Lee Wallace

Lee Wallace became my hero the night of Joe Garrigan's Cover Band Explosion- a biannual charity event in which local musicians become their favorite rock stars. Lee was the guitarist in a Bauhaus cover band which also featured my pal and fellow dj, Chuck Carroll as vocalist Peter Murphy. I was excited to see Chuck's rendition of this Goth Lord and watched the band set up with eager anticipation.

I noticed the guitarist earlier in the evening. He had striking features and a particular presence that suggested depths of experience. I asked a friend standing beside me if she knew him. "Oh that's Lee," she said. "Lee Wallace." I did not know of Lee Wallace, I told her and she seemed surprised. He's been a constant presence in the local music scene for years. Until he got sick.

"He has some terrible lung disease. Pulmonary something.....pulmonary fibrosis, I think. He's been really sick for a while. "

When I hear of a person struggling with some bizarre health issue, I suddenly become largely fascinated with this person - probably because of my own struggle with a bizarre health issue. How is their day-to-day life affected by this condition? How do they cope? After being poked and prodded and tested by doctors, after hearing bad news, after taking treatment after prescribed treatment, how do they push forward? How do they maintain positivity? How do they continue to live?

The Bauhaus cover band played a brilliantly spirited set. My attention was partially focused on the sheer wonderfulness of the overall vibe. But part of me studied Lee Wallace, this person who had somehow escaped my local music radar until this moment. I watched the intent with which he focused on playing. I observed the ease with which he maneuvered the guitar. And periodically, he would giggle uncontrollably. It was the juxtaposition of his intense focus and immense giddiness that made me adore him.

After their set, I rushed over to Chuck Carroll and gave him an enthusiastic high five. I spotted Lee sitting on a piece of equipment low to the ground. I approached him, extended my hand and introduced myself. I gushed some sort of starry-eyed garbledy gook. And he graciously smiled as he struggled to catch his breath.

He could not speak to me. He was bent over, sweating profusely, trying to breathe.

Lee Wallace has pulmonary fibrosis: a disease which impedes the lungs' proper functioning by replacing healthy working parts with scar tissue. This diminishes the lungs' capacity to distribute oxygen to the body. The act of breathing - which most of us take for granted - requires a lot of effort for him. Exerting himself on stage, as he did at the Cover Band Explosion, taxes his body and literally takes his breath away. Lee Wallace rocked out with sheer abandon that night, even though this is the case. This is how he became my hero.

About a month after the Cover Band Explosion, Lee played a solo set at The Green Bean. He was seated with an acoustic guitar. The songs he played were quieter, more deliberately paced than those I'd previously experienced him playing. A 17th century English traditional, a Richard Thompson cover, an early Emerson, Lake and Palmer piece that blew my mind. As an aside, I have to tell this tale:

All week I'd been collecting songs for my radio show on WQFS. The theme was: songs to play for a friend at the end of her rope. I'd asked for suggestions from lots of people and was in the midst of tracking down songs. On the Friday before my show, I randomly thought of Emerson, Lake and Palmer's "From the Beginning." I thought, "Hmm. That could work. I wonder whatever became of my Trilogy album." And then the thought passed.

That night at the Green Bean, I was watching Lee Wallace perform. In the middle of his set, he paused to dedicate a song to a friend of his who was present. A barely noticeable tremor of a giggle rippled through his body as he launched into the instrumental introduction of "From the Beginning." He proceeded to give a fabulous rendition of the song. And I was catapulted back to a year during a tumultuous teenage summer when I listened to Emerson, Lake and Palmer a great deal. And every thought, every feeling and every insanity-provoking crush I ever experienced when I listened to that song in particular flooded my psyche. It was then that I realized Lee Wallace is my psychic sibling.

After his set, he gave me a copy of his cd, The Sea, The Sea, which I took home with me and listened to right away. The clean lines of melody embellished by Lee's technical prowess transmitted an honest and direct beauty. But a tension built inside of me from song to song. And by the time "Clair de Lune," the final instrumental piece, played, I was weeping. I didn't know why.

I lived with this cd in my car and home stereo for weeks. I felt there was an important meaning in it. I would only garner this meaning after listening to Lee's cd repeatedly. I'm quite sure I drove my lovely boyfriend crazy. One afternoon, I was listening to The Sea, The Sea with my headphones on and I heard something I hadn't noticed before. In "Clair de Lune," Lee's sharp, labored breathing is audible in the background. I understood why I'd cried the first time I listened to this cd. I was subliminally aware of the fact that Lee's love of music pushed him to play guitar, violin and sing despite his body not having adequate breath to fully support him in these endeavors.

I'd been wanting to converse with Lee about all manner of things for a while. I finally invited him over for some quality front porch time at the local 504. To my amazement, he graciously accepted. I was waiting on the porch when he arrived. He slowly crossed the street, climbed the few front steps and lowered himself onto the comfy vinyl couch which we proudly use as outdoor furniture.

I immediately became aware of Lee's quick and shallow breaths. His entire upper torso seemed to be violently contracting and expanding in an attempt to provide his lungs with oxygen. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help him. I asked if I could bring him a beer or glass of water. If I couldn't help fix his physical ailment, at least I could be a proper host. Lee politely declined. He needed to simply sit and stabilize.

Pulmonary fibrosis, or IPF, and the condition I have - ITP - have a lot in common. The predominate commonalities are: no one knows the cause of or the cure for either one. The major difference between them is that pulmonary fibrosis is fatal while mine is only potentially fatal. Lee Wallace, my new hero, will die from pulmonary fibrosis or from complications related to it.

Lee and I sat on the front porch watching my housemates come and go while we talked about our respective conditions and our corresponding tendency towards morbidity. We talked a lot about music. I introduced Lee to my guitar. I really didn't need to coax him into playing it. Lee draped his body around it and commenced to making magic. It makes my guitar happy to be played by people who actually know what they're doing.

I wanted to know how it feels to perform music when you have pulmonary fibrosis. I could think of no way to adequately yet diplomatically formulate the question. So I just asked him. He told me about the cover band show in which he played guitar and sang as part of Echo and the Bunnymen. He told me that it was too tiring to stand up, play guitar and sing. It took days for him to recover. In the Bauhaus project, he played guitar only. That was still tiring but much more manageable than standing, playing guitar and singing. At his solo shows at The Green Bean, he sits and plays guitar, which allows him to sing. Lee told me that when it becomes impossible to do this, he will be ready to go.

Lee underwent an extensive application process in order to become a candidate for a lung transplant. This is a risky operation but it is the only way to potentially extend the life of a person with pulmonary fibrosis. It is incredibly difficult to qualify for the procedure. And if you do qualify, you have to find a way to pay for it. There are lots of obstacles in the medical establishment that make this difficult disease even more difficult. Lee and his wife Leslie are in the midst of negotiating all these obstacles.

I suggested that Lee and Leslie move to a more civilized region of the world where health care is a priority. Paris. Geneva. Havana. For God's sake.

Lee said the typical life expectancy of people with pulmonary fibrosis is three years from the time of diagnosis. He was diagnosed two years ago. The doctors tell him that he probably had it for a year before he was diagnosed.

Lee finally had a beer. An Old Chub that I borrowed from one of my housemates. He delighted me with his musical musings via my guitar. Then he shoved the guitar my way and had me play something. Terrified, I played one of my silly songs for him. He politely listened and didn't throw anything at me when I finished.

It was a delightful evening. And I would like to think that there is an unlimited supply of front porch time with Lee. But the reality of the situation is: there is not. Lee will leave the planet much sooner than those of us who know and love him would like unless he receives a lung transplant. But Lee is at the mercy of circumstances beyond his control: an incurable lung disease and the medical establishment.

For the time being, Lee continues to do what he does best: make beautiful music, share it with the people close to him and love his incredible wife Leslie and beautiful dog Stella. The folks at the Duke clinic say that Lee gets around remarkably well for someone with his particular variety of IPF. They do not understand why this is the case. His doctor, who Lee says "is pretty awesome," attributes it to a combination of his "relatively young age, general good health habits, and smart ass attiitude."

Long live Lee Wallace, The Smart Ass!

Sam's Death Day

Cinco de Mayo is Sam Moss' death day.  Fans of Sam renamed this day:  Cinco de Mosso.  Three years ago today he was found in his house with a bullet through his brain - self-inflicted. I think of him often. But especially on this day, the anniversary of his death.

Sam Moss owned a guitar store in Winston-Salem for many years. It was a bit of an institution. Guitar players and guitar player wannabes congregated there to try out different guitars, trade stories, discuss techniques and boast about the famous musicians they personally knew. Rarely did these cats ever buy anything. On Saturdays, the elite inner circle participated in the ritual Pulliam's run.

Every Saturday at noon, Sam closed up shop. He hung in the window of the front door a sign whose clock indicated the time he would return. And several folks would pile into his car and head over to Pulliam's for "dogs and 'q'." Pulliam's is a funky little joint that's been selling eats for over a hundred years. The only food they prepare is hot dogs and barbeque. But you can also buy a bag of chips, B & G fried pies, school cafeteria-style fudge, Super Bubble bubble gum and sodas from old-fashioned drink coolers.

Sam hounded me for months about joining the crew at Pulliam's. When I finally decided to meet there, I couldn't find the place.

So the following week, I met Sam at his guitar shop and rode to Pulliam's with the guys. We rolled into a gravel parking lot by an old house that sat slightly away from the road and tucked under generous old shade trees. Its green and white striped paint job created a camouflaged effect. It's sign was narrow and faded.

I walked inside and strode up to the counter. Sam instructed me to season my dog with Big Ed's Hot Sauce - made on the premises. "Big Ed's makes the dog," he said. "But start with the mild and work your way up to the heavy duty stuff. Trust me on this one." I did. He was right.

Now here's the deal about Pulliam's hot dogs: they are those red ones that probably have every atrocious body part and carcinogenic chemical a hot dog can possibly have and be still be sold legally. But my theory is this: Big Ed's Hot Sauce renders all potentially damaging factors null and void. It is, if you will, an antidote for the very food it flavors.

Pulliam's has no indoor seating. Instead, folks crowd around a tall stainless steel counter top, eat their dogs and tell stories. If you want to sit down, there are stumps out back.

I started going semi-weekly to Pulliam's. Sam would always greet me enthusiastically, always want to know what trouble I was causing, always be pleased when I'd tell him. We'd sit out front after eating a couple of dogs and smoke and joke. The grimeyness and the yumminess of those Saturdays is hard to convey. But I loved them.

One Saturday when Sam wasn't around, I was at Pulliam's eating a dog and I noticed an article that had been cut out from some tabloid, the name of which I've forgotten. It was an article about Sam's deceased wife, Dido, who had won a trip to Russia courtesy of this tabloid. Dido apparently was an avid tabloid reader. She entered all their contests. And in this instance, won.

The article included a photo of Sam and Dido embracing in front of Saint Basil's Cathedral. Sam looked exuberant. I'd never seen him so happy. And I realized that when Dido died, a part of Sam must have died as well. I imagine he was consumed with a grief that never quite finished consuming him. Maybe that's what got him in the end.

~~~

Sam and Dido had been crazy in love with each other. It was, everyone says, an epic romance.

~~~

Sam Moss sold me my guitar. I had been given a Yamaha some 16 years prior by ex-husband guy who was generously trying to help me realize my dream of playing guitar. But it was a clumsy guitar for me to handle and I grew frustrated every time I tried to play it. Eventually I figured it out: this wasn't the right guitar for me.

So I took the Yamaha to Sam Moss at his guitar shop and asked if I could trade it in for an old Silvertone I'd been eying. It was a beautiful guitar, late 1940's, made of dark wood and some sort of turquoise-colored trim. This guitar really seemed like it was the right one. But Sam knew better.

"Old guitars will vibe you," he said. "They've been in smoke-filled honky-tonks and juke joints and they've built a lot of character as a result. But that doesn't mean this is the right guitar for you."

Sam had me sit down and close my eyes. He put a guitar in my lap and said, "Now play." I awkwardly struck a chord. He then told me to keep my eyes closed as he took that guitar away and shoved another in my lap. This went on for a bit til I got the point. So I wandered around his shop and pulled damn near every guitar off the walls, playing them all til I found exactly the right one.

It's an Alvarez, DY-54. Shallow body, fiberglass back, low action. Acoustic, but pick-ups were added. I fell in love. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was my guitar. Turns out it belonged to Chris Stamey at one point in time. Sam would say, "I've got the papers of authenticity to prove it. If I can ever find them." Having seen Sam Moss' back office, I figured I'd never see those papers of authenticity. But it didn't matter. I loved my guitar.

Sam told me that I needed to hire an exorcist to get rid of any residual Stamey.

Sam encouraged me to write my own songs. "All you need is three chords to be a rock 'n' roll star," he said. I never wanted to be a rock 'n' roll star. I just wanted to use music as another vehicle for story-telling.

Sam gave me the confidence to start writing silly songs. Regretfully, I never played any of them for him. If I had, I think he would have laughed.

~~~

Sam Moss nicknamed me "The Vomitor" (emphasizing the "tor") after a rough tequila night. He kidded me about losing my shit. But in the end he'd hug me and tell me that he'd seen his share of rock 'n' rollers lose their shit and the degree to which I'd lost mine was impressive, right up there with the best of them. And so I feel that by hurling massively in Sam Moss' bathroom, or "The Vomitorium" as it came to be known post-kathyclark, I have somehow endeared myself to the Gods of Rock 'n' Roll.

~~~

Sam Moss had an uncanny capacity to make me feel wholly treasured, as if I was a precious being, somebody special. Maybe he did that to everyone. Maybe that's a testament to his unconditionally loving nature. Or maybe he himself wanted to feel like a precious being, like somebody special. So he did his best to make others feel that way. In the end, I think Sam didn't grasp how fully amazing and well-loved he was. This thought makes me incredibly sad.

~~~

Several weeks after Sam's death, I continued to experience a very deep grief. I went to see a Native American healer whom I felt could help me somehow come to terms with his passing. She journeyed out of her body to check on him, to make sure he had fully crossed over. When she returned, she smiled broadly and told me that he's doing very well, that he is in a better position to do the work he was meant to do.

Sam gave her a message to related to me. He said, "Quit crying. Those tears are not for me. Quit crying for yourself and start doing the things that make you happy."

These words rang true. In my imagination, I could hear Sam Moss saying them.

~~~

Ultimately, I believe Sam was too unhappy for this planet. The love of his life had ripped a giant hole in his heart when she departed. I think he walked with one foot in the grave ever since. He put on a great front though. He was always upbeat. Always partying. His partying got out of hand towards the end. He threw so much enthusiasm into getting wasted, it was hard to deny him. He rocked out on guitar up til the end, performing publicly with Peter May and the Rough Band and his own project The Sam's. His playing was superlative. He was a truly class act.

~~~

Sam had stories he wanted to tell me. I had planned to do a cover story on him for "Go Triad" when I worked there. But due to an unfortunate series of events, that cover story never manifested.

~~~

My grief subsided somewhat after my session with the Native American healer. But I never stopped missing Sam Moss. And I guess I never will. Hopefully he's reserved a spot in Rock 'n' Roll Heaven for me. And I can meet Dido and see the ethereal happiness she inspires in him. I'll sit on some ragged couch while Sam taunts me with a bottle of tequila and then pulls out his guitar and kicks out the jams. Strummer will stop by. We'll light a big campfire, swap stories and tunes. And I'll finally have the opportunity to play some of my silly songs for the man who most inspired me to write them.

~~~

Sam Moss: Rock In Perpetuity.