Tributes
Rick Fielding 1944-2004

If you’re here (and it’s quite apparent that you are), then I don’t really need to tell you what we’ve lost. Someone said, a while before Rick died, "I can’t even imagine a world without Rick Fielding". He was so many things to so many people: a friend, a teacher, a mentor, a loving husband, a stirring performer, a tireless e-mail correspondent, a generous host, a friendly voice on the radio, a skilled leather craftsman, or just a warm human presence, playing and singing on his CDs. He enriched his friends - he enlivened their lives - and he enabled and empowered his students - while anyone can pass on a lick or a chord, Rick passed on, as well, the belief that ‘If you think you can, you can’. He was passionate about what he did, and about what he knew others could do, if they’d only let themselves. He taught by example and by anecdote, and he believed in knowing how strongly we are tied to the past. As a teacher he became a link that could bind a musical beginner to a four-hundred-year tradition of string and song. Just how enormous his influence was, I think we’re only beginning to appreciate. Eventually he became, not only a local guru, but a kind of ‘folk godfather’, world-wide, via the Internet.

Now he himself is the subject of song and story. He’s passed into the oral tradition that he knew so well. We’ve lost him - but that we had him at all, was a wonderful gift.

Indeed, there’s so much one could say about Rick... but one thing that stands out, almost above all else, in the minds of his many friends, is the sense of humor: it sometimes seemed that Rick lived for the joke, above all. Sometimes the joke would reflect his extraordinarily quick intelligence, and, then again, sometimes it was just pretty silly - like the famous ‘tripping while carrying the soup-bowl’ mime routine (it was especially popular at formal affairs or posh settings), or, more recently, the ever-popular... ‘Fart Machine’... Often his mind made astonishing and surprising leaps of wit, but equally often, he was endearingly predictable... you had only to mention anything remotely East Indian, to be sure that he’d shortly find a way to use the line, ‘Who’s Sari Now?’

Practical jokes pleased him. He seemed to be particularly fond of trying to embarrass people close to him, in front of large crowds: for instance, in a super-market lineup he might call to Heather from a couple of aisles away, "Hey, honey, here’s that ‘Martian Baby’ article in the Enquirer that you were looking for ". I know that Tony Quarrington came to dread going into record stores with him, because he’d inevitably shout, from across the room, something like: "Tony! You said you wanted that new Donnie and Marie album?"

The humor never stopped working, even in his final illness. He liked to do imitations of his Swedish oncologist and, while in the hospital, he would gasp for breath and pretend that people were standing on his oxygen tube.

He had so many gifts, musical and otherwise. His great gift for imitation sprang from understanding not only the surfaces, but the depths, of people. Though he put the objects of his mimicry in a humorous light, at the same time, he always conveyed a warm appreciation for what was human in their character. Some of his best imitative efforts involved Enoch Kent, Tony Quarrington, the late Alan McRae, and, as I mentioned at the beginning, myself. On occasion, some friend would call me up, and say to me, "He’s doing it again! Tune into CIUT right away!"... and, when I did, I’d be greeted by my own dreary vocal tones, and an exaggerated mocking of my guitar style - on live radio. Rick would have me rolling on the floor [and, believe me, I don’t roll very easily!]. Sometimes he just liked to ‘do voices’, for the sheer humor, or hell of it. He could be a one-man Goon Show. Eventually, all his friends became suspicious of any phone calls they received from people with heavy accents, after Rick had called once too often, claiming to be - for instance- Mohinder J. Krishnamurti, of the ‘Late Returns Department’ at Revenue Canada.

You know, I confess, I’ve wondered why Rick singled me out, and asked me, particularly, to make this speech, since - as most of you know - I generally have a slower delivery than,,, Canada Post... Actually, I do have a couple of theories on that... maybe he thought, at some point in the proceedings, you all could use a short nap... or possibly, this might have been, in a way, his last practical joke... because you have to listen to me and he doesn’t...

Of course he loved to talk (frankly, I could never get a word in edgewise)..., and you could always count on a colorful, informed opinion from him, on a myriad of subjects. He was always ready to argue or debate: over politics, or baseball, about hockey [he was fer it], or organized religion [he was agin it] and, of course, he dabbled in so many eras and areas of musical lore and trivia. He read a lot, and had a capacious memory [also, no qualms about making up what he couldn’t actually remember]. He found nearly everything absorbing, and he would take up somewhat surprising interests. We can all remember some of his temporary enthusiasms, or obsessions [often gleaned from late-night TV] - for infomercial-related gadgets, like the ‘Veg-O-Matic’ and the ‘George Foreman Fatless Grill’ - or for over-the-top TV evangelists, like Oral Roberts and Ernest Angley.

He wasn’t one for reading much fiction, but he did like, especially, to read biographies of the very famous, or the very eccentric... Peter Sellers, Lord Buckley and Quentin Crisp come to mind, for example. He once shared with me his theory that truly famous people always had some major, grievous character flaw, a quite unacceptable gap, or quirk, in their personal make-up - something that would have, at the very least, made them difficult to live with. [He never did figure out whether they became famous despite, or because of, this character flaw.] At any rate, we decided that, if this theory was true, neither he - nor I - was ever going to become truly famous. [Of course, we also agreed that certain of our ex-girlfriends were pretty much bound to.]

Rick was not a simple man... by turns, he was funny, quirky, crochety, and humane... He was contradictory, like all of us - only perhaps more so... private, but outgoing and generous... profound, and frivolous... a bit of an outsider, who liked inside jokes. But above all, he was a ‘class act’... a gentleman and a scholar... a true friend. And we’ll all miss him.

He was proud that he ultimately got to meet, talk to, or correspond with quite a few of his personal heroes and icons: like Pete Seeger, Merle Travis, sportswriter Jim Bouton, and Erik Darling. Though he was too modest to think, or say so, he truly belonged in their company. And I can’t help feeling that, somewhere, out there in the cosmos of music and memory, he’s now with the spirits that he always wanted to hang with and to talk to: A.P. Carter, Bix Beiderbecke, Lou Gehrig, Tony Hancock, Leadbelly, Maurice Richard, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Charles Dickens, Bob Wills, Quentin Crisp, Jimmy Rodgers, Robert Johnson, Babe Ruth, Woody Guthrie, and Samuel Pepys. In a better place, in a purer world, with lots of cats and banjos and table-hockey sets - and no onions... Up on the bandstand, The Gin Mill Syncopators are swinging away. Blind Blake is sitting in. And in some corner of that wonderful place, I think I hear Rick and Eddie Baltimore, having a bad pun contest... [So far, it’s tied.]

A Jerry Rasmussen song that Rick liked a lot, and sang a lot, says:

‘Some may leave stories, well tuned in the telling-
Some may leave jokes that can still make you laugh-
Some may leave lessons, hard in the learning-
Some, just a smile in an old photograph.

Some may leave money from a lifetime of saving,
Some, just their names on a marble stone-
It's not what you leave, it’s the joy of remembering
And all I can leave you is- a handful of songs.’

He did leave a handful of songs, but so much more. He gave a giant gift of music and humanity to the people who knew him, listened to him, and learned from him. Tonight we’re trying, musically, to give some of that back. One tribute to Rick is that so many of you came tonight, and many from great distances - there are people here from Montreal, Halifax, Winnipeg, San Francisco, North Carolina, Michigan, Connecticut, New Hampshire and... Scotland, at least so far as I’m aware. I know that all our hearts are with Heather, who knew him best and loved him most. She and Rick were so lucky to find each other, and to share the time they had.

Maybe in fifty or a hundred years’ time, I’d like to imagine some almanac or journal... some sort of electronic Folk Music Who’s Who... may mention a certain Richard Leslie Fielding [1944-2004], and maybe some researcher, poring over the data, will read a bare recital of the facts of his life, listen to the songs and, perhaps, be led to wonder what it must have been like to have actually known the man. For those of us here tonight, it’s our privilege and joy that we don’t have to wonder - just remember.

Rick, my friend, thank you for the many gifts you gave and continue to give, to all who hold your memory close to their hearts.

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Rick was a fan of Bob Dylan's, I think in part because they had a similar kind of early experience, of being a young student of folk music, soaking up Folkways albums, of being fifteen years old and a sponge for every kind of music -- one day we were listening together to one or two cuts from his album Biograph, and talking about Bob Dylan's great monologue poem, "Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie", which he recited at the memorial event for Woody, and which he just burned his way through, maybe the best thing he ever wrote. I have written something in the same style, though I am certainly no Bob Dylan: what I have written is really about being a student of Rick's, about the terrible loss, the loss of a true teacher, of which there are always so few, and I hope it speaks for all the students of Rick's who are here today......

LAST THOUGHTS ON RICK FIELDING

So you dream of a world out of reach and your fingers are itching and your brain is ticking away the years and you say now is the time or never and maybe it is never but you do not want to end like this, pressing your nose against the window pane of your own life -- and the stars for a brief moment relent in their indifference and they grant you a teacher who looks at you and says what do you want to know, and you don't even know that, you are so ignorant, but it has something to do with everything, and you start with the everything that is nothing, and then the miracle begins even before you are watching for it, and the everything that is nothing begins to turn into the something that is something, and that is what teaching is, it is not a miracle except the whole thing is a miracle, but he says this is the way in, and I will go with you and be your guide, and it is like a flood of water under a beached boat, and-- fearful step by stumble, like Tom Sawyer entering the cave, as your eyes become accustomed to your own darkness, you slowly realize that what you have entered is a cavern of immeasurable dimensions, and that among the loomings is this shadow figure, this guide, this teacher, whose own immeasureable dimension is part of this world of music you have crossed a threshold into.

And so there you are, week after week, and the binding curve of time asserts its grace, and one week it is Herman's Hermits and another it is Tom Ashley and another it is Dick Justice and another it is Bill Broonzy and another it is Leadbelly in Bb, and another it is carrying Son House's guitar, and another it is watching Rev. Gary Davis drunk one night and magnificent the next, and another it is a Sudbury monday morning, and another it is DADGAD as played by the original druids, and another it is that godless lesbian Amelia Earhardt, and another it is a young teenager, filching Folkways records and playing hookey to watch Bergman films, and always it is teaching, it is the secret signs, it is a person as gift.

And towards the end the bitterness arises when you realize that you know too little to make the most of what he knows, that you can begin to glimpse the magnitude of what he knows, but you are still too early in the game, and that there is no time left, that there was a lifetime of learning to learn, and there is no time left, and the question that burns and will not stop for you is where do I go when I want to know, when I cannot make the moves, when the chords make no sense, when I know there is a mystery somewhere back of the sound -- how did they do that? how can I do that? --- when the record is blurred, the notes are out of reach, there is nothing to help you, and you say, how did they do that, and he says, oh they stole that from Blind Lemon Jefferson, it is originally like this, but they changed it to cheat and make it easier, like this, and he does it, and a pool of clear knowing opens to you, or you track down this video of Lonnie Johnson and he phones you and says, I remember that suit and that guitar, and I played that guitar and when you come around next I will show you how he does that and that time never comes around and what I want to know is where do I go, the bitter question of where do you go when your teacher is dead, when your one true teacher is gone, where do you go when you want a question answered, and the selfish selfcentred question I want answered is where do you go when the person you took your questions and your answers and your puzzles and discoveries to is gone, and you have no place for them anymore, and they pile up, in your room, on the street, and in your brain, and you stumble over all those piles of unanswered questions, all those discoveries, all those tiny triumphs and large griefs, and they will not let you be, and that is what I want to know, that is, what I want to know is where do I go when the only person who could tell me is the one who is gone?

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A few years ago Rick participated in the live recording of One Voice: A Tribute to Norm Hacking, Volume 1. He performed Norm's song "This One's The Dreamer" and "Poet In The Corner", a song he wrote for Norm. Recording is underway for One Voice: A Tribute to Norm Hacking, Volume 2 and, at Norm's request 3 Flamingos Music will include Rick's song on the album. It will be the only song appearing on either CD written by someone other than Norm.

Norm is a regular contributor to Taxi News. Here is the tribute he wrote for Rick.

Taxi News April 2004, © Norm Hacking 2004

It is an unsympathetic moon tonight, that cares little to hear of our worldly sadness and regret.

We have walked upon that barren lunar dust, cheered such improbable conquest, boasted at our seemingly unquenchable thirst for discovery of that which lies beyond... and beyond.

And yet, tonight the indifference of this cold ancient orb makes me wonder if all that we humans touch must eventually become common and sullied and somehow without magic.

We took our Garden of Paradise and filled its oceans with chemical waste. We congregated in once idyllic surroundings and quickly learned that day to day living was much easier when we turned our world into a giant landfill, not only for a disposable generation, but for a disposable species.

So tonight, Mr. Moon, I will sing you no more love songs. Nor will I share with you any stories.

Nope. Me and these few Taxi News readers who may still be awake, will look inside instead for answers to the infinite, and the mysterious, and the seemingly untouchable. It's the place where dreamers search for one more dream.

Rick Fielding was the type of man who chose to look inside - to his own heart, and into the hearts of his many friends and fellow travelers. He was a discoverer, a creator, and a healer.

He died in March, shortly after the launch of his new CD, "Acoustic Workshop." His beautiful wife Heather had taken to doing Rick's Folk music show on CIUT radio on those occasions when his lingering illness left him too weak to do the show himself.

And so it was on his radio show, with Heather as in-studio host and Rick for a brief time on the phone from home, that they were joined by a who's who of musical friends to celebrate his CD launch, and much more so, the man himself.

I believe those in attendance took their cue from Rick's day to day demeanor.

He was passionate and tireless in the pursuit of excellence in his craft.

They probably haven't invented a stringed instrument he could not play.

Over the years, Rick and I probably played some of the loudest, crumbiest bars imaginable, but also folk festivals and concerts where Rick could truly shine. He was concert caliber in every regard.

He also took immense pride in his music students, who came to his house for lessons, and who would have been richer for the time spent, even if a guitar or a mandolin had never been brought out of its case.

But, as with many of the gifted ones, Rick's self-deprecating and irreverent humor was a great strength and one that the performers at his CD launch drew upon to banish any hint of the sorrowful or maudlin.

Instead, warmth, and celebration, and honest joy filled the airwaves as each guest in turn sang a song, read a poem, or told an amusing story.

My favorite Rick Fielding moments are slightly oddball. He was a walking encyclopedia of baseball and boxing lore, and while I fancied myself quite the trivia buff, I knew I was over my head when he'd preface some impossibly obscure question with, "OK, you'll know this one..."

For years he coached and played on a mixed slo-pitch softball team. I even took in a game or two as a spectator, partly because of Rick, and partly because I had a mild crush on the shortstop.

Some folks who knew Rick only as a musician will be surprised to know that he studied visual art, and some years back even appeared as a cartoonist in Taxi News!

I think if you lumped together all us over-50 baby boomer folksingers, we'd break down into two categories:

a) Those who can still discuss the "music business" as if it has anything whatsoever to do with us, and

b) Those who find a way to somehow carry on with gratitude rather than bitterness; with faith, and hope, and passion, rather than tired resignation.

Rick Fielding found a way to do the latter, and he continued to make a positive difference in this world every day.

Now, his music will continue, because it is strong, and it means something, and it is a gift he has left to us all.

Several years ago a small record label honored me by recording various artists singing my songs in a 2 volume CD entitled, "One Voice." You can imagine how proud I was.

On volume one, Rick graced my song "This One's the Dreamer" by recording it, not only for the compilation tribute CD, but also as the title track of his own CD he was working on at the time.

The night at the Tranzac Club when everyone got up and played my songs for the live recording, I was near tears all night.

Then Rick took to the stage and he played not only the song I'd written, but also one he wrote for and about - me. He called it, "The Poet in the Corner." I felt so very close to my friend as he sang about artists knowing the cost and still being willing to pay that price.

At my request, 3 Flamingos Music will include Rick's song on the second volume of "One Voice." It will be the only song appearing on either CD written by someone other than myself. I will cherish it always.

But I promised myself to end this volume with a joke, Mr. Fielding. I kinda thought you'd like that. You'll have to forgive me, 'cause I just made it up and it probably stinks...

Q:) What's a Folksinger do when his instrument is in the pawn shop, he's being evicted, and Hydro just shut off the lights?

A:) Writes another love song, and sings it to the moon.

See you at the next gig, my friend.

Love, Hack