character study: eric
I met Eric when I started studying music at the local community college. He was the first in what would be a long line of musical friendships in my life where I tried to ignore assorted personality flaws and disturbing habits in appreciation of talent, with the hope that some of it might rub off. Eric was a drummer, like me, except he was really good. Even looking back now, my standards having been raised considerably since then, he was still a badass.
Eric was six feet tall, a bit overweight and slightly hunched over, equally frumpy in sandy-blond hair and dress. He looked like a mouth-breathing Nordic janitor. He was friendly yet competitive, but since I was so blatantly his musical inferior he didn’t see me as a threat. It felt good to bask in his supreme confidence and I learned quite a bit through watching him and picking his brain. He was the only person I knew at the time that talked about music even more than me. Both of us had gigging experience, unlike the vast majority of our classmates, but mine had come with mediocre jam bands, whereas Eric had played with professional Brazilian and Cuban musicians. I was in awe. We were about the same age (21 or so), but I had already been to two colleges (quantity over quality) and this was Eric’s first experience with higher education, or as close to one as he would ever get.
In our jazz ensemble class I got to watch him play up close and he would help me out (he was surprisingly gentle with his critiques), but in our music theory class he sat next to me and cracked bad jokes the entire time. The elderly, timid teacher pretended not to notice, but everyone else in class shot us constant dirty looks. For someone as neurotically self-conscious as myself it was a nightmare. Like many prodigies, Eric was forever locked in adolescence.
It would be appropriate now, without going any further, to mention Eric’s most memorable trait: he smelled incredibly and uniquely bad. Some days it was worse than others, but the smell was always there. I have never had a particularly strong sense of smell - a trait I am more than happy to have, as people tend to notice foul smells much more often than pleasant ones, especially living in New York. But Eric’s smell was inescapable. It didn’t smell bad in a typical B.O. or hippie manner - it was sharper, more cutting. Any attempt to explain it in words falls short, but if pressed, I would describe it as a combination of skunk and overflowing ashtray, although even that feels too kind.
At a school recital after Eric sat down next to me, my girlfriend shriveled up her nose and covered her mouth with her hand while looking at me in search of an explanation. I shrugged and brought a finger to my lips in one motion, making sure Eric didn’t notice. On the drive home we tried to figure out how or why a person could smell so bad. Maybe he never washes his clothes? Maybe he never showers? Maybe he keeps corpses laying around?
A few weeks later the mystery was solved. Eric had occasionally referred to “his apartment” in conversation, which was another way that I felt connected to him, since most of our classmates still lived in their parents’ basements. One day he invited me over after class to listen to music and jam. Eric lead me into his parents’ house and, without breaking stride or introducing me to his mother, out into the backyard. She angrily shouted something after us about ferret cages, but it wasn’t clear.
Eric’s so-called apartment was above his parents’ garage. After climbing a long, homemade wooden staircase we entered a large, unfinished loft-like area with pink insulation foam on the walls. I was instantly assaulted by a smell similar to Eric’s, but far greater in intensity. I have never had a headache come on so quickly or with such force. I imagine that nerve gas attacks the senses in a similar, unforgiving manner. Trying to remain conscious during a brief tour of the apartment (drums, stereo, guitar, old couch/bed, TV) I discovered the source of the smell: Eric’s makeshift closet was a large hole in a wall, where his clothes hung, surrounding two large ferret cages, one stacked on top of another. The bottom of each cage was covered, wire to wire, in dried ferret feces. As the creatures scurried back and forth over their own waste it all became clear: every single garment Eric owned reeked of ferret shit.
Somehow I managed to spend fifteen minutes or so up there before forging some lame excuse and flying back down the steps, through the bushes next to the house and out to my car. I raced home to shower with all the windows down, hyperventilating and seeing traffic in double. Did he have any idea what he was doing to himself? How long had this gone on for? Did he have any friends? If so, did they just ignore the smell? Should I arrange an intervention? One thing was clear: if this was what it meant to be a great musician, I just couldn’t hack it.
A few months later, after he had dropped out of school, we lost touch; I can’t say it bothered me. I often wonder what happened to Eric and if he still smells so bad. It has crossed my mind that if he never took the appropriate steps to bring his living situation up to non-biohazard conditions, he might have died. Of all the bizarre musicians I have known since then, he was the most tragic. It was a shame, really – he meant no harm, but he caused so much.
Eric was six feet tall, a bit overweight and slightly hunched over, equally frumpy in sandy-blond hair and dress. He looked like a mouth-breathing Nordic janitor. He was friendly yet competitive, but since I was so blatantly his musical inferior he didn’t see me as a threat. It felt good to bask in his supreme confidence and I learned quite a bit through watching him and picking his brain. He was the only person I knew at the time that talked about music even more than me. Both of us had gigging experience, unlike the vast majority of our classmates, but mine had come with mediocre jam bands, whereas Eric had played with professional Brazilian and Cuban musicians. I was in awe. We were about the same age (21 or so), but I had already been to two colleges (quantity over quality) and this was Eric’s first experience with higher education, or as close to one as he would ever get.
In our jazz ensemble class I got to watch him play up close and he would help me out (he was surprisingly gentle with his critiques), but in our music theory class he sat next to me and cracked bad jokes the entire time. The elderly, timid teacher pretended not to notice, but everyone else in class shot us constant dirty looks. For someone as neurotically self-conscious as myself it was a nightmare. Like many prodigies, Eric was forever locked in adolescence.
It would be appropriate now, without going any further, to mention Eric’s most memorable trait: he smelled incredibly and uniquely bad. Some days it was worse than others, but the smell was always there. I have never had a particularly strong sense of smell - a trait I am more than happy to have, as people tend to notice foul smells much more often than pleasant ones, especially living in New York. But Eric’s smell was inescapable. It didn’t smell bad in a typical B.O. or hippie manner - it was sharper, more cutting. Any attempt to explain it in words falls short, but if pressed, I would describe it as a combination of skunk and overflowing ashtray, although even that feels too kind.
At a school recital after Eric sat down next to me, my girlfriend shriveled up her nose and covered her mouth with her hand while looking at me in search of an explanation. I shrugged and brought a finger to my lips in one motion, making sure Eric didn’t notice. On the drive home we tried to figure out how or why a person could smell so bad. Maybe he never washes his clothes? Maybe he never showers? Maybe he keeps corpses laying around?
A few weeks later the mystery was solved. Eric had occasionally referred to “his apartment” in conversation, which was another way that I felt connected to him, since most of our classmates still lived in their parents’ basements. One day he invited me over after class to listen to music and jam. Eric lead me into his parents’ house and, without breaking stride or introducing me to his mother, out into the backyard. She angrily shouted something after us about ferret cages, but it wasn’t clear.
Eric’s so-called apartment was above his parents’ garage. After climbing a long, homemade wooden staircase we entered a large, unfinished loft-like area with pink insulation foam on the walls. I was instantly assaulted by a smell similar to Eric’s, but far greater in intensity. I have never had a headache come on so quickly or with such force. I imagine that nerve gas attacks the senses in a similar, unforgiving manner. Trying to remain conscious during a brief tour of the apartment (drums, stereo, guitar, old couch/bed, TV) I discovered the source of the smell: Eric’s makeshift closet was a large hole in a wall, where his clothes hung, surrounding two large ferret cages, one stacked on top of another. The bottom of each cage was covered, wire to wire, in dried ferret feces. As the creatures scurried back and forth over their own waste it all became clear: every single garment Eric owned reeked of ferret shit.
Somehow I managed to spend fifteen minutes or so up there before forging some lame excuse and flying back down the steps, through the bushes next to the house and out to my car. I raced home to shower with all the windows down, hyperventilating and seeing traffic in double. Did he have any idea what he was doing to himself? How long had this gone on for? Did he have any friends? If so, did they just ignore the smell? Should I arrange an intervention? One thing was clear: if this was what it meant to be a great musician, I just couldn’t hack it.
A few months later, after he had dropped out of school, we lost touch; I can’t say it bothered me. I often wonder what happened to Eric and if he still smells so bad. It has crossed my mind that if he never took the appropriate steps to bring his living situation up to non-biohazard conditions, he might have died. Of all the bizarre musicians I have known since then, he was the most tragic. It was a shame, really – he meant no harm, but he caused so much.
posted by Justin at 3:46 PM
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