Remembering Dave Carter

Seven is the number of a man

Seven years ago today a man I never met died. The sting of it lingers even now. Close members of my own family have died, and I have grieved and healed and gone on living, full of their memories, but the death of this one random person leaves me undone every time I think of it. I am beginning to suspect that I always will be.

I count the days in cups of wine and candles I have burned

Dave Carter & Tracy Grammer, 2000 Falcon Ridge Folk Festival
–photo by George Green (thanks!)

He was a songwriter named Dave Carter. I don’t expect you to understand; as it is, I feel an urge to apologize for the intensity of this loss, I resist the impulse to add “just” to that last sentence. He was “just” this songwriter, you know? It’s weird to still count the days, seven years on, even if you love music. Yet I know I am not the only one feeling a little lost this day.

He wrote what he called “postmodern mythic American” music. It’s the kind of acoustic, literate music that earns comparisons to Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Townes Van Zandt. I love it for its irreverence, its compassion, and its humble, wry wonder at the world.

Many who love Dave Carter’s music speak of it in terms of having uncovered a secret treasure, all their own. His singular ability to write songs that resonate on a deeply personal level makes us a bit protective of him, makes us want to share it with the world so his memory won’t fade. It is one of the few things about which I am evangelical.

Love is a light in the sky, and an unspoken lie, and a half-whispered prayer

I first heard Dave Carter and his partner Tracy Grammer as the opening act at a Joan Baez show. When Dave started telling stories, even before they began to sing, I felt like he was sharing the truth with me, gentle and horrible and silly, undiluted. This scrawny banjo player with an afro of curls and a wistful inflection had perceived through the haze of this world at least a slant of light and seemed to want everyone else to glimpse it too. He called all of his songs “true stories,” and talking about every one of them unearthed a dozen more true stories, more characters he’d met and places he’d been.

What I remember best is “Tanglewood Tree.” Dave began with a simple observation that became a chant before turning into a sermon that turned into the song. Just when I thought it was perfect, Tracy’s violin came trilling like revelation just before the bridge.

Mother the years pass outta countin’ but no prophet comes to comfort me

We live in an absurd, joyous, sometimes frightening world, often unforgiving, and what I look to for faith are the things that give me strength or joy or peace. I believe in trees, stillness, words, and my friends. I’ve been thinking of music in that context ever since I heard Dave Carter & Tracy Grammer. It was like finding the Rosetta Stone; they made the way I thought about my life make more sense and assured me, once and for all, that everything is worth another look, and another. They let me hear what it sounds like in my head.

I don’t think it’s sadness that I feel at Dave Carter’s departure from this world. He may be a little harder to find but the things he illuminated are still shining. I am bursting with the light myself, so there is little room for grief over his absence. Maybe that’s because Dave’s not actually the source of the light. He’s the guy behind the scenes shoving things out of shadow so the rest of us can see them. The more we see, the more we’re able to see. We need not rely on him to continue seeking revelation.

I will lay my burdens in the cradle of your grace

I wish, oh I wish, Dave Carter had gone on sharing new aspects of his gift with us for years to come. His task was an unending one, so of course it feels like it was prematurely arrested, because the work of untangling the world can never be finished. The longing for new Dave Carter music and the new understanding that comes with it brings me to the brink on days like this. Then I remember: his gift is generative. Others have been stirred to share their own new visions of the world because of the words Dave Cater wrote. That tribute keeps him as present now as he ever was, and my lament only delays its further uncovering.

So I keep on looking. I remember Dave Carter, with a swelling grateful heart. Following Tracy’s lead after his death, I commit myself to sharing this music with everyone who will listen. I do my best to celebrate the union of words and melody and all the things they touch. I hope you’ll join the chorus.