By Living Room correspondent Bernie
The recent loss of a close friend has made me focus on how we deal with bereavement, in addiction and in recovery, and what additional tools we have in recovery that can make dealing with bereavement less tortuous.
I met Adrian in recovery, and it soon became obvious that not only were we both musicians (he a drummer, me a guitarist), but that we both shared a love of jazz, blues, and 1950s rock ‘n’ roll. Add an active role in ska and punk bands (in the 1980s, when we were both significantly younger!!) into the mix, and the scene was set for a firm friendship. The band I was playing in needed a drummer, and he filled the gap seamlessly. Fun practices with our bassist and second guitarist, and a succession of singers (who we seemed to destroy with alarming regularity!!) were held a couple of times a week, sometimes in the local park, sometimes in the back garden of a local tea room, but most often in my flat.
As a musician since my early teens, and with a sizeable proportion of friends and acquaintances in the business, I’m no stranger to the loss of people close to me. Musicians tend to do most things with a hefty dose of excess and those excesses can sometimes lead to tragic outcomes. But this was the first time a close friend had died since I’d been in recovery, and something felt different. I felt much more emotional, and I expressed it to those close to me, and my “recovery family”. So what had changed since the last time a close friend had died, in pre-recovery days?
In addiction we tend to mask our true emotions with our addictive behaviours. We hide behind a wall of fake existence, and don’t simply accept our feelings for what they are, or give ourselves permission to accept them. We tend to fight those feelings and emotions instead, and it becomes pretty exhausting. No wonder then that when the death of someone close happens, we almost just shrug our shoulders and continue shuffling through life with the burden of addiction continuing to weigh us down.
One of the key elements of recovery is learning to recognise and accept our true emotions. With that comes a degree of vulnerability, another emotion the active addict is rather adept at avoiding. Facing the death of a loved one makes anyone who is in touch with their emotions instantly vulnerable. Allowing people in to help you deal with that death, support and love you, and keep you moving forward, is accepting that vulnerability without resorting to destructive behaviours. Those people who want to help recognise the worth you have to them in their lives, and letting them help is about recognising your own worth, and accepting their unconditional love, unconditionally.
Music is a huge part of my life, and was a huge part of my Adrian’s life. We’d often sit in my flat listening to Chuck Berry, or Benny Goodman, Elvis, The Clash, or The Specials, and lament the fact we’d both probably been born more than a decade or two after we should have been. Recovery had bought us together in friendship, but music held us together. We went to gigs together, we frequently got into mischief together, and sometimes we cried together too. I know I’m going to miss him a lot, but I know too I’ve got a lot of good people around me who love me dearly, and music to keep me occupied. As the Native American Lakota are often want to say, “songs are medicine”.
So, I was asked if I had to pick a song to remember Adrian by, what it would be. That’s a pretty tough question, there’s so many to choose from. I’d have to look way back, to something that laid the foundations for all the great music that the pair of us liked and made. Over 30 years back before we were both born in fact, to the late 1930s. Benny Goodman, an incredibly talented bandleader and accomplished musician (and who served as the inspiration for the likes of Glen Miller and Count Basie) wrote and released “Sing, Sing, Sing, With a Swing”. I used to play it on my radio show a lot, it’s upbeat, and with the emergence of the Chicago blues sound a decade later, provided the ingredients that went on to give us rock ‘n’ roll. That same rock 'n' roll is what lies at the core of so many musicians, Adrian and myself included.
Rest in peace my friend (but not too much peace, you are a drummer after all!!) and thank you for being such a colourful part of my life. You were a man of few words, but the ones you spoke often carried much weight. May they forever be carried in the memories of those of us who were lucky enough to know you.