Before the Sun
By Bernadette Giacomazzo
4 Aug 2008
For as long as I can remember, I have always been fascinated by two things: music and photography. What better way, then to combine the two artistic loves of my life by photographing live bands?
At least that's what I thought when I was 14 years old -- the first time I ever picked up a camera (my mother's Nikkor, which I was instructed under penalty of death to guard with every fiber of my being) to photograph a band (a friend's band, with a ridiculous high school name like Uncle Bacteria or Rex Flexall or Savage Sam and the Mass Massacres or something equally ridiculous).
Fortunately for me -- and my parents -- photography was to become my sole vice from that night forward. That either makes me the coolest person on the planet, or the most boring person on the planet. I'm still not sure which, and it's been just about 16 years after that first-ever live photo shoot.
For a nerd like me -- who never had a date in high school, who wore (still wears) thick glasses, who prefers a heated intellectual conversation to heated make-out session in the back seat of some random car -- photographing live music performances was a way to live on the edge without actually going over it. And the trade-off was worth it: to this day, I still get paid to travel all around the country shooting bands that write the songs that make the whole world sing...the men may not know, but the little girls DEFINITELY understand. And to this day, it's still a thrill to see my photos in print, knowing that there are people everywhere who are enjoying my work...who are hearing what I'm hearing without being where I am.
It was in this spirit that I was sent to the Kings' Club in Centereach, Long Island, on March 28, 2003. I was 26 years old, with a mild case of agoraphobia, clad in a Mother Love Bone T-shirt and a tight-fitting pair of jeans over Converse sneakers. I looked more like a Pearl Jam roadie than a music critic -- which I was, and still am -- and photographer, sent to review a solo performance by Stephen Pearcy of RATT (a band I didn't like in the 1980's, and liked even less in the new millennium).
After wandering around for more than a half-hour (critic gets lost on the way to Long Island. Hilarity ensues...), I stumbled into the Kings' Club, a hole-in-the-wall bar that reeked of beer, vomit, and piss, and inexplicably had an Elvis motif and $2 draft beers.
While my eyes were trying to adjust to the dim room and the seemingly-impervious layer of cigarette smoke (this was shortly before the no-smoking laws were enacted in New York), I caught a glimpse of a lithe, lanky figure in brown leather pants strumming a guitar.
It wasn't the first time I'd ever seen a guitarist -- obviously -- and it wasn't his shaggy walnut brown hair, his perpetually bare torso, or his wise-beyond-his-years hazel eyes that caught my attention (though certainly, they weren't repulsive). It was his smile -- his perfect, glistening, kilowatt smile that conveyed sincerity, warmth, and depth of character and intelligence that drew me in.
His name was Wilson Lihn, he told me later. He was the guitarist and founder of a band named Fixer, a New York City band that -- on the surface -- looked like every other band spewed forth from the Bowery and/or Lower East Side of New York City, but who played a brand of raunchy rock'n'roll not seen (or heard) since pre-rehab era Aerosmith. And they were here, he informed me, to open for Stephen Pearcy (he would later remark, on Fixer's website, how he hoped that Fixer was on the way UP, in comparison to Pearcy's slow and steady way DOWN).
He made a remark about his lead singer -- Evan Saffer -- a remark made in good-natured jest, as he marveled about the sheer throng of girls that shamelessly threw themselves at his feet. I remember thinking, somewhere in my mind's recesses, that while said Evan Saffer was cute -- in the way bunny rabbits and teddy bears are cute -- this Wilson Lihn was intriguing.
For the entirety of Fixer's performance -- a raw, powerful, unbridled performance that lead me to remark, in print, "The tag-team of lead singer Evan Saffer and lead guitarist Wilson Lihn is nearly lethal...[Saffer and Lihn are] the Glimmer Twins of the new millennium" -- my eyes never came off Wilson. There was something unrestrained about him when he performed...something primal, something shamanistic, something sophisticated, as though each strum of his guitar was a birth ritual, a dirge, an exposition, a catharsis, an exorcism, a baptism, a conjuration, and a resurrection ceremony all in one.
He was, in short, the most powerful man I'd ever seen in my life.
Offstage, he was pithy, reserved, acerbically witty and remarkably intelligent...more like the cool music kid who worked at the local CD store than the resident rock star in the hottest band in New York City. Rather than frighten me off, however, his dichotomy intrigued me further. I was determined to find out more about this Wilson Lihn, he of the lithe torso and maniacal guitar riffs, who had a knack for using words with more than one syllable (and properly, to boot -- later, I would find out that he graduated from an Ivy League school).
Time, however, has a funny way of playing with your memory, and after I wrote the review of the show, I sent it off to the band and forgot about it. They weren't the first band I'd reviewed, and they wouldn't be the last. Besides, I thought, why would anyone remember a Pearl Jam roadie-looking music critic when there were throngs of hot bodied sluts available with a movement of a finger?
About 10 days later, I was at the Downtown (now, sadly, closed, but at the time was the locus of the Long Island music scene -- such as it was, anyway) and who should I see but Evan and Wilson! My heart leaped out of my chest as I rushed up to say hello to them -- Wilson remembered me and flashed that kilowatt smile; Evan didn't remember me and dismissed me with a wave of his hand -- to which I was greeted with a flier...that had a quote...that looked remarkably familiar.
"Wow," I told Wilson. "Thank you!"
"No, thank YOU!" he replied enthusiastically. "That was just AWESOME, man!"
For the next four years, Wilson Lihn would wander in and out of my life...but he was always, remarkably, there when it mattered the most, and he always remembered me, regardless of the distance or time, regardless of the place or space, regardless of the good or bad.
At the risk of sounding fawning, the good far outweighed the bad. Like any two people, we had our bickering -- our little disagreements and misunderstandings here and there -- but when it came right down to it, I wouldn't trade meeting him for anything...or anyone...and I flatter myself to think that the feeling was mutual (though I doubt I speak out of turn).
Wilson Lihn inspired me to do my best. He always believed in me -- always believed in my talent -- always believed that I could always do bigger, better, faster and more. He never belittled me -- never put me down -- never made me feel like I was unworthy of his attention -- never made me feel untalented or marginalized (even if a certain other bandmate of his preferred to cater to his groupies, regardless of the cost personally or professionally).
For this priceless gift, I was -- am -- forever grateful.
I remember the first time I ever hugged him -- I never felt so protected from the elements, so encased in my own little bubble, so invincible. He shoved me under his armpit, then apologized and moved me to his chest area because he didn't want me to smell like his sweat.
What he didn't know -- what he may never know -- is that I didn't mind. Not then, not now, not ever.
But time, as I said before, has a funny way of playing with memories, and after seven years of service in Fixer, Wilson Lihn bowed out gracefully -- in a blaze of glory, like a true rock star.
It's pointless to discuss what happened to Fixer as an end result of his departure. What IS important, however, is that people know just how much Wilson Lihn meant -- still means, in fact -- to a lot of people...and he means the most to me.
And as much as certain people want me to forget about Wilson Lihn -- it's all about who's on stage, they claim -- I can't forget, I won't forget, and I won't allow Wilson Lihn's importance to be diminished.
Like a lot of people, I remember. For every ONE person that wants Wilson's replacement to be hailed as some sort of Second Coming (not even close), I hope -- if nothing else -- that at least FIVE other people know just how much Wilson Lihn should have been hailed as the FIRST Coming.
Of course, this story -- like so many others -- doesn't have a fairy-tale ending. There's no happily ever after -- there's no white horse -- there's no knight in shining armor -- there's no house and two point three kids and white picket fence.
But just because there weren't all those things, doesn't mean that the ending was any less happy. After all, as I mentioned earlier, I'm a nerd in rock'n'roll -- and by definition, a realist. Besides, I think that women who push for those sort of things are incredibly short-sighted and shallow, because they miss out on the beauty, joy, and honor in getting to know someone whose mere presence turns your world upside down.
When I first met Wilson Lihn in 2003, I had no idea that -- when I least expected it -- he would remind me of how good it feels to be ALIVE. His transformation of me had a ripple effect throughout my life -- most notably in my photos -- and when his soul met mine somewhere atop the caduceus, neither one of us were ever the same.
And the truth is, I wouldn't know what to say to him if he were in front of my face at this very moment. In a very real way, I think even these words fall short of just how much he means to me.
All I know is, my times with Wilson Lihn were -- without question, without a doubt -- the best times of my life. No one has ever made me laugh the way he did. No one has ever made me feel so safe. And no one has ever made me feel so at ease, so free, and with such a lack of self-consciousness and worry.
In the cold, lonely months that followed his departure, I would find myself comparing every musician -- every guitarist -- every MAN -- to him, and they would always, inevitably, fall short. Nothing was ever the same in my world thanks to Wilson Lihn -- nothing ever WILL be the same in my world thanks to Wilson Lihn -- and even my beloved music scene took on a colorless, flavorless, clinical feel the minute he stepped off it.
I suppose, then, if I were to sum up a "nice to meet you" to Wilson Lihn, it would read a little something like this:
Wilson Lihn, the rainbow that's in my otherwise cold, black heart is there because of you. I am forever grateful for meeting you -- for being a part of your life -- and for you making my world that much better.
Until our paths cross again -- as they always, inevitably, do -- I will wait for you in the dusk light. I will wait for you in that gray area between sleep and awake. I will be there for you, now and forever, then and always...right before the sun.
