I’ve been watching loose Youtube videos of Geddy Lee, one of my very favorite musicians, as he talks about his new memoir documenting his life focusing mostly on his extraordinary friendships with Alex Lifeson, Neil Peart, and his career with the band Rush. That band played a big part in my life beginning with adolescence all the way through the birth of my daughter and beyond. And maybe there is some sort of Jungian concept about the notion that having had that influence for so many years of my life, I would end up with several friendships that, if they did not replicate the notion of a few guys who were sort of nerds on the outside fringe of things bonding together, they did somehow mimic that.
This isn’t meant to be a biography. It may have to be one day, for how else to capture my friend Edd’s genius? How else to capture that on a freakishly stormy night in March in Southern California, it was Edd and his wife Leanne standing on our doorstep dropping off a homemade soup dinner after a day in which Sue suffered a miscarriage of our first child? And how else to thank him for helping me explore a whole part of my life that I always wanted to uncover, to see what I had and if I could…?
I met Edd Hendricks in 1987 when I arrived at California Lutheran University as a transfer student. I was a junior in college at 21 years old and Edd was a sophomore at that point, I believe, and we were introduced by our mutual friend Matt Burgess. Matt and Edd were both wonderful musicians, Edd played guitar mostly, but he was a multi-instrumentalist, and he could sing as well. Matt was and is a percussionist and an excellent one who made his living for sometime working in Nashville as a studio musician. But in those fine young years, we were all college students enjoying that period of our lives at our small liberal arts college where friendships that have lasted lifetimes were formed. To this day, most (though not all) of my very closest friends are the people I went to CLU with and I’m in touch with them frequently.
Edd was tall, thin and lanky with a huge head of frizzy hair that made him look like he belonged in an English New Wave band in the 80’s. He wore thick glasses, and almost always had on an obnoxious t-shirt with some vulgar expression on it. I liked him instantly. He was an Art major, greatly talented as a drawer, painter and even sculptor at times. He was also a monster musician with a great ear for music, as well as a deep and abiding understanding of everything from classical to New Wave to progressive rock. I came into the room with Matt to meet him, ostensibly to play bass guitar to his guitar and Matt’s drums, but I quickly discerned how out of my element I was. I simply had not the musical training, chops or knowledge to keep up with what were then two of the finest musicians I’ve ever known. Matt and Edd went on to make an album together with one other CLU student, and some friends of Matt’s. They called themselves System 7, and their recording is a great bit of rock music. I knew even then that I was a dabbler, a pretender to the throne of musicians whom I admired.
I continued to hang out with Edd and Matt, and we shared a great deal in common. Edd’s sense of humor and quirky demeanor were big attractions for me, and some might say it’s because we were similar in that. Edd could be at once quite introverted, quiet and pensive, and in the next moment could have everyone in the room laughing uproariously. I never did have much of a quiet side at that point in my life (except when I was studying, which always was a quiet and generally solitary practice for me), and I tended toward being loud, brash and quite obnoxious, I’m sure. And Edd was cool with that.
We were roommates in Edd’s senior year, which by then was my graduate year as I obtained a teaching credential. Our circle of friends was pretty tight, and we spent a good deal of time together. We took several long road trips together visiting friends and family, spent time drinking far too much, and living up to our collegiate archetypes. But the theme that ran through Edd’s life was music, and he invited me along without demanding anything of me. He was not a terribly passionate guy outwardly for the most part, even when listening to his favorite songs. But as I got to know him, I saw that it was music that gave him life and that never changed.
During college, we created a mock rock group a la Spinal Tap, and played gigs around campus. We covered old standards like Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple, and Like a Hurricane by Neil Young, as well as a really ripping version of George Michael’s Faith, with Edd screaming into the microphone and shredding speedy guitar licks. It was fun, and not to be taken seriously. Maybe it was Edd’s way of cutting loose with his friends, knowing all too well that if he wanted to, he could be playing with any number of great musicians whenever he wanted. But I have to admit now that as dreadful as I was at it, I had so much fun playing and Edd did too.
After college I became a teacher and Edd worked as a graphic designer. I’d futzed around on the bass guitar for years, and at one point when I was a teenager, I’d gotten fairly good. But I’d lost most of that ability by college, until Edd helped bring it back. Over time, he taught me how to play—up to and including pointing to the frets I should be holding for whatever note he wanted me to play. I enjoyed learning again, though I thought it odd that this musician’s musician would want to play songs with a non-musical bass player wanna-be. I stopped questioning, however, because Edd was my friend and I knew him well enough to know that if he didn’t want to play, he wouldn’t.
He got hired by a group called Malibu Comics, and his boss was Chris Ulm. Chris and Edd got along famously, which wasn’t surprising. Edd made friends easily—with everyone, and that too was another reason I liked him. Chris, aside from being a genius writer, editor and storyteller, was also a drummer and kept a drum kit at the Malibu Comics headquarters in Westlake Village, not far from where we all lived. By then, Edd was engaged and soon married Leanne, whom he met at CLU as well.
I got introduced to Chris one night as we all agreed to get together and “jam,” and that began a semi-serious run playing as a trio covering rock standards (and not-so-standards) with Edd on guitars and vocals, me on bass and vocals and Chris on drums. We played together for several years at local pubs and clubs, and not just a few private parties. Each gig was this beautiful combination of a serious effort at playing well, an explosion of joy, creativity and laughter. It was addicting and all three of us had it bad. Chris and I still define it as one of the happiest times of our lives to that point. We laughed so hard, so well together and we dedicated three nights a week to rehearsal, during which we would consume, and sweat out quantities of beer while joyfully banging through old and new material for us.
What also developed was a strong and enduring friendship between the three of us, our wives and our families. We enjoyed each other’s company and through all of it, Edd, Chris and I maintained a quality friendship that manifested itself in the music we played, including eventually some of our own original material.
Life carried on and our friendships endured. Chris moved first two-hours north of where we all lived in Ventura Couty, and eventually south to San Diego while Edd and I graduated to better houses, started families and remained pals.
In the early 2000’s, Edd went to obtain life insurance, which required a routine blood test. When the test came back, it revealed problems with his liver that he had no idea about. He spoke with an urgent care physician, but later asked me if I had a doc I trusted. I recommended our family physician and he re-ran the blood tests. They came back the same and Dr. Fung told Edd that the tests indicated he was in late stage liver failure. I don’t know all of the particulars nor do I understand how he got sick. I won’t pretend to. As he and Leanne began to search out answers for his condition, Edd explained very little to me other than how he was feeling at any given time.
In 2006, Edd got me to pick up a bass guitar again. I hadn’t played for many years at that point, but I remembered a few things. I sat in with his worship band at church when the regular bass player was unable to be there. He loved playing at church and it was an outlet for him during a troubled time. A few years later, he put together a fundraising concert to help tackle his medical bills, which had mounted partly because he was in line for a time to get a liver transplant. The show he’d put together was a series of bands that all featured Edd playing guitar and singing. For one of the acts, he wanted me to join him for a few songs, along with our good friend Dr. Jarvis Streeter, and Mike Hobbes on drums. Jarvis, the dear man that he was, passed away in 2013 after a battle with pancreatic cancer. That performance is documented in the photograph at the beginning of this piece. I’m the guy in the ball cap on a Steinberger bass and microphone, and Edd is center-stage with angelic light beaming down on him and his workhorse Fender Strat guitar.
Throughout the mid-2000’s, Edd would be in and out of the hospital, several times with serious issues, like pericarditis at one point, and after he broke both of his legs when his large dog charged playfully at him at the local dog park. One of the side effects of his liver damage was that calcium was being extracted from his body, and Edd wasn’t a champion at taking his meds properly.
By 2016, he was sometimes in a wheelchair around the house, unable to walk or stand very well. He and Leanne decided they would move to Colorado where Edd had family. I learned later from Leanne that part of the reason was that he had not been taking his meds, and the two of them thought it best to be near people who might help hold Edd more accountable on a consistent basis. Their two young boys went ahead of them with Edd’s mom and dad, while he and Leanne packed up their home and drove cross-country.
The day they left in May, I was teaching not far from where they lived, and at lunchtime I went up to say goodbye. I brought a book to Edd called Brave Companions by David McCullough and I enclosed a note in it to him. I remember how overwhelmed I was at seeing the work they had cut out for them that day, but they did it and got out of the house late that night headed east. As I said my final goodbye, I walked over to Edd who was sitting in his wheelchair sifting through things. I kissed him on his head and fought back a tear or two as I walked out the door.
On Friday, May 13, I was at school in a meeting with a couple of other teachers. At a break, my friend Shawn, with whom Edd was friends also, walked in to the classroom when my phone rang. It was Edd’s number and when I picked up to ask about how the trip was going, Leanne answered back by asking if I was sitting down. They’d spent Thursday night in Gallup, New Mexico at a motel and during the night, without Leanne knowing it had happened at first, Edd passed away. He hadn’t yet turned 50, but he was gone and along with Leanne and all of his friends, I was in shock.
I think so very often about Edd and Leanne and I speak on occasion, though she and the boys are still in Colorado and I moved to Washington. Several years after he died, I had a dream of him so vivid, and so remarkable that I remember it today. I’m looking for Edd and I see him at a distance. As I get closer, he is laughing joyously and smiling so big that it reminds me of our younger years. In the dream, all I can do is ask him if he has seen Jarvis. Edd points across the way and there is Jarvis, hands on hips talking to someone else and laughing. He waves, and I turn back to Edd who takes my hand. The next moment, I’m a passenger in a car with the window rolled down, though I don’t know who’s driving and in the dream, I don’t care. Cool and pleasant air blows in and Edd pulls up beside me on a bicycle of all things. He pats my arm leaning on the opened window and says, “So long, pal…” and off he rides.
Who I am today, like all of us, is a combination of so many varied influences. But surely, if we’ve opened our hearts to people who we love and who love us—for all of our faults and sins, the influence they bring lives on inside of us. I know that’s true of Edd, who opened freely the world of music to me, which is still so important, and who let me learn to be myself, quirks and all, while celebrating that with me so I could reciprocate with him. And I thought it was time I told you…
Onward.
*This piece was updated. Originally, I’d said that Edd died on Friday, May 16. It was on Friday, May 13.
This is a moving tribute, Mark. Thank you for sharing this. There's nothing quite like a friend that you've had the joy of connecting with over the creation of music.