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It was a small gesture, almost surreptitious. The only reason I saw it was because it happened right in front of me. The musician reached out his hand to an old and dear friend to help him step gingerly off the stage.
Friendship. Age. Support. A bridge to close time and distance. Rich symbolism that triggered memories more than a half-century old.
It was a Friday night in the spring of 1972. Frank Racculia, a fellow member of our St. Daniel’s Church folk group, was playing with two of his friends at the weekly coffeehouse at the neighborhood Wesleyan church. I had only heard of Marc Caselle; I knew Alex Brown only by sight from those Friday nights.
At 15 years old, as self-awareness was starting to kick in, I was all-consumed by music, a new genre of music that asked us – forced us, really – to look into ourselves, each other, our world, war, peace, and God. It spoke to us. And that music was center stage every Friday night as teens with guitars came from all over the area to play and sing.
And to pray. The “Jesus Freak” movement was rolling in from California. My family was Catholic and this form of worship was very strange to me. I was intrigued but kept it at arm’s length. Still, nothing was going to keep me from that live, Friday night music. Especially that particular Friday night.
Frank, Marc and Alex attacked original compositions, plus cover versions of Creedence, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Crosby, Stills and Nash, and others with soaring three-part harmonies and heart-pumping acoustic rhythms. The crowded basement hall seemed to explode with electricity. After 51 years, those who were there still recall that night with wonder.
Like it or not, adulthood wasn’t far behind. Alex moved to California to marry, raise a family and build a career while still writing and recording. Unfortunately, we lost Frank 17 years ago. But Marc stayed in Syracuse; his band of accomplished musicians, “Marc Caselle and the Regulars,” plays all around Central New York. When I learned Alex would be flying back home to sit in with the band, their appearance became my vacation’s No. 1 priority.
Time both enriches and erodes. Nothing any band did could match the excitement experienced all those years ago through my 15-year-old eyes and ears. But it was close. Their musicianship was even better, reflecting a lifetime of hard work perfecting their craft. Our bodies, though, are definitely not better. Alex’s shock of black hair and beard were now white, more like Santa Claus than Cat Stevens. I ended up in front of the stage when people in the crowd saw me struggling with a cane and kindly made a path to an open barstool for me. Marc initially still seemed like Marc – until the end of the first set. That’s when he reached his hand toward Alex. It may have been just a few inches. In reality, though, those inches bridged five decades.
As Americans our “rugged individualist” culture looks down on reaching for help. In fact, doesn’t the Bible say “God helps those who help themselves?” Well, I looked it up but couldn’t find it. Instead, I found the story of the hemorrhagic woman who was healed just by reaching her hand for Jesus’ robe. And the story of Jarius, who asked Jesus’ help in healing his sick daughter; Jesus ended up waking her from death. A Roman centurion asked Jesus to heal his servant and he did – remotely! Just as asking for help in their time of weakness bound them to Jesus, just as our weakness binds us to God when we ask for help from both him and from his surrogates – each other.
As teens, we really had no idea of the depth of the life lessons that accompanied the music at those Friday nights at the coffeehouse. Though the lessons were sometimes hidden by the moon shadows we saw on the way home, they arose later in life, when we found ourselves runnin’ on empty, and stuck in the circle game. That’s when we learned how sweet it is to know you’ve got a friend. And that is some kind of wonderful.
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