[Harp-L] Gary Primich

[Ben Nathanson <bjnath@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

I thought I was a pretty hot player at Spah 2006. I asked Gary Primich, 
and he let me know otherwise. He'd sized me up in an instant. Boom. I'm 
still on the trajectory of that collision.

At Joe Filisko's teach-in there was a small group around him, eight or 
ten people. It bothered me that there weren't more. He recognized Mick 
Zaklan, smiled and said, "Mick's a great player."

We each played a little, and he commented. There were a few weak 
players, and he made kind and practical suggestions. Mick played and, as 
always, sounded great. I told Gary how much his singing, songwriting, 
and playing meant to me, and played Summertime. He said, "I get the 
feeling you don't practice. You have some talent but you don't put any 
work into harmonica."

I cherished -- after all that diplomacy -- how bareknuckled it was. But 
it was not what I'd wanted to hear.

I told Gary he was wrong, that I worshipped practice.

That was true. All through Spah and on the plane ride home I scoffed. 
Great player, lousy critic.

Truth has a way of staring you down. Gary was, of course, dead right. 
I'd stopped breaking my back. Worshipful or not, it'd been a long time 
since I'd been in church.

It made me get serious again.

I often think that cycles of pride and humiliation are necessary in the 
growth of a musician, somewhat in the way that heating and cooling 
anneal steel. At the 1999 Buckeye Gary told a story about, as a young 
player, hoping to impress Little Walter's backup band and being told, 
"You're terrible."

I'd hoped someday to tell Gary that I'd been wrong and he was right; I 
wanted to tell him I'd taken his words to heart; I wanted to show him 
where his words had taken me.

I hoped to keep purchasing his recordings and waiting, as always, for 
the track that would, suddenly, leave me in tears.

His words, his vast talent, his suffering hang in the air like 
lightning. This loss feels horrible. It cannot have ended this way. Gary 
can't be gone.