gil allen co
My heart was broken this week when I learned of the passing of my dear friend Gil Co. Too young, too sudden.
I sat, stunned, hearing the news on the phone. I tried to imagine where, what, and who I would be if I had never met Gil. I shuddered.
In my early 20’s, I endeavored into music with an ounce of knowledge and a metric ton of confidence. I was brash and loud, and had no idea what to do. I wanted to know everything, and I had a strong suspicion that I already did.
After moving to Austin, I met Gil through his brother Eric, and my neighbor, Brian. Within a few months, I was pulled into the orbit of a group of friends from the south side of Houston. I found inspiration, friendship, acceptance, and encouragement in this new tribe. As I flailed to find my footing in life, music, and everything, I found occasional anchors of stability, patience, and compassion with the H-Town crew. No anchor was more consistent, more kind, more gentile and empathetic than Gil.
It would be fair to say that Gil has forgotten more about music than I’ll ever know. But that’s not true, because Gil didn’t forget anything about music. An encyclopedia of pop culture, literature, and just the most specific nuances of music history. I sat for hours in Gil’s old bedroom in his parents house, flipping through vinyl records while Gil told me the history of Blackalicious, System of a Down, and At the Drive-In. Gil introduced me to Soul Coughing. We listened to bootlegs of Dave Matthews Band and Dah-Veed Garza. Gil called me the day he heard “Trouble" by Ray Lamontagne for the first time, and he was giddy. “Dude, this is an instant-classic. You gotta hear this record. Holy hell. Ethan Johns is a genius.”
He was right. I learned to trust Gil. When I disagreed with his taste, I assumed it was my fault. Gil and I went to late night shows at Fitzgerald's in Houston and watched loud punk shows; Momo’s in Austin to watch the South Austin Jug Band; and every nook and cranny of South by Southwest and Austin City Limits music festival for a few years. Gil introduced me to another longtime friend and collaborator, Jade Day.
Gil listened to my songs. Then he would listen again, and write notes. Then he would send me those notes. Then he would follow up. He would ask me questions about my lyrics. He wasn’t just being a good friend. He wasn’t just a fan. Gil was a student. Of everything. At all times. And he never seemed to lose track of the other people in the room. He never seemed to cross into selfish ‘moods’ or seasons. Gil was always just… Gil.
Gil and I stood together in Waterloo Records to hear Joss Stone play an in-store performance for a few dozen of us. We didn’t say much that show. Joss was an angel, beaming beauty and light so loud that most of us couldn’t move. Moments after her last note, he ran away from the group while we went for ice cream. He came back later and told me I just missed the best show on banjo he’d ever seen. It was someone named Sufjan Stevens playing in a coffee shop down the block.
Gil and I were standing together at what is still one of the greatest shows I’ve ever attended. 2003? Damien Rice. The Rhythm Room. Houston.
A venue I’d played at least bi-weekly for a while, and met my new H-Town crew there while they were waiting in line. It would turn out to be a big night for more than just me. My friend Dusty met his wife Val in line at this show. (I played at their wedding.) I played pool with Lisa Hannigan that night. I helped Damien load an amp onto the stage. Standing on the side of the stage while Damien’s band performed a magical, spiritual set for an intoxicated audience, I looked over at Gil, and realized we both had tears in our eyes. Busted, we both pulled up our sleeves to our faces... “What the F*#@ is in these air ducts!” Gil wiped his eyes and laughed.
Years later, when I had moved away a thousand times, Gil had found a beautiful wife, and was busy being a hero for his students. I traveled through Houston and we met up on Westheimer and had coffee. We talked music and life. He told me about being married and how happy he was. As always, Gil spent most of the time asking me about my life, and being (or at least acting) deeply interested in every detail. We weren’t far from the Improv. We compared notes on all the comics we’d seen there over the years. Gil reminded me of Lewis Black’s joke about the end of the universe around the corner, where there’s a Starbucks across the street from another Starbucks.
I left that night with the feeling I had after every encounter with Gil. That I had a friend. A real friend. That I was lucky to know someone like him. That Gil was somehow anchored more deeply to the history of the world than the rest of us. His soul isn’t old. It’s timeless. Gil makes you believe in reincarnation. How the hell could someone be THAT mature? How could a dude with friends like me be re-reading Dostoyevsky to polish up? How could he be a teacher and still go to that many live shows? How is he THAT well-read, and THAT into movies? How is he so freaking cool, and still so... kind?
I feel today what I felt that night. That I am overwhelmed with the privilege of having a friend like the one and only, Gil Co.
I’ll miss you, holmes.
