only from the snippet that is played in the famous soundboard scene with Rick and Martin Scorcese in The Last Waltz. All the teenage girls I knew who fell in love with Rick Danko at that point in the film searched in vain for that record--or for someone who knew what it was called--for the longest time. Remember, there was no Internet then and the scene and song snippet is cut short in the film by Robbie in his stage-prop hat waxing poetic about his surreal existence as a road warrior. So, it remained an obscurity for many fans for years. It's as beautiful a vocal as anything Rick did before or after. So what if "there comes a time when we must sip the wine" means nothing? It doesn't matter. Rick could be singing the "gobble gobble, we accept you" chant and you'd still get lost in his voice. Find a better solo performance by a Band member on any album in any year--I dare you. No--I double dare you!

5. Too Soon Gone. This gorgeous song from 1993's Jericho is rife with pain and beauty. It is for all the people Rick lost-his parents, his boy, his brother Richard, his band mate Stan-and for all those we've all lost. There's a little bit of that old, familiar quiver, as if he's struggling to share that grieving part of his soul. You will cry, but it will be worth it.

6. Blue River. This song, written by Eric Andersen, was inspired by Rick when it was written two decades before this 1991 recording with Danko Fjeld Andersen. Rick's voice is lush, deep, and mellow. That vulnerability that makes us want to tell him to be sure to wear his scarf when it's cold outside is back-this time tempered by the insight-and hindsight-of a man who has done a lot of living.

7. Book Faded Brown. Say hello to Rick Danko, elder statesman. Rick had been singing this song, released on The Band's 1998 album Jubilation, for quite some time before he recorded it. It is a poignant and beautiful song that was close to Rick's heart. It will surely break yours.

Longtime Band fans know that Rick's voice and his singing style changed markedly over the years. Of course, every singer's voice changes a bit with age-think Van Morrison on "Cyprus Avenue" versus Van Morrison on "Lonely Avenue"-but Rick's vocals were an ever-evolving work in progress all of his life.

Though Rick's voice is almost always highly recognizable as Rick--even as far back as "Liza Jane," which, oddly, is more reminiscent of Rick's singing in his later years than are some of his late 60s-ealy 70s signature Band songs, such as "When You Awake" and even "Stage Fright"--an astute ear can hear changes from year to year, album to album. There are subtle differences from Big Pink to The Band, and major differences from, say, Cahoots to Islands. Over the years, the quivering tenor quivered a bit less, replaced by a richer, smoother sound; the enunciation became more subtle, more fluid, less choppy; and, of course, the voice became deeper and warmer.

Much of the progression coincided with Rick's development and maturation as a live performer. More than the other members of The Band, Rick identified himself mainly as a performing musician. He needed the energy of the audience and the rush of performing; he was not content to work in a vacuum because he could not derive the kind of satisfaction that live performance gave him. He did not fancy himself a studio musician, nor did he fancy himself a songwriter-though both of those talents sort of came with the territory and developed accordingly. (Though Rick wrote his first song--a simple reverie "about a cowboy riding a horse"--when he was just a pre-teen, and though he did come back to songwriting and developed it in his later years, songwriting was not his passion. Performing was.)

When it came to performing, stringed instruments of all kinds were his forte and, very early on--in his first school performance as a small child, when he flubbed a part--he learned that good timing and a sense of humor could save his ass in a pinch. He would go on to "work on his comedy," which came in handy when he forgot a line every once in a great while.

For most of his youth as a performer, Rick's singing consisted largely of harmonies and background vocals; it was strictly utilitarian. By the mid 60s, even Bob Dylan realized that his voice was not just a tool, it was something extraordinary, and he became the first "backing" musician to harmonize with Dylan--on "One Too Many Mornings."

It took many years, however, for Rick to become truly confident about his vocals as a primary "instrument." He was a musician first, a singer second. Beginning in the late 70s, when he ventured out on tour--the first Band member to tour on his own--as a solo artist fronting his own band, he briefly played lead guitar and became a front man. While the transition was easy on record, on stage, it was a role he was initially shy about. But that first solo tour was, in retrospect, a practice run; Rick learned a lot. Singing lead while playing lead guitar is a lot different than singing harmony while playing bass--or even singing lead while playing bass. Somehow Rick and electric lead guitar were not a natural fit; he was not comfortable with the histrionics of it.

In the early to mid 80s, both as a solo artist and, beginning in 1983, with The Band, Rick began playing acoustic guitar a great deal. His voice became a primary instrument, holding equal ground with--and often stealing the spotlight from--his bass playing and acoustic guitar playing. What he did on stage and on record in the ensuing years was akin to vocal Pilates. Though The Last Waltz supposedly ended The Band's career, it was actually a new beginning for Rick. It gave him the opportunity to find his own voice--and gave a whole new generation of fans the opportunity to discover the musical and vocal versatility of Rick Danko.

Among his many musical talents, Rick had a real knack--an affinity, even--for rescuing lyrically challenged songs and turning them into memorable gems.

He did this in much the same way that he'd take a bunch of non sequiturs and string them together so passionately and convincingly in interviews you'd think you were listening to Laurence Olivier reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy.

Rick not only had a talent for taking songs that otherwise might have been throwaways--Robbie Robertson's "The Saga of Pepote Rouge" or "Christmas Must Be Tonight," for instance--and singing them so beautifully that you'd forget he was singing gibberish, he elevated this talent to an art form.

Take the lyrics to "Pepote Rouge":

I was stranded on the damp coast when a lady
called to me in a voice so soft and low/
Her words resounded like a fountain of truth
And then she faded like a rainbow

Her golden spaceship with the mother of the earth
Carved in stone, the queen of avatars/
Where seventy children were given birth
She then returned back to the stars

Aside from the fact that if Rick, not Robbie, had written those ludicrous lyrics, he would have been tormented mercilessly by the press and by those seeking to prove that it was the songs themselves as they were written (as opposed to the way they were arranged, sung, and performed) that made The Band's songs great, it is Rick Danko's voice, together with The Band's virtuostic playing, that make this song not only listenable, but actually enjoyable. Who else could sing "to learn to see below the surface you must adjust your altitude" and make it sound like poetry? Who else could sing "...in a dream I heard a voice say 'fear not, come rejoice'" (other than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or Perry Como, that is) and make it not sound like schmaltzy pap?

How did he do it? I honestly don't know if it was conscious on Rick's part, but even if it wasn't, I believe he just naturally took the best part of a song and ran with it. Sometimes this meant stripping the vocal down to the smallest element, until he had every phoneme down pat, and then building from there. He was not one to analyze lyrics and search for the deeper meaning. Rick was interested in that a song moved him, not necessarily why a song moved him and when he sang, he moved his listeners with his voice--with the flow, the feeling, the diction, the cry--regardless of the lyrics.

So, whether he was singing "Your Eyes," which in anybody else's hands may have come out sounding like Barry Manilow channeling Enya, or "Caledonia Mission," a complex (or as Rick would call it, "baroque") song only the most sensitive and vocally agile singer could even attempt, let alone render emotionally moving, Rick Danko took what he had to work with--sometimes straw, sometimes silver--and spun it into gold.

Anybody who knew both Rick Danko and Eric Andersen back in the day most likely would not have predicted that the two would ever collaborate, much less form a close musical and personal bond.

Why? Well, they are just so different--completely different personalities, ways of looking at the world, interests, hobbies, approaches to music. But they do say that opposites attract and therein, I think, lay the formula for, in their case, a good friendship and a productive musical collaboration.

Eric Andersen is a major intellectual--very cerebral, very bohemian, sensitive, often brooding, and with an extremely artistic and literary bent. He's a gifted songwriter, though he's probably never quite received the level of recognition or acclaim he deserves.

There's a passage I read in a biography of Edie Sedgwick that I feel applies very much to Eric, too. The gist of the passage was that Edie just missed being a superstar--she was in the right place almost at the right time, but not quite. Add to that the fact that, though the youth culture of the '60s was by its very nature a counterculture, the music, art, and fashion of the time needed a mainstream component in order to be accepted. Edie was a little too underground to ever be accepted completely; the person who was in the right place at precisely the right time and had just the right combination of everything needed for stardom was none other than Twiggy, who became an icon.

I've always felt similarly about Eric. Though Eric's songwriting at its best is on par with that of Phil Ochs and Tom Paxton, who discovered Eric, and though some of it even approaches Guthrie territory, Eric's music was perceived, even from the early days in the mid '60s when he was the toast of Greenwich Village, as a little bit too underground, a little bit serious, maybe even a tad lofty. It wasn't really protest music, and it wasn't really folk in the traditional sense either. In a nutshell, it was seen, for a number of reasons, as not commercially viable. In retrospect, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. Eric would not be the artist he is today had he gone on to commercial stardom.

Eric did have something special, though. He was--and is--an astute and talented song crafter. He was also very streetwise and urbane; he knew his way around the "scene." He was a friend and mentor to Joni Mitchell, great friends with Janis and Patti Smith and Lou Reed and Townes Van Zandt, a disciple and crony of the grittiest of the Beat poets (Ginsberg, Burroughs, Corso).

And, in his black turtleneck and leather jacket, he was not only dapper and Chelsea Hotel/Beatnik cool, but the kind of Tyrone Power handsome that could easily cause a six-car pileup on the streets of Manhattan if a woman happened to be driving as he crossed MacDougal Street, guitar case in hand.

Rick and Eric were on the fringes of each other's respective "scene." The two had crossed paths a number of times before that fateful impromptu gig in Woodstock in the fall of 1990, and of course had traveled together in the drunken musical caravan that became known as Festival Express.

But it wasn't until the early '90s that something really clicked between them in a very natural, very deep way. They complemented each other, balanced each other. Eric loved Rick's musicianship, his energy, and his childlike sense of wonder. He learned a lot from Rick about how to work a room without making it seem like "work." Rick tempered Eric's brooding melancholia and helped him not take himself too seriously. In return, Eric taught Rick about a musical genre of which he'd been on the periphery, but never quite immersed himself in. He also helped Rick with the disciplined art and craft of song structuring, particularly lyrics, and I personally think that he helped Rick experience his own music and influence from a different perspective. The exchange of ideas was fresh and exciting; there was a good ebb and flow between them.

D.A. Pennebaker told me that, when he filmed DFA in the early 90s, he remembered Eric as "a hippie guy with a lot of rings and an earring, a little serious" and Rick as a "really friendly, happy-go-lucky guy" who was always smiling. Recalling a gig somewhere in Manhattan, Penne remembered Eric grumbling about the soundcheck or the stage setup, and Rick joking, "Oh, just shut up and sing!" then giving him a wink and a chuckle. That broke the tension, made Eric laugh, and he shut up and sang--beautifully.

Unlike some artists, whose audiences are easy to categorize (and whose music is therefore fairly easy to promote), Rick had at least three distinct audiences: the rock snobs, who firmly believed that the sun rose and set on Big Pink; the bar crowd, who wanted to hear all the hits plus the roadhouse rockers and covers; and the coffeehouse folkies, who longed for the acoustic stuff and held tight to the mystique and the Dylan connection--forgetting, of course, the tiny detail that it was with The Band that Dylan pissed off the folkies by "going electric."

To further complicate things, these audiences--which, in another situation, might never connect--often overlapped in places, forming little hybrid audiences, so there was crossover upon crossover upon crossover.

The Band had always defied categorization and, while this made them extremely appealing and enigmatic, it made the nuts-and-bolts business of promotion, publicity, and marketing very challenging. I was up for the challenge. In fact, I reveled in it!

In the late '80s and early '90s, "crossover" became a buzzword in the industry. That "can't put your finger on it" quality that might have been seen as a hurdle just a few years earlier, suddenly became an asset. Publicists, record promoters, and marketing executives began looking for crossover potential in artists and for ways to cross-promote music in a variety of genres, as well as a variety of media.

Rick totally embraced the situation and the opportunities. He got to love the word "crossover" because it explained everything that previously could not be put into words in just three little syllables.

It was around this time that "roots music" became very hot. This was great for Rick--and for me, as I sought new avenues through which to promote his music and his shows--but almost ironic because "roots music" was what The Band had been making for decades. Only now there was a name for it.

Interestingly, though, there was a hard-core classic rock contingent that was very enthusiastic about Rick, but could not fathom this guy, with his sunglasses and leather jacket, in a folkie collaboration singing "Bottle of Wine." We used those blurred lines to our benefit, and sometimes it was really a hoot to watch Rick in action. He would do a classic rock "Morning Zoo"-type radio interview, a public TV show, and an NPR radio show in the same day--and, instinctively, change accordingly. Each "Rick" was totally real--and totally different, yet all the same guy. I was always amazed at how he pulled it off so seamlessly.

We all know the quintessential Rick songs, whether with The Band or solo, and, as you can tell by the voting results on this page, everyone seems to agree, more or less, on what they are--"It Makes No Difference," "When You Awake," "Unfaithful Servant," "Sip the Wine."

There were songs that Rick did in his live shows--mostly covers--that became synonymous with him, too--like J.J. Cale's "Crazy Mama," George Jones's "He Stopped Loving Her Today," Johnny Cash's "Train of Love," Buddy Holly's "Raining in My Heart," and Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang."

But some of the songs Rick recorded, those that only die-hard fans are familiar with, the ones that seem, on first listen, perhaps, decidedly un-Rick-like, hold a tiny key to understanding him as a vocalist and a musician and, perhaps, as a person, too.

Of course, there are tons of bootlegs and outtakes that still circulate which never quite made it as records; I'm not talking about those. The songs I am referring to are relatively unknown DFA gems like Eric Andersen's lovely folk waltz, "Baby, I'm Lonesome," which the Trio did live, and which they recorded in Norway in 1994 on Ridin' On the Blinds. Rick sings a verse which I am quite sure he would not have been able to do with such conviction even a decade earlier; his voice is rich and mellow, and a shade deeper than it had been. Though it was recorded fairly soon after Jericho was released, the Rick on Ridin' On the Blinds is a much different--more confident, self-assured, relaxed--singer than the bouncy, jocular bass player in The Band.

The guy who sang "When You Awake" would not have been comfortable singing the later DFA songs, particularly the ballads, waltzes, and love songs. Lyrically and stylistically, they were not in his comfort zone, and vocally, that quivering tenor just wouldn't have worked.

But, by 1994, a new Rick had emerged. Listen to "Your Eyes," a duet with Jonas (also on Ridin' On the Blinds) that, though admittedly a little too Lite-FM for Rick to be in love with, somehow works. Once you get past the slightly schmaltzy lyrics, which seem to be the antithesis of The Band, you have no choice but to bask in the beauty of his voice. I never saw him perform it; somehow, I can't picture it. The really touchy-feely love songs (other than a couple of iconic numbers, like "It Makes No Difference") that Rick did live were usually tunes like "My Love," which were couched in a tongue-in-cheek, audience sing-a-long safety net.

My all-time favorite DFA song, also written by Eric (and inspired by his friend, Joni Mitchell), is "Come Runnin' Like a Friend." Frankly, I loved the live acoustic versions more than the recorded version, the production of which I think is a tad overwrought, but the song itself is beautiful, and Rick's harmonies are some of the best of his career.

I know that Rick took some initial ribbing from some of his buddies for his foray into the folk scene. But he did it, and I'm glad. Anyway, his comrades needn't have worried: Rick was a country boy and a rock and roll guy at heart, and nothing was ever gonna change that.

It's probably safe to assume that when people think of Rick Danko, they don't think of the word "subtle." They think of bright-green shirts covered with multi-colored poolballs, two pairs of eyeglasses on top of each other (rather than much-needed bifocals), fast cars screeching and skidding down mountain roads, and arms and legs flailing wildly on stage.

But as vivid and animated as he was personally and in concert, and as haunting and unmistakable as his vocals were, Rick knew the value of subtlety when it came to music, particularly in his live performances. He knew that, whether it was a bass line or a guitar lick or a vocal flourish, it was "not just what you put in, but what you leave out" that mattered.

For that reason, it was quite rare to see Rick do a solo of any kind. It wasn't because he was not capable--he could certainly hold his own with the very best of them. But Rick was always an ensemble player at heart--even when he was performing solo. He was secure in his musicianship and worked for the collective benefit of the song and the performance, not for his moment in the spotlight. What's more, he didn't think it was necessary to "crowd" the unfilled space with notes.

Rick was a perfectionist, and he knew the importance of precision--but he did not believe in effects and antics and histrionics.

Instead, especially in his acoustic shows, he relied heavily on the energy of the audience, the give-and-take, the ebb and flow. I've heard people criticize Rick for doing "sing-a-longs," particularly in his solo shows in the late 80s and 90s. Perhaps those critics thought having the audience sing along was sloppy, or taking the easy way out. Maybe Rick didn't have the energy to do it all himself.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Rick knew exactly what he was doing. Having the crowd participate was both a way to gauge--and engage the audience. It was a way to let the audience know that they were part of this show, that he could, perhaps, but didn't want to do it without them.

Rick knew when to introduce a new song, when it was risky, when it was worth the risk, when he should hold off. "Playing these shows is my greatest reward and it's my greatest therapy" he told me years ago. "It's better than seeing a shrink."

Crazy Chester was crazy like a fox.

For many years, people have shared stories with me about meeting Rick. I've never tired of hearing these stories, mostly because they all seem to share one common--and not surprising--thread: kindness.

Our friend Lil, who runs the Book Faded Brown board and who knew Rick for 20 years, recently shared with me one of the most poignant Rick stories I've heard. She was a little hesitant about sharing it publicly, and I suggested that she would know intuitively if and when the time and place was right. She's decided to share it here, and I'm glad; it's very moving. Here it is:

I have a Rick Danko story that I've never told before.. not in The Band guestbook.. and not even in my own. If you've ever had a part of your life that you locked away because it was painful, then you'll understand why. But because of this wonderful site that Carol has put together... not about Rick "the star".. but about Rick.. the man.. I've decided to share my story here. I've learned in my life that there are big hearts.. and then there are even bigger hearts. Rick Danko had the biggest heart I knew.

I was 21 when I met him (1980). I was a fan of The Band's music, and this was the second time I had gone to see Rick perform live. I did not know him and he did not know me. With me that night was the guy I had been with since I was 17, a drug-addicted, violent alcoholic. He was not a Band fan, but he was there with me because at the time, he didn't permit me to go anywhere without him. Yes, I was in an abusive relationship and had no idea how to get out.

After the show, I was talking to the guy who was doing the sound that night, and he ended up introducing me to Rick. Needless to say, conversation was very one-sided at first, with me being almost speechless and Rick doing all the talking. He was friendly and made me feel comfortable with him almost immediately. He was also looking at me, I thought, kind of strangely, and kept looking beyond me to the guy I was with that night. He didn't say anything then, but there was something about the way he was looking at me that made me feel like he wanted to.

A few minutes later, he beckoned me into a small room off the bigger backstage, and closed the door (leaving the guy I was with outside, which I soon found out was deliberate). I was, in a word, a wreck.

I don't remember a whole lot of the conversation that followed, but he had noticed the bruises I had that night, and wanted to know who was responsible. I know I didn't answer him when he asked, so he kind of pointed in the general direction of the door and said, "Him?" I think I nodded.

He talked with me for awhile, told me I had to get AWAY from that guy, and told me that if I ever needed his help, to call him. He gave me his phone number. I remember thinking at the time, "yeah, right," but I took the number and thanked him.

Several months later, I called him. I had just gotten out of the hospital with a dislocated shoulder and injuries that resulted in permanent hearing loss in one of my ears. I was so scared. I knew then that he had been right about me having to get out of that relationship, but I didn't know how. So I called him on a whim, not expecting him to even remember me, least of all do anything but perhaps be cordial on the phone. But I was wrong. He not only remembered me.. he told me to leave.. "right now".. and he gave me an address to meet him at. He was there before I was.

We talked for a long time, he stayed there with me all night, and helped me get in touch the next day with a woman who could help me. He kept in constant touch with me while I made the transition out of my relationship, and said he was proud of me when I finally managed to find the strength to get out for good.

Rick and I remained friends until his death. I was there for him when his son Eli died, and he was there for me (and my kids) when my husband John died. (John was a wonderful man who I met soon after getting out of the abusive relationship, and when Rick met him, he told me that John was the type of man that he wanted for me. We were married for 13 years at the time of his death).

I've left some things out here, wanting to keep this short and not bore anyone too much with all the little details.. but felt it was time I shared how my friendship with Rick started and why it meant so much to me.

Rick Danko was, to me, the ultimate definition of a friend, and I miss him more than words could say.

Thank you Carol, for giving me this opportunity, and encouraging me to tell my story.

I was never a gatekeeper. Nor did I ever try, want, need, ask, or pretend to be. Yes, I often "screened"--or tried to screen--potential interviewers and others seeking access to Rick-which was a somewhat thankless, often futile, and occasionally ridiculous task, as amiable Rick was extremely approachable-too approachable, sometimes, for his own good.

But on occasion, when the circumstances warranted it, I would find myself in the position of manning the backstage door, or something equally awkward but necessary. At Band shows, it usually would be Butch or one of the guys handling that unenviable task. And they did it very well. At Rick's solo shows, it often was one of the guys traveling with him, somebody at the venue, or a combination. But once in a while, it was me.

Unfortunately, sexism in the music industry was-and is-rampant, and a woman in that position often is not taken to very kindly, particularly by other women. Rick was very aware of this, which is probably why he rarely asked me to do it.

Once, at a club in upstate New York-where Rick had a contingent of regulars who followed him from gig to gig-I realized how tricky--and scary--things could get. We drove up to the club and parked in the back. Rick got out with his guitar and a bag and some other stuff. His hands were full and I was about to help him carry some of his things, and he said "No, no...I don't want you to do that. I don't want you to have to deal with it." I had no idea what "it" meant.
"Trust me," he said, and grabbed the rest his stuff and stuck it in a duffel bag.

When I got inside--he suggested we walk in separately, which I thought was strange, but we did--I was met by the steely glares of a handful of tough-looking chicks and, immediately, I understood what "it" meant. If looks could kill, I'd have been dead.

By that point, I'd gotten to recognize a lot of people from seeing them at shows in certain areas, and I really enjoyed seeing them. There were New York fans, Philly fans, tri-state fans--fans who went to every Towne Crier show, or every Roadhouse show, just the acoustic shows, all the solo shows but not The Band shows or vice versa. The vast majority of them were very friendly and there was a bit of a camaraderie among them. Rick knew their faces, and even some of their names, and would stop and chat with them when he could. Rick's fans loved him--and he loved them, too.

But there were a few "fans" who were very dark--needy in an almost sinister way. They wanted more. They wanted to be part of "the scene," or what they perceived to be "the scene." But it went even beyond that. They wanted him.

I'm not talking about the hangers-on, who were ever-present and came with the territory. I'm talking about a much scarier type. The women who, because Rick maybe looked in their direction once while singing, or because he smiled and waved while walking into a club, thought it meant something. They thought he owed them something-and that they were entitled.

These women were possessive, too. Rick was theirs--though he politely kept his distance--and they truly believed, in their pathological minds, that they were part of his life.

One of them was a middle-aged woman who followed Rick around and just "appeared" wherever he went. She never said anything, never smiled--just stared at him. Watched his every move, on stage and off, and glared at anyone who came close to him. Rick didn't particularly acknowledge her, and I never saw her actually talk to him. She just kept watch--ready to pounce on anyone who invaded the personal space she imagined between herself and Rick. There were a few others like her, and often they appeared together at shows and just stared.

In my naivete, I felt sorry for them--at first. I thought maybe they were lonely or sad--something was definitely wrong with these bedraggled women who were not quite Goths, not quite Deadheads--but some creepy combination of both. But there was no befriending them. I was the enemy--as was anyone, friend, family, or fan--who dared to be close to Rick.

As affable and jocular as Rick was, he had a few walls around him, almost an impenetrable membrane that had built up over the years in the necessary interest of self-protection and preservation. He also had an incredible radar, and was aware of the seedy Dark Side lurking just beyond the sea of harmless, happy, appreciative faces.

I got to recognize when that Dark Side was lurking by the cold, vacuous look in Rick's eyes--a look that said more than any words, any body language ever could--a look I'd never want to be on the receiving end of. But pathological people don't take hints. They're not cued to subtleties and nuances.

A few years ago, a very well-written--but very, very negative, almost scathing--article was published by a woman who seemed to know every detail of Rick's life, career, personality, family, looks--everything, though she apparently had never met him and had seen him perform just a few times. It was obsessive, mean, full of taunts, jabs, and an occasional backhanded compliment--and, in parts, factually inaccurate. Why would someone publish something so hateful and judgemental under the guise of genuine concern and admiration?

The article smacked of self-loathing and was rife with the insidious hallmarks of a scorned would-be lover. The writer addressed her "subject"--Rick--in the third person, then abruptly switched to the first person and eerily changed her tone, most noticeably when she interjected out-of-place self-hating reflections, talked about her need to make contact with Rick, and bemoaned her "lack of beauty," which she saw as a hurdle in getting Rick to take notice of her--an observation-cum-confession that had nothing to do with the supposed sad fate of Rick Danko.

I've wondered if the writer was one of the sad, lonely, glaring faces in the crowd that night in upstate New York.

This morning, I read an article in the online version of Crawdaddy by a writer named Jeff Wilson. I didn't recognize his name, but was moved to tears--not just welled-up tears, but streaming tears--by his piece on Rick.

I contacted Crawdaddy to tell the writer how much the article had touched me, and it turns out that I had talked to Jeff Wilson--recently, too. He reminded me that he'd contacted me several months ago to tell me that he was writing a piece on Rick, and had asked me to confirm a few factual matters which, apparently, I did. I initially had no recollection of an interaction with him, but as he spoke, it came back to me.

What I told Jeff was that I appreciated his portrayal of Rick. He wrote about Rick as a person and as a performer, describing his weaknesses and frailties (that which makes us all human, no?) without trashing him, insulting him, judging him, or demeaning him. He also wrote about his greatness--and his goodness--without gushing. I thought he gave a fair--though in no way complete--sensitive, and balanced portrayal--a rarity in this era of shock-and-schlock "journalism."

That said, parts of this piece were tough to read. It made me sad, sad for Rick, sad that he was hurt (however briefly), sad that he's not here, sad that I can't talk to him.

The article described Rick's first solo acoustic show in the seventies, at which he was less than well received. Some of that had to do with the fact that performing solo was very new to him at the time and, frankly, he was not at all adept at it. He was still striving for an onstage "persona," an identity, when in fact, all he really had to do was be Rick. But he didn't know that then; he was used to being an ensemble player.

The audience that day also was most definitely not a Rick Danko or Band audience--and needless to say, they were not receptive. Rick was nervous to begin with and didn't handle the rejection well; in an attempt to remedy the situation, he made a fool of himself onstage, both in his performance and in his reaction to the crowd. J.J. Cale, a friend and artist Rick admired (J.J.'s song "Crazy Mama" was a staple of Rick's and The Band's shows for many years), was there too, so Rick was very embarrassed by the fiasco, not just in front of his audience, but in front of his peers. Knowing Rick, though, he was more "wounded" than embarrassed; and I'm sure the fact that he felt the audience was dissatisfied was harder for him to handle than the embarrassment. His ego may have been hurt, but that happens to every artist, and certainly happened to Rick more than once in his life, and he was good at taking that kind of stuff in stride.

Disappointing people, though--that was the bane of his existence; he wasn't used to it because it so rarely happened.

Luckily for his fans, Rick remained undeterred by the experience. If anything, it helped him. He had always been a "less is more" guy and he began applying that approach to his solo performances--no more throwing guitars across stages.

For 22 more years, he kept smiling, and kept his fans smiling, too. When the writer of this piece talked to Rick years later about that disastrous acoustic performance, Rick was good-natured, jovial, and unabashed--and, of course, remembered it all in vivid detail.

Despite the bittersweet, at times even sorrowful, tone of this article, it's something you just can't read without loving Rick even more. Here is the link:
ClickHereToLoveRickMore

There was no harnessing Rick Danko. There was no reining him in, and it was silly--and useless--even to try. As he admitted in one of my favorite interviews, which he did with Bill Flanagan of Musician Magazine in 1993 as he approached the age of 50, he was "too old to be groomed." You don't know the half of it!

Needless to say, media prep was a challenge. Rick really did appreciate knowing the nuts-and-bolts stuff beforehand--like what the interview was promoting, where it was taking place, the call letters of the radio station, etc. Then he would just take it and run with it. A good interview involves a lot of elements--lots of variables--and only one of them is the interviewee. Some of the elements that determine the success--or failure--of an interview are location, timing, purpose, forum, questions, knowledge and preparation of the interviewer, and the chemistry (or lack thereof) between the interviewer and the interviewee).

In Rick's case, my goal was to minimize the number and effect(s) of the variables, and to have him as prepared as possible. When we were promoting something in particular (i.e., a show in a certain city, a CD, a tour), it was pretty easy. Rick really was not the type of guy you could--or would want to--"media train." He was quick on his feet, able to handle most scenarios, and had an intuitive understanding of parameters in a media situation but, beyond that, he really despised anything that had an air of phoniness about it.

There were interview situations that were more predictable--and, therefore, more comfortable--than others, for him and for me. The interviews that I particularly dreaded were 1) live interviews with unknown or unfamiliar interviewers; and 2) TV interviews of any kind.

On one occasion, I'd scheduled a TV interview for Rick. It wasn't a major network show--which, actually, were fairly easy, because we were dealing with pros--but it was a respectable statewide program in New Jersey. The major red flag was that, though the show had an arts segment, the host knew little about rock music and nothing about Rick or The Band. The producer, however, was a huge fan, and also a friend of mine. He promised it would all work out.

There was just one little thing. The show's policy was to have all guests answer a pre-interview questionnaire to help familiarize the host with the guests. It was one of the dumbest things I've ever seen--and, in the music business, I have seen a lot of dumb shit. Rick agreed to go along with it, but he was not one for filling out questionnaires, so he asked me to do it with him. So I asked him the questions, and he answered them--well, half of them. He got bored halfway through, and said it was "too stupid to finish." I agreed--plus it was excruiating for me to ask the questions.

A couple of years ago, I put some of his answers up on The Band guestbook. But for those who didn't see them, here they are again--plus a couple more:

Me: Why are you in your current career?
Rick: This is what I was born to do. It was either this or get a real job.

Me: What was your most challenging experience?
Rick: Learning to play a perfect scale.

Me: Who are some of your heroes?
Rick: Hank Williams, Sam Cooke.

Me: [laughing] If you were a plant or an animal, what would it be?
Rick: Oh, fuck that! Next?

Me: What are some of your hobbies? Be serious.
Rick: Music and fast cars.

Me: What was your strangest occupation?
Rick: I judged a dance contest once.

Me: What was your most embarrassing experience?
Rick: Answering these questions.

Me: What are your three favorite movies?
Rick: The Loved One, Song of the South, and It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World.

Me: What is your favorite book?
Rick: The Bible and Ronnie Hawkins' autobiography.

Me: What has been your biggest influence?
Rick: Women who wanted their meat cut very thin.

(That last one is not as crazy as it sounds: for those of you who don't know, Rick was a meat cutter/butcher's apprentice when he was a teen).

One of the very first things I became attuned to when I started to get to know Rick was the reaction he generated from others. When I met him, there was no "rock star" trip. No grandiosity. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I was extremely shy, but he made me feel immediately at ease. One of the first things he said to me after he introduced himself (as if I, there at a Band concert, didn't know who he was) was "Would you like some strawberries?" He'd come out of the tour bus, relaxed and disheveled, wearing white pants, sweat socks and moccasins and eating strawberries out of a paper bowl. I thought it was so refreshingly unpretentious. And I don't know why, but he made me laugh. I didn't know anything about him, he didn't say anything particularly funny-but there was something about him that was just comical, in a completely endearing way. I didn't want his autograph; I wanted to give him a hug. I guess he sensed that, 'cause he gave me a hug instead.

I soon realized that my reaction wasn't terribly unusual. I saw it happen again and again. Rick himself was very aware of the effect he had on people and I don't think he'd be able to explain it; he just went with it. But there was definitely a "vibe" about him that everyone picked up on--regardless of whether they knew he was Rick Danko, or whether they even knew who "Rick Danko" was.

I remember one incident, when I was working with Rick but still had a day job, that makes me smile even now when I think about it. I worked for a very well-known entertainment lawyer in Philadelphia whose office, at the time, was at The Bellevue, the epitome of class, sophistication, and opulence. Though my boss had his own separate (very ostentatious) office, we shared a floor with another law firm comprising about 20 attorneys and their individual secretaries. My boss, who was a wonderful man, was growing tired of my "double life" working with Rick and, even though we had a good relationship, we both knew the time was coming for me to leave that job behind. But that's another story...

Anyway, I'd been in Woodstock for a few days, doing some press and stuff for Rick, and he'd come back to Philly with me because he was performing in the city that night. I'd set up a couple of radio interviews for him for the early afternoon, and-though I don't remember why-I had to stop at my office first before taking him to the interviews.

He asked me if he could take my car around the city and then pick me up, and I can't recall my exact response, but it was something to the effect of "I know you're kidding."

We walked into the Bellevue lobby, and I said to Rick "Okay, I'll be ten minutes. Please don't go anywhere. Please don't go walking around. Please just wait here..."--the whole requisite do-not-get-into-trouble drill.

It sounds silly, but with Rick, it was necessary. The last thing I needed was to have to go running around the City of Brotherly Love looking for him, especially with live interviews scheduled. And, since there were no cellphones then and Rick was very prone to roaming around, that scenario was not out of the realm of possibility.

Try to picture this scene: Everyone walking through the Bellevue's French Renaissance-style lobby--hotel guests, high-powered attorneys--is dressed in suits and dresses. You can hear a pin drop except for the very slight strains of piped-in classical music. The walls are mahogany with gilded mirrors, the floors are marble, the lobby is adorned with art and gargantuan crystal chandeliers. Rick is wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, facial stubble, a leather jacket and boots-and carrying a copy of one of his lunatic supermarket tabloids, like The National Enquirer or The Weekly World News; I don't remember which. I, too, am in jeans and moccasins and a fringed suede jacket. (I knew I was quitting soon-what did I care?)

After a final plea to him to stay put, I head onto the elevator-and across from me is this crazy ragamuffin, sitting in a velvet chair, beneath a chandelier, deeply engrossed in a story about God knows what--one of those "Five-year-old Martian Gives Birth to Twins"- type of pieces, I'm sure. Just as the elevator door is closing, he gives me this half-wave/half-salute that I know means trouble.

After a few minutes in my office, I head back down the hall to the main suite, only to hear the increasingly louder sounds of women giggling. Girly giggling, and sighing, and cutesy laughter.

I turn the corner on the corridor and what do I see but a group of secretaries--very straight-laced "Working Girl" types who watch soap operas in the cafeteria at lunch and who most definitely have never heard of Rick Danko--huddled around this goof, in their skirts and their pumps, laughing and sighing and hanging on to his every word.

Within just a few minutes, Rick knew everyone's name--and of course, they knew his, though they had no idea who he was. He'd made a bunch of new friends, in the most mundane and unlikely of circumstances.

As we were leaving amid waves and smiles, he even stopped to pat the tummy of a pregnant friend of mine--and to tell her that he was sure it was gonna be a boy. It was.

"The Danko Shuffle"--most of Rick's fans have heard that term, but I'd wager that many don't know what it is. It's one of those things you think maybe you should know, being a fan and all, so when you realize that you don't know, you're embarrassed to ask about it. Right?

Well, I'll let you in on a little secret. There is no "Danko Shuffle"--well, not really. There is a Danko Shuffle--but there's also a Danko Waltz, a Danko Stroll, a Danko Cha Cha, a Danko Two-Step, and a Danko Funky Chicken. There's probably footage of a Danko Macarena somewhere, too, though I've never had the pleasure. The truth is, they all melded into one, big "Happy Dance" that brought a smile to everyone in the audience.

Onstage, despite his metronome-like timing and understated brilliance at maintaining The Band's characteristic fat yet melodic bottom end, Rick's own physical sense of rhythm was--uh, a little skewed. His incredible energy could not be channeled completely through his bass playing or even his singing--hence, the series of dance steps (and missteps) that have become collectively and affectionately known as the Danko Shuffle.

The man was not what you'd call naturally graceful, so small stages were a particular challenge--for him, as well as for his fellow musicians and Band mates. At times, you could see the look of fear mounting on Levon's face as Rick veered dangerously close to the drums, or on Jim's face as he wondered if he was about to be clocked by the bass head.

Rick's natural body language, coupled with the damage to his back and neck from his car-accident injuries, resulted in on-stage "dance moves" that resembled those of the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz--or Jackie Gleason as Ralph Kramden doing "The Hucklebuck," depending on which Rick "era" you were in. It was always endearing to watch and, at times, hilarious--if unintentionally.

But no one ever laughed at Rick. He knew he was a riot. And he never took himself too seriously. He laughed and everyone laughed with him.

Though making music was what Rick wanted to do more than anything, the long, grueling hours at Tony Mart's in the summer of '65--which offered a place to play, but no promise of a future--were starting to wear on him physically and mentally, to the point that his job back home at Tony's Meat Market didn't seem quite so bad. Though not even 22, Rick knew that he could not keep up that pace--playing seven days a week--forever. By that time, having been whipped into shape for years by Ronnie Hawkins, he'd been there and done that and was ready to go beyond the beach-club circuit. He wanted more.

So Dylan came along at just the right time. The Hawks may have ended then and there, because Levon Helm had no desire to play back-up to "a strummer," as the guys referred to the folkies of the time. Terry Danko remembers that summer well. "Levon didn't want to play with Dylan," he recalls. "He didn't wanna do that trip. It just made no sense to him." Terry, a singer/songwriter, bass player, and drummer himself, understood and empathized with the sentiment. "For a drummer," he says, noting Levon's impeccable rhythm and timing, "it's a nightmare playing with Bob Dylan."

It was Robbie Robertson, however, himself a rock and roll guitarist who was not terribly enamored with folk music, who looked beyond the moment and realized, to his credit, that if this unknown but incredibly talented band hooked up with the most revered singer/songwriter on the planet (Dylan was fast becoming a household name by this time), they'd soon be able to write their own ticket and make the music they wanted to make.

Rick, always the diplomat, saw both sides. But he wanted to play. He wanted to play for the world. He seized the opportunity and never looked back.

I find it at once interesting, funny, ironic--and somehow, for lack of a better word, comforting--that Bob Dylan first encountered The Band, not in some far-away, mythical, unreachable place, but at the Jersey shore. Not just the Jersey shore, but the South Jersey shore.

Somers Point, New Jersey, in the mid-1960s, though not terribly distant in miles, was about as far removed from the Greenwich Village folk scene and from the idyllic folkie haven-in-the-making of Woodstock, New York, as you could get. Just an hour east of Philly and less than 10 miles southwest of Atlantic City, on the mainland, it was--and is--a family weekend beach retreat/resort. The "tourists" in Somers Point were people who came to the beach from far-away places--10 miles at least--with their transistor radios and packed lunches in shoe boxes. Consequently, the locals called them "shoobies"--a fact that record producer Jim Tullio, a friend of mine, a dear friend of Rick's and a South Jersey shore native, reminded me of recently. (We actually debated over the term "shoobies"--Philly kids, like me, who went to A.C. in the summer and felt that the Jersey shore was our home away from home, called the nerds who came to the beach wearing leather sandals with black socks and big white zinc oxide spots on their noses "shoobies;" Jim said no, to the kids who actually lived there, I would have been considered a "shoobie.")

The point is, this, the land of salt-water taffy and amusement piers, Coppertone and BanLon, pretzels and waterices, is where The Band--then Levon and the Hawks--were playing when the God of Folk descended upon those much-loved polluted shores to see them first-hand.

It's also when Jim Tullio first laid eyes on The Band--in 1965, when he was just 13. "They were at Tony Mart's--I lived just a couple of miles from there--and they were called 'Levon and The Hawks' then," he told me.

Tony Mart's had all-ages shows on Sunday afternoons, Jim recalled, and that's when his dad would take him to the club to see the new bands. "I didn't know they would become The Band, but I remember diggin' them."

The Hawks rocked the Jersey shore, not dressed like Amish clergy, but in matching suits and box-back haircuts, a la Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. "It was the vibe then," Jim told me with a chuckle. Hard to picture Rick in Brylcreem but that image, again, is somehow comforting.

Levon Helm--without a doubt, the only "Levon" in the Garden State, at least at that time--and Rick Danko drove the Hawks through quick-paced, danceable, bass- and drum-heavy, R&B-flavored rock and roll, while Robbie Robertson set tongues wagging with his blistering Tele riffs. They knew they were good. They knew they were cool. And though they certainly weren't Jersey boys, they were right at home by the Bay.

Was it happenstance or destiny that led Albert Grossman's secretary, Mary Martin, to urge Dylan to check out the Hawks in Somers Point? I like to think that it was a little of both.

In a filmed interview for Rolling Stone's 20th anniversary in 1987, Robbie, in a rare show of humility, chalked up The Band's encounter with Dylan and their subsequent success to serendipity: "The guys in The Band were just a bunch of street punks who got lucky."

I think that might be just a little bit of false modesty. I believe The Band would have been successful whether Dylan had come along or not. And I know that Rick, industrious devil that he was, would have found a way to make music his livelihood (even if he had to cut steaks and chops for a while to fund his passion).

But the fact is, Dylan did come along--and so did everything else. It all came together in a perfect storm. Blame it on a simple twist of fate.

I'd worked in the music business, in various capacities, mostly publicity, before I met Rick Danko. And I was fortunate in that I got along well with all the musicians, artists, and other music-biz folks I'd worked with.

But when I met Rick, it was different. Within minutes, I felt as if I'd known him all my life. Though he was nearly 20 years older, had come from a totally different place, and had had an entirely different kind of existence--he was, after all, "the guy from The Band"--than I had, Rick seemed not just familiar--he felt like family.

There was kind of an instant bond--which I didn't understand at the time, and I thought better not to question. This is something that defies explanation, I thought--it just is.

Through the years, I began to realize that one of the reasons for this bond, this sense of familiarity, was that Rick had grown up a lot like I had. Yes, it was in a totally different place--rural Ontario, as opposed to urban South Philadelphia. It was in a different time--the fifties as opposed to the seventies. And, of course, he was not just some guy, he was Rick Danko, my musical hero.

But the thing is, he was just some guy, and that's what made him so special. I was not embarrassed to talk to Rick about the little row house I grew up in, or my working-class neighborhood, or my construction-worker brothers. He understood.

I've told this story before, but I always go back to it, because it made such a lasting--and heartwarming--impression on me. When I found out, very soon after I met Rick, that he drove a Mercedes, I was really disappointed-- disillusioned, even. Then Rick drove up in the muffler-challenged, pinging and sputtering low- rider of a "Mercedes"--and I breathed a sigh of relief. Wow, he is just a guy. All is right with the world.

Rick instinctively understood--and had not just an appreciation, but a love for simple, real things, genuine people, warmth, authenticity. I guess you could call it--and I mean this in the most respectful way--a "peasant mentality." I've always had it, but when I was younger, was a bit uneasy with it. But Rick, the rock star who lived in Malibu and toured the world with Bob Dylan, had it, too.

Rick knew what it was to be wealthy. His story was a rags-to-riches one. But he knew what it was to be poor, too, and I don't think he was unhappy then. His family didn't have electricity until he was 10 years old, but he always spoke fondly and lovingly about his childhood; aways--always--a big smile would light up his face when he talked about his family back in Simcoe.

Rick was not impressed with credentials, he was not intimidated by hype or by reputation or by social status. In fact, I think he really enjoyed talking with fans, with real people, with the clerks at Cumberland Farms and Grand Union as much--if not more--than with the rock and roll elite.

When I think of Rick--Levon, too--I think of the characters in Mean Streets and Goodfellas. No, I don't mean the criminal part. I mean the streetwise, lovable-rogue-with-a-heart part. The "what you see is what you get 'cause I ain't about to change" part. I think of Lorraine Bracco's character, Karen, narrating, about the Goodfellas, the "blue-collar guys," and I think of The Band--the blue-collar guys of rock, taking 10 people out to dinner without a credit card but somehow managing to pick up--and pay--the tab; charming their way out of the stickiest situations with just a wink and a smile and a couple of "thank you, Darlin"s; getting involved in bad-boy, juvenile hijinks on the road (and on the tour bus); stealing baloney and bumming cigarettes--then going on stage in front of 20,000 people and kicking everybody's ass. I think of Rick renting his tuxedo--the day before the ceremony--for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction, and Paul McCartney and Bruce Springsteen giving The Band a standing ovation.

Rick's motto in his bass playing and performing was "less is more." And I believe, in many ways, that motto was at the core of his being. Sure, he liked some of the perks of rock stardom, but that's not what his life was about. Everything he had, and everything he was, he took with him whereever he went. There was nothing left over, nothing wasted, nothing left to chance. Junior Danko told me that, when it came to fame and fortune, there were three words to describe his brother: cash-and-carry. To me, there are two words: shooting star.

Rick played with Eric Andersen and Jonas Fjeld for the first time in the fall of 1990 at a little club in Woodstock called the Tinker Street Cafe. Eric had been in New York to record some new tracks for his recently found album Stages, which had been lost in a vault at Sony/Columbia for nearly 18 years, and had asked his old friend Rick to do some backing vocals.

It was on that trip that Eric introduced Rick to Norwegian singer/songwriter Jonas Fjeld, and that night in Woodstock, the three of them just clicked--musically and personally.

Rick had been around enough--and had played with enough musicians--to know that there was something a little magical about this threesome. There was chemistry among and between the musicians and personalities, but there was also a charisma that emanated from the three of them.

I knew it, too. In early 1991, on Eric's invitation, Rick went over to Norway, Jonas' home and Eric's adopted home, and the trio recorded what would become Danko Fjeld Andersen. The record--shrouded in a silly brown cover more suited to an early-80s electro-New Wave group like the Thompson Twins than to an Americana/roots ensemble like DFA--was released in Norway on the Stageway label, and received not just accolades, but the prestigious Spellemens Pris award.

Rick was excited; he was passionate about this record. Though he had been working both with The Band and as a solo artist for many years at that point, he kicked it all up a notch with DFA.

I felt that, for the first time, he was truly comfortable in his own skin doing music that wasn't necessarily Band-like. It wasn't rock and roll, it wasn't country, it wasn't traditional folk. It was an amalgam--a very organic one. It wasn't planned. It wasn't forced. It was all very natural, and that was the beauty of it.

Rick began incorporating some of the material into his solo shows, and even played "Blue River" and "Driftin' Away" onstage with The Band. He was really coming into his own at that point and I told Rick this music was just too good not to be heard by the world.

We began doing a very "revolutionary" promotional campaign: publicity for an American record that didn't exist. I prefer to think of it as "pre-publicity." I knew that we would get an American deal as soon as I heard the first song Rick played for me: "Blue River." So I went to work as if we already had the deal; to me, the paperwork was just a formality. My goal was to make sure that people were requesting the songs from DFA at live shows before we began shopping a deal.

And that's exactly what happened. I sent tapes to hundreds of DJs across the country and, amazingly, even some of the 50,000-watt stations played cuts from the tapes. Rick had a lot of clout with rock radio--plus everyone, I mean everyone in radio just loved him. DJs broke format whenever they could. For Rick? Any time!

Throughout 1991 and 1992, Rick played the songs live, as did Eric and Jonas; "the Trio" began performing, too, and in May of 91, D.A. Pennebaker followed the guys on a little Northeastern jaunt, filming with his handheld, and culminating with his documenting an incredible performance at the Wetlands in New York City.

By the end of 1992, the DFA songs were as familiar to Rick's concert fans as "Stage Fright" and "Sip the Wine." It was time to start shopping. Rick gave me carte blanche, and I started with a few of the top indies. Rykodisc, at that time, was one of the top indie labels in the country, and probably the top for roots, Americana, AAA, and eclectic music. It had a wonderful reputation and excellent distribution. I went there first with a crafty pitch, a slew of press clips and, most important, some of the most beautiful music I'd ever heard. I visualized "Ryko, Ryko, Ryko."

In July of 93, I went to New York to meet with a group of Ryko execs. They'd given us the green light. I called Rick from a payphone in the city and left a message--he was in the studio with The Band that night putting the finishing touches on Jericho.

When I got home at around 2:00 am, there was a voicemail from Rick: "Hey Carol, congratulations!" as if I was the one with a record deal. "Listen to this. We finished it tonight." The song was "Move to Japan." Rick had two new releases on the horizon.

When I met Rick shortly after the Ringo Starr tour, he had already been performing as a solo artist and in various collaborations for several years. But quite honestly, aside from being familiar with his eponymous solo album and some side projects, I hadn't been aware of his solo career--or solo gigs.

I remember seeing Rick perform solo for the first time in a little club in rural Pennsylvania. I had no idea what to expect--I just assumed he'd be doing Band songs, and that it would be a mini-Band show.

Needless to say, I was surprised--and blown away. Rick was playing his Takamine acoustic guitar--and there was no bass in sight. He was accompanied by his loyal (and very talented) sidekick, Sredni Vollmer, a great blues harp player who seemed to instinctively know what to do to complement Rick's singing and playing--when to come in, when to hold back, when to ride.

I couldn't believe how different Rick seemed--his voice sounded different, his playing was different, the arrangements were different, he seemed more gregarious, less enigmatic, less shy--he even looked different. There he was, on this tiny stage at an intimate club, interacting with the audience, taking requests, captivating the crowd whose undivided attention was focused on Rick. He had them in the palm of his hand.

Was this the rock star who melded seamlessly yet held his own with The Band on "Don't Do It" and "The Weight" and "Rockin' Chair?" Was this him--singing everything from Johnny Cash's "Train of Love" to JJ Cale's "Crazy Mama" to Burl Ives' "Blue Tail Fly"--accompanying himself on acoustic guitar (which sounded uncannily like his bass), charming a tiny yet mesmerized coffehouse crowd? I had to keep reminding myself this was the same guy.

About a week later, I saw The Band at the Lonestar Roadhouse in New York City--I always felt The Band was at their wildest, untethered best at the Roadhouse--and again, Rick was transformed, back from the "solo Rick" into the "Band Rick." I'd never seen anything like it. He was so incredibly adaptable.

Adaptability was one of Rick's major strengths. He could play before an audience of 50,000 and the next week--the next day, even--play in front of an audience of 100, without skipping a beat.

Soon after that solo show in Pennsylvania, Rick told me that it was much more of a challenge to play for the smaller crowd. In front of 50,000, it's less of a personal commitment and investment, he said. If something goes wrong, you have your mates or the techs or some other distraction to cover for you.

In an intimate setting, you're really putting yourself out there: if something doesn't work, it's much worse: you might really disappoint someone. And Rick never wanted to leave anyone disappointed. He rarely--if ever--did.

Aside from all of Rick's wonderful personal qualities, musically, he was a legend--not in the sense of the word as it is loosely tossed around these days. But legend in the true sense of the word--someone who was unusually gifted, innovative, and influential, who was way ahead of his time, who was an unsung trailblazer. Perhaps because Rick was such a humble, regular guy, we tend to forget his musical significance.

A year or so ago, I predicted that, as is inevitably the case when a public person dies, at some point soon--if his legacy is not preserved--the tide would begin to turn a little toward Rick in terms of public perception. It happened to Elvis, it happened to John Lennon (though it took much longer; a good 25 years), it happened to Richard Manuel. It even happened--and very quickly--to Princess Diana.

What happens when a beloved public figure dies, especially one who has experienced public trauma, struggles, or shame, or one whose frailties have been exposed, is that once the bloom is off the rose, and the sadness and the requisite period of reverence begins to wear away, people start taking liberties that they wouldn't have taken 1) when the person was alive and 2) during that "hands-off" period of reverential public mourning.

Had Princess Diana not died with Dodi Fayed, she'd be perceived in a totally different light. Had Janis not worn her heart on her sleeve, had she not been photographed famously clasping bottles of Southern Comfort--she'd be perceived differently, too.

People love to build heroes up to a super-human level and then knock them down when they fail to live up to that unfair standard. It's very sad.

In the case of Richard Manuel, his vulnerability--which had been one of his most endearing qualities--began to be used against him, but not until several years after he died, when people felt it was no longer "taboo" to criticize the deceased. Still, because Richard was held in such high esteem by his fans and fellow musicians, a modicum of respect still remains. Richard deserves more than a modicum.

Rick was and is loved by so many people, respected by fellow musicians, and generally considered the "nicest guy in rock." But recently, I've noticed people taking liberties with the facts and with his legacy that they probably would not have just a few years ago. There are songs, mentions, even YouTube comments, that are disrespectul and flat-out erroneous. There's even a novel called "Seeing Me Naked" whose character is working on a book called "The Ballad of Rick Danko"--and the reference is disparaging. Everybody has an assumption about Rick, it seems. And most of the negative ones are wrong.

I want to see Rick's legacy preserved. The way that can be done is by learning about the man, listening to and appreciating his music, and by reading and listening to credible sources. Don't listen to the gossip and the bullshit. And don't believe everything you read. Errors tend to perpetuate themselves--Rick's "December 9" birthdate, for instance--unless they are stopped cold and corrected. Just because something is in print doesn't mean it's true.

How to tell a credible source? For starters, let your intuition guide you. My advice is that, if it looks like a rat, smells like a rat, and acts like a rat--it's a rat. Run the other way. Then, pop "Cryin' Heart Blues" or "DFA" into your player and listen to that golden honey voice. That is the real Rick Danko.

There is a fairly new song by Canadian singer/songwriter Luke Doucet called "The Day Rick Danko Died." It has created a bit of a buzz among Band fans and, among those fans and elsewhere, it has received mixed reviews.

I tried to listen to it objectively. Bad idea. The day Rick Danko died is indelibly etched in my mind and my heart-and in the minds and hearts of not just those who loved him personally, but in the minds and hearts of the many people who met him once, or who never met him at all, but whose lives he touched nonetheless.

I don't want to get on a soapbox about this, but the song bothers me. Its tone is abrasive, the lyrics are dismissive, and, as Doucet admits, it really is not about Rick at all. So why use his name? Why use his name, unless it is a selling point?

Let me tell you a little bit about the real day Rick Danko died.

Rick had just returned from a short tour of the Midwest and, as I usually did, I gave him a little time to rest up before calling him with more interviews. I'd planned to wait until Friday, December 10 to call him but, on Thursday night, I had to go to a launch party in Manhattan for a record label I was working with, and I wanted to just check in with Rick, make sure he was okay, and let him know that I'd be calling him on Friday afternoon.

A couple of things have always stuck with me about that phone call. One, I called him literally when I was on my way out the door. Though I often talked to Rick at very odd hours-especially when he was on the road or had a heavy interview schedule-those odd hours were more likely to be midnight or 2:00 am than dinner time on a weeknight. I'm not saying I had a premonition-I didn't. If I had, I wouldn't have gone to the party. And quite honestly, I felt about Rick the way I felt about my Dad-he could never die.

The other thing that stayed with me, though it has taken me years to talk about, is that Rick had a very wet, congested cough that night. He had to pause a few times during our brief conversation and I asked him at least two or three time if he was okay. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. He seemed a little irritated--out of character for Rick--at me for asking, so I didn't ask again. I assumed his immunity was low and he had just caught a cold from a rough couple of weeks of traveling and irregular eating and sleeping and that he was just cranky and tired.

I started my day very early the next morning. There were a few gigs booked and a few offers had come in for shows at the beginning of the new millennium and I was starting to contact the venues and the media. I also was confirming a few interviews that I already had for Rick to promote Breeze Hill, including radio shows--Rick loved phoners because he could do them quickly and not even have to leave the house. Syndicated radio was his favorite; he could talk to hundreds of stations across the country simultaneously while still in his PJs.

While I was on the phone with a radio station, another call came in. It was a very good friend of mine from WFUV. He seemed relieved by my demeanor and assumed that the call he'd just received was either a prank or just misinformed. "So, it's not true then, about Rick." And, in that split second, my pulse raced and I felt a wave of fear wash over me that made my blood curdle. Before I knew it I was hysterical and shaking--I hung up on the poor guy and immediately dialed Rick's number.

Rick had a machine, not voicemail, and when he was home, unless it was on his "resting" day after some gigs or a tour, there was almost never a long beep. More often than not, he'd answer the phone on the first ring. And if there was a beep, it was short, indicating that he'd cleared the messages. But today, there was a very long beep. I didn't wait the length of it; I redialed. Then I called Aaron, and got the same long beep. In desperation, I called Bruce, Rick's agent, with whom I was quite close at the time. I could barely get the words out-they were coming between sobs and panicked "oh my Gods." Bruce told me to calm down and said he would get to the bottom of it. "Don't worry, it's probably just some sicko playing a prank," he said.

Just a minute later, the phone rang. I picked it up and it was Bruce. "Yes, it's true," he said. Bruce was a calm and very business-like guy, but his voice was shaking. Within seconds, the phone was ringing incessantly. Elizabeth called while I was on the phone with Bruce, with the same shocked and stunned tone of voice. It's true, she said. I should go ahead and issue the formal press release. I didn't want to do it, but I had to. It was on the wire almost instantaneously and, within what seemed like seconds, I was bombarded with media calls and inquiries--VH-1, and MTV, Rolling Stone, and Associated Press. David Fricke, Greil Marcus. They were asking me for "comments."

How did he die? Were drugs involved? How would you describe Rick? When is the funeral? What kind of person was he? "Funeral?" "Was???"

When someone you love dies, you instinctively-and perhaps, subconsciously--look for "cues" that it is "real." For proof. For validation. You also-or I should say, *I* also; I have had much, too much, experience with the death of loved ones-look for proof of the opposite. I believe these are defense mechanisms and psychological protective devices, a way of easing us into a reality that would be all the more unbearable if we were thrown into it instead.

So I played that mind game with myself; in between the barrage of calls, I checked my voicemail, and found many messages from Rick, most from the previous few days. "Okay, it's not true; his messages are here in between the others of people I just talked to"-that is what my mind wanted to hear. That's what my psyche wanted to absorb.

But listening to Rick was interrupted by calls from Sally Grossman, and Maud Hudson, and Terry Danko, and Van Morrison's assistant from overseas. And with each successive call, my mind allowed the unthinkable to seep in: this is the day that Rick Danko died.

Over the years, I've developed a pretty keen ability to distinguish reality from myth, truth from bullshit.

Having worked in the music business and the media for a quarter-century, I've gotten to the point that that ability is now almost second nature to me, but it wasn't always so. Rick Danko was a catalyst for me in that regard. He taught me early on that one of the most dangerous things a person could do is believe--and buy into--his or her own hype. Though he didn't know it, I'm sure, Rick was quite an existentialist.

Until I met Rick, there had always been a part of me that assumed that what the media put forth was, if not the ultimate truth, at least grounded somewhat in fact. I believe it was Garth Hudson who sardonically (and very aptly) stated that "if it's in a book, it must be true." Rick was even more candid: "You can't believe most of what you hear"--that's what he said to Martin Sorsese in The Last Waltz.

Finding out that your favorite rock star is not all he's cracked up to be is sort of like finding out there's really no Santa Claus. And, I must say that I was expecting to find out, when I started working with Rick, that Santa wasn't real. But the first thing I learned from Rick was to expect the unexpected.

Getting to know Rick was a real eye-opener for me in many, many ways. I'd read and heard things about him long before I'd ever met him--in the press, in interviews, in books, in the business, through the grapevine. He'd garnered a certain "image," that of the quintessential rock-star stoner, early on, the enigmatic mountain man holed up in some Woodstock cabin getting high with Dylan, and later, the Malibu party boy, making the rounds with all the other rich, egotistical rock-and-roll types. Rick had the advantage of being really cute and really nice--but, if one were to believe the "buzz," that was about it for depth of character.

Well of course Rick, like every other musician who came of age in the sixties, did his share of partying back in the day. And I was a little nervous about the "scene" I was getting into, especially because I'd never smoked a cigarette--not even a regular one.

But the Rick I got to know was not only a nice guy--nice to everyone, not just to the record-label execs and his fellow musicians, not just to his many appreciative fans, but also to the hangers-on and the trouble-makers and the other fringe characters who somehow managed to trickle in to just about every audience--but, more important, he was a *good* guy. Rick was someone who cared about people, who loved his family and friends, who respected people just because they were human beings, who tried to help friends and even strangers when he could, who never wanted anyone to feel bad. He was the kind of guy who'd give you his last dollar, or the coat off his back--literally--if it would help you. I know: I saw him do it!

Rick was a cool guy, yes--street-wise, quick-witted, funny as hell--and he could (and did) talk to to anyone and everyone. But there was something about him that was very old-fashioned and traditional, a part of him deep inside that was still able to experience wonder, and awe, and appreciation, and humility, despite the fact that he had packed at least five lifetimes into one.

Rick was very shy--but a casual observer would likely not pick up on that, because he certainly wasn't timid; he truly was a people person, amiable and vivid and animated and charismatic. But his goofy antics, onstage and off, while very genuine, were merely an armor.

He did lots of interviews through the years, but an astute fan will notice that he never talked much about himself--he was more interested in talking about fellow musicians, or his brothers in The Band, and in finding out about others.

Rick was a man who came from very humble roots and, though he'd experienced stardom and success beyond his wildest dreams, he held those humble roots close to his heart, always. In many ways, he was forever that carefree young boy with the sparkling eyes and the sheepish grin who, as his brother Terry recalls, "was always going somewhere, always taking off on his bike, heading somewhere down the road."

Rick used a number of basses through the years, from Gibson to Fender to Ampeg, fretted and fretless. In the mid 80s, he made an instructional video for Homespun, Rick Danko's Electric Bass Techniques, and, interestingly, the bass he used in the video was not his.

"That Gibson solid-body wasn't even mine," he told me in an interview around 1990. "It was Jorma's [Kaukonen]. He said 'Hey, Rick--try this bass.' So I did."

After the release of Music From Big Pink, Ampeg gave The Band a bunch of equipment--much of which was later stolen--and that was when Rick got his famous Ampeg fretless with jazz pickups, as well as a fretted bass and a standup "baby bass" that he kept for many years.

He had a penchant for Gibson Rippers, which he considered almost "disposable" because they were inexpensive and he could experiment with his sound and technique by adding different pickups. Two of the most familiar Danko Rippers were a blonde one and a sunburst Ripper, which he used in The Last Waltz.

One of Rick's favorite basses was a custom hollow-body with Olympic pickups made by Mark Dann of New York City. Having had serious neck and back injuries from a 1968 car accident, Rick loved the lightness and versatility of the hollow-body bass because "them Rippers are so heavy."

Another favorite of Rick's--and perhaps the most familiar to fans in the 90s--was his Norwegian Guitar Workshop red bass, which was made by a friend of Jonas Fjeld and given to Rick when he went to Norway in early 1991. "The red bass is one of my favorite basses," Rick said. "It records really fine, like the Mark Dann bass."

Around 1983, Rick began playing acoustic guitar in solo shows and in other various collaborations. His acoustic playing was intentionally percussive, to give the illusion of two instruments--a guitar and a bass--playing at the same time. Rick achieved this effect by tuning his guitar down a full step, from an E to a D, and "doing some bass work but adding guitar chords." Anyone who's seen Rick in an acoustic show will remember Rick shaking the guitar by the neck at the end of a tune--something he did often to achieve a vibrato.

Rick played a jumbo Guild dreadnought acoustic guitar, a beat-up old Gibson, and--my personal favorite--a Takamine electric/acoustic that was given to him in Japan during the Ringo Starr All-Starr Band tour in 1989. It was four years before Rick figured out--when he realized that the sound was "dragging"-- that the guitar not only plugged in, but required a battery, too.

Rick was forever in search of the perfect bass amp. His preferred bass amp was the Ampeg SVT. "I had one cut in half so that it would be two boxes with four speakers in each box. They're like old Harleys," he said of the SVT. "You almost gotta have two in case one breaks down."

Over the years, many people have asked me the question, "What was it like working with Rick Danko?" And I never have been able to sum it up in a concise response. The short answer, I suppose, is "great."

What can I say? In many ways, it was a dream job. I had worked in the music business and as a writer before I met Rick, so I was familiar with the ins and outs of the "industry," but The Band were my musical heroes and Rick, to me, was the hero of The Band. So yes, working with Rick Danko was incredible.

But more important than the fact that he was Rick Danko was the fact that he was just Rick. And that's how he wanted to be known and treated--as just Rick.
In the course of working with him day to day for so long, I often forgot that he was Rick Danko, the guy from The Band. The one with the beautiful tenor and the killer bass lines. Sometimes I'd even laugh about the fact that, oh yeah, he was *that* Rick--the guy on the record that we were working so hard to promote.

My work with Rick involved everything from "advancing" his gigs--that is, contacting the promoters and venues, making sure that Rick and his driver or road manager knew how to get there, when to be there for soundcheck, load-in, etc., and that the venue knew when to expect him and how to accommodate him; making sure that his sound requirements were met and that stage plots were correct; handling travel arrangements; doing publicity for albums, shows, and tours; sending press information to the media; handling all promotional writing; acting as a liason between Rick and the record label(s), agents, etc; securing and scheduling interviews and appearances for him; keeping him up to date on the progress of things; and on and on and on.

It wasn't a 9-to-5 job, that's for sure--except, of course, when I started at 9 pm and finished at 5 am. I worked when Rick worked, and when Rick had a day off, I worked even harder--to line up interviews for him for the next tour or release or project.

He didn't like to see "empty boxes" in his itineraries; he wanted as many days filled as possible, so when he wasn't on the road, I tried to make sure that the boxes were "filled" with interviews. Then, after a long stretch, he'd have a couple of days off, a couple of empty boxes. By that time, though, he'd be tired and need the rest.

But always, when he'd get to the end, he'd want to start all over again.

"Got a minute?" That's how Rick usually started a conversation, whether he'd known you for years or had met you just once, whether in person or by phone, whether privately in his intense whisper, or onstage to an audience as he introduced the next song or guest performer. It was always "Got a minute?"

His favorite conversation starter has been immortalized in song--Steve Forbert's controversial "Wild as the Wind," whose chorus begins "Hey Mister, got a minute..." I have mixed feelings about the song itself, because Rick was much more than wild as the wind, and I think it is a flawed, one-sided portrayal, but I do believe that the song was intended as a tribute and, if you're a fan of Rick, it is something you should know about.

Much more poignant was Robbie Robertson's public eulogy for Rick--just one of the many given that day in December, 1999 at the Bearsville Theater--in which he opened with the line, conjuring the image of Rick so beautifully, his voice breaking, amid miles of tears and broken hearts in the audience.

As the years have passed, that phrase brings more smiles than tears. When Rick asked "Got a minute?" it was rhetorical; that meant "Get ready, here it comes."

To say that Rick Danko was a little goofy is like saying Antarctica is a little chilly. He was just naturally funny, even when--if not especially when--he was being serious.

Rick's humor veered from boyish silliness to rapier wit, but never with a biting sarcasm intended to hurt. He was good-natured and lovable--and his goofiness was infectious.

Think it's a coincidence that "The Weight's" "Crazy Chester" verse always garnered thunderous applause when he sang it?

If Muddy Waters was a mannish boy, Rick was a boyish man. In his 20s and 30s, he was a crazy, quirky, lovable kid who was self-assured in his musicianship yet exuded just enough vulnerability to make him accessible in a way that other "rock stars" weren't.

In his 40s and 50s, he was still a crazy, quirky, lovable kid who had the appearance and demeanor of someone much younger, with a genuine innocence tempered by a subtle, lurking, street-wise, road-warrior quality of a guy who'd been around the block a couple thousand times-which, of course, he had.

Rick knew that The Band was good. But he never bought into "the myth." And he was not one to analyze or explain just how or why they were good. He'd invariably attribute it to Levon's drumming, or Richard's voice, or Garth's keyboard wizardry. When it came to his bass playing, he could talk technique when he had to-in an interview situation, for instance, or in his Homespun instructional video, Rick Danko's Electric Bass Techniques.

But talking about his voice-that was something else. Many interviewers over the years asked about his quivering tenor and the mournful quality in his singing. How did he do it? What made him sound so melancholy? How did he get those harmonies?

Those kinds of questions embarrassed him, mostly because he had no idea. In early interviews, he'd usually just evade the question, or go off on some crazy tangent about something else altogether. Or, he'd laugh it off with a joke. Or, he'd speak in Danko Code--which nobody understood then, and nobody understands now. Or he'd drop in a Dankified platitude (whatever the cliche, he'd put his own spin on it so that it meant something else). Rarely, though, did he answer the question.

But by the early 90s, he'd come up with a new answer that not only made sense--sort of--but also seemed to quell the follow-up questions: "Asthma," he'd say. "That's what gives me that desperate quality."

I've always loved this picture of Rick. I took it at an outdoor festival with The Band in Hampton, Virginia, in September, 1990. That tie-die was a favorite of his at the time--especially when paired, inexplicably, with suits.

I also love the clear view of my favorite guitar of his, his beloved Takamine, or, as Rick called it, his "Tock-a-meanie."