PHIL HAYNEN (passed on 11/20/09)

November 21, 2009

It wasn't as if it were a total shock. It was more of a tragic inevitability held at bay by denial and lack of real contact. So, it was merely a vaguely anticipated surprise of bitter sadness. One that had become almost routine in the chain of deaths and grieving that accompanies the loss that we feel for those we have lost daily movement with but have reserved as a matter of course, a place in our hearts. A hero from a time when we were going for it and not just waiting for it.

I last saw Phil at Alpo's wake—a fitting prologue to the tragedy, literally and symbolically to his illness and loss of his voice. I don't usually shed tears for a fallen loved one till months or even years after the fact. But in fitful dreams last night he kept appearing to me. The shock of red hair pressed beneath the cocky scally cap, the tinted aviator glasses in front of eyes so full of life and optimism that I can only think of one word—bravery.

Against the armor plated world of pretension he struck repeated hits with only his bare hands, his inimitable voice and open tuned Gibson SG knockoff. He was the Hank Williams of my personal mythology. It's the wrong time to brag—but I will because it evidences my respect, my love for the guy. I found him in his mother's basement in Lynn hunched over a reel to reel four-track with a butt and a bud and a rag tag repertoire of songs. Later I introduced him to his future bandmates at the Summit Club—Ricky Bobby and Punk—yes dear reader I had a minor role in the inception of the Dawgs. When most of the rest of the scene were miming tepid new wave posings, Phil was playing hardcore rock ’n’ roll written from the heart. Like a musical Hemingway—bulls, blood, booze and broads.

A lot of people recognized his talent but he never got the recognition he deserved.

Recently I was dragged to the movies to see Pirate Radio—a cute little confection that purports to be a tale about the beginnings of modern rock. I was disconcertingly annoyed by its happy go lucky irreverence and cookie cutter rebellion. It was an affront to my personal vanity. As an antidote I conjured up the image of Phil and consoled myself to knowing somebody so real. The moviegoers around me chuckled unknowingly at the saccharine platitudes, and I thought to myself, too late, that I really must give Phil a call.

As the movie ended there was a "sum-uppance" that said something to the effect of, "Pirate radio died in 1966 but the dream lives on"—yeah bought by the Disney channel!

Phil, a real pirate, has died but lives in dreams.

Love you buddy,

Asa Brebner