Last November, Scott McCaughey had a stroke.
Last night, he played a rock show.
It was a glorious thing to behold.
For those who don't know, McCaughey is a deep veteran of NW rock'n'roll: He co-founded the Young Fresh Fellows, the absurdist garage band that made a name for itself in the early-'80s American indie/college/alternative/party rock underground chronicled in Michael Azerrad's Our Band Could Be Your Life.
Later, he founded The Minus Five, a band with a huge rotating repertory company of (reliably killer) guest players to accommodate McCaughey's limitlessly prolific songwriting and record-making engines.
He was also the fifth, and later fourth, member of R.E.M., touring and recording with the band for the last 15 years or so of their amazing career. His friendship/collaboration with Peter Buck is a two-way street; Buck is also central to the Minus Five.
This is obviously the very, very short version of the story. He has made dozens of records, written hundreds of songs, and played with a zillion people, a fairly staggering percentage of whom will be quick to tell you that in addition to being talented, genial, kind, and hilarious, McCaughey is that rare breed of trouper who never seems more himself than when he's on a stage with a guitar strapped to his body.
(Disclosure: I've been lucky enough to tour and record with him many times and will happily second that emotion.)
This is why the news of McCaughey's stroke inspired compound anguish. The news that he was going to live was obviously the primary concern, because you simply wouldn't want to imagine a world without him. Then there was the sympathy/fear that attends anyone having to navigate the healthcare gauntlet. But the question of whether and when he'd be able to play again felt uncommonly pertinent.
Even in a universe made out of cruel ironies, the concept of Scott McCaughey not being able to play music was just too barbarous to fathom.
Luckily, it became clear fairly early on in his recovery that it wouldn't come to that, saints be praised.
In January, less than two months after the stroke, he got onstage to play on a few songs at the two-night benefit held in his honor in his adopted hometown of Portland. And more recently, he guested on a song or two at frequent Minus Fiver Casey Neill's record release show.
But last month came the announcement that McCaughey, with the help of a rotating band, would be doing a series of shows at Portland's legendary LaurelThirst Public House (which recently survived a scare of its own—congratulations to them for prevailing!), every Wednesday in April.
He called the shows "The Therapy Sessions," partly because it's a good title, and partly because, as it turns out, playing and singing songs has become a major part of his recovery process.
He wrote this on the Minus Five's website on March 13:
"What are indeed, these 'Therapy Sessions,' you ask?
They are a chance to get The Minus 5 back on the boards, putting a soft foot forward, testing the murky waters as it were.
It has been a bit of an ordeal, and a stroke demands itself taken seriously. I have been so fortunate in that I've had the time to rest and heal. SO MUCH HELP has gotten me this far. You all know who I am addressing: YOU.
That being said, eventually it's time to play some music, and so, let's give it a try. Nestling in the comfortable confines afforded by the material I hopefully have the best chance to remember: mine own, The Fabs, and Neil.
And what better place than the hallowed Laurelthirst Public House, right here in Portland, Oregon. Every Wednesday in April, happy hour 6 - 8 pm.
Wish me luck!"
A very full crowd at last night's inaugural Therapy Session wished him a lot more than that. Cliche though it may be to say, the love in the room was palpable.
No fan of Scott McCaughey would be shocked by the spectacle of him standing next to Peter Buck on a small stage in a small bar playing songs by the Beatles, Neil Young, and the Minus Five, but circumstances being what they are, it felt a little like Dylan and the Band at the Isle of Wight. Only fun. There wasn't enough room to dance—there was hardly enough room to shift your weight—but lots of people were singing along, and every song ended with the kind of applause that would make even the most jaded lifer come back for a fourth encore.
The band, which also included Portland mainstays Lewi Longmire, Jim Talstra, Ezra Holbrook, and Jenny Conlee, tore through gems and deep cuts alike. McCaughey originals included "Twilight Distillery," "Hold Down the Fort," "Lies of the Living Dead," "The Night Chicago Died," and "Aw, Shit Man." Beatles numbers included "The Ballad of John and Yoko," "Nowhere Man," "Slow Down," and "Get Back." And Neil Young songs included "Barstool Blues," "Revolution Blues," and a couple others I couldn't quite identify.
If you'd seen him a million times, you might be able to tell that the performance required extra concentration, and tempos maybe a click or two slower, but he was in great voice (especially on the high notes in the Neil songs), his guitar playing was totally solid, and the banter was as warmly self-effacing as ever. And he smiled a lot, which was incredibly good to see.
It felt like a Minus Five show. But again, given the circumstances, a Minus Five show felt like a gift. Such a gift.
@ScottMcCaughey5 killed it last night. Thanks for all the fantastic music. #peterbuck @WinzigMary @ConleeJenny @LewiLongmire pic.twitter.com/hEkC2R2Yjl
— Kate Fricke (@kate_a_f) April 5, 2018
I'm sure I'm not the only one to have noticed this over the past few months, but McCaughey's lyrics contain a LOT of morbid imagery. In the past, lines like:
"One day, if I'm old or dead
One day, can't get out of bed
I hope and pray the night before we were out of our heads
'Cause I never want to lose the days of wine and booze"
"Let's set the date for the funeral parade, cause I can't wait to be forgiven"
"And He gave us the means to survive by letting us die
And when we're dead, my, my, how the time went by"
"Says in this book right here my soul's been saved
Won't stop the armadillos from plundering my grave"
"Whatever I was and whatever I'll be
The world will get on without me... in the ground"
...and MANY MANY MANY more like them have always landed somewhere between tongue-in-cheek and fatalistic to my ears—a way of communicating a dark turn of mood while acknowledging that misery is funny when you look at it correctly.
Still, I can't deny that at this show, lyrics I probably wouldn't have paused to notice before were suddenly sounding weirdly significant. And anytime McCaughey got anywhere near singing about death or decay, I felt like a dog cocking her head when someone whistles at the right pitch. It happened a lot:
"The way things are going, they're gonna crucify me" was a little appetizer. Then in "Barstool Blues," the lines about not being able to hold on to just one thought and "Let me see your face again before I have to go" and of course "once there was a friend of mine/Who died a thousand deaths."
Or how about "In a lonely coffin, playing solitaire/ no flowers on the wall, no ribbons from the fair"? Or the song about being "in the ground, in the ground, in the ground." Even rockers like "Lies of the Living Dead" and "The Night Chicago Died" ticked the box. I'm not saying this is on the order of realizing that John Lennon is literally saying "shoot me" at the top of "Come Together" or anything horrible like that. I'm just saying that an interesting side effect of being made to understand that life is more precious than you had previously bothered to realize is that the meaning of everything is subject to reevaluation. Which is also an incredible gift.
Two songs felt especially consequential, helping to bathe the night in a triumphant glow.
The first was his own composition, from the 2015 album Dungeon Golds, bearing the perfectly Scott McCaughey title "My Generation." It's a photo negative of the Who song, refuting the idea that the correct response to advancing age is surrender. The lyrics are hopeful, optimistic, and above all defiant.
It hardly needed to be said, or sung, considering what the whole evening was, but it still felt incredibly good to hear him sing the refrain, "Not ready to die, die, die/ Not ready to fold," and then sing it again.
The second was the last song of the night, a relatively obscure Neil Young album track from 1973's Time Fades Away, which Young used to call the worst album he ever made, and wouldn't even allow it to be released on CD until last year.
The song, beloved of Neil heads for its ambitious autobiographical narrative, tells a harrowing story about divorce, loss of innocence, getting beat up by bullies, finding solace in music, and later gaining success while losing your vulnerability because you're surrounded by venal assholes who don't care about anything but money.
However grim the verses are, however, the song is really about the urgent three-word plea Young makes in the chorus, and repeats over and over in that high, clear, haunted country keen of his. Despite all the sad, painful, brutal blows life might throw your way, the song's message is this:
"Don't be denied. Don't be denied. Don't be denied. Don't be denied."
First of all, it's one of those amazing Neil Young songs that you only have to hear once and it A) becomes your favorite Neil song ever, and B) reminds you that you can still be surprised by an artist about whom you thought you knew all you needed to know.
More to the point, however, hearing Scott McCaughey sing that chorus while standing there, quite literally refusing to be denied the experience of doing what he loves most and does best, and only a few minutes after having repeatedly declared that he's not ready to die die die... I mean, you hardly need to be a music journalist to perceive that some meaningful shit was happening at the LaurelThirst last night.
Like all good therapy sessions, the Therapy Sessions achieved meaningful progress for everyone involved.
I can't wait to see what he plays next week.
