And then my mind got a kick in the gut. My dear friend and music mentor of 20 years, Alan O'Day, passed away on May 17 at age 72 from cancer. Even in the midst of battling the disease with grueling chemo and radiation treatments, Alan wrote the title song for a movie ("You Don't Say") and watched his song "Nascar Crazy" finally hit the charts after five years of pitching it. He died at age 72 with a song on the charts and more songs on the shelf. He died too soon. His work was still kicking, and will live on for many years. I'm young (in comparison), healthy, talented, and inspired anew by my friend. He had chutzpa, determination, tenacity, joy, and a giving spirit. He not only encouraged himself, he encouraged others freely and without charge. He never had a "day job." Music was his entire career. Not many of us artist types can say that.
The music was always in me. I started piano lessons in first grade and could always hear when my classmates were off pitch. I took guitar lessons at age 10. I had my first on-stage experience in college and caught the performing bug. I studied acting with Walter Koenig (Star Trek's "Checkov") and chose to sing as part of a classroom exercise. The room went quiet, and I was regaled with praise that I could "really sing." I had no idea. So I took singing lessons. Karaoke singing about knocked me out -- my stage fright was paralyzing. So I stayed with it just to conquer my fear. My first gig was with Greg Barton at the Thousand Oaks Seafood Parlor singing for happy hour. Then I won a contest to sing the "National Anthem" at Dodger Stadium. I decided I should have a "demo tape" on hand, and a coworker referred me to producer Denny Martin. I asked him about songwriting, which I had always wanted to learn, and he took me to workshops, encouraging my efforts with "come on in, the water's fine." Through Denny I met Alan O'Day, and pursued him as a co-writer like the naive little wannabe I was. He was kind, always. We wrote a beautiful song together called "The Other Side." And a friendship was born. We performed together at coffee houses, restaurants, house parties, and clubs in L.A. and Nashville. It was thrilling to sing back up on his hits "Undercover Angel," "Rock 'n Roll Heaven," and "Angie Baby." I recorded his song "Please Don't Believe Me" and he sang back-up for me. Really. Alan O'Day singing back-up for me. And he did it while going through cancer treatment for Melanoma.
Our last gig together was April 29, 2012, at a Methodist church in West L.A. This came about via my gardener, Sam Dote, who was always looking for venues at which Bob and I could share our music. The church was near Alan and Yuka's house, and I suggested we add Alan to our performance. It was magical. Alan told me that day that I seemed to have "a weight" on my soul. I did. Losing my job hit me hard. Had I shared more with him, he probably would have encouraged me to rethink my music. Ever the spiritual encourager, I just wanted him and Yuka to check out that church, hoping it would lead them to Jesus. Their souls were on my heart, just as my artist's soul was on Alan's heart. We looked out for each other. We wanted the best for each other.
During the last weeks of Alan's life, Yuka asked about the minister of that church, Gary Oba. She wanted to know if he would pray for Alan and officiate at the funeral. He did. I'm grateful to have been used to make that connection. I'm especially grateful to Sam Dote for being the conduit by which this connection happened.
What I learned from Alan is that everyone matters. Actually, I learned that from my mom, and Alan reinforced it. The waiter, the pharmacy clerk, your hair stylist, the wanna be singer/songwriter, and your gardener. Alan connected lives. His soul was reachable. He gave freely. He loved life. He helps me remember to kick discouragement in the butt and appreciate life, health, talent, and other people. Thank you Alan. See you in rock 'n roll heaven.
