He was wearing a stylish white-collared shirt, sleeves pulled up to the elbows, and jeans and black shoes. He was handsome like his pictures and performances suggested, sleight but well-built. We have long judged men and their proportions, and I was happy to report that Mark was tall enough, and there was something magnetic in his physical persona. My wife would later comment about his deep-set eyes and this sort-of beautiful sadness that seemed to reside there. She was right. His eyes belied a resovoir of introspection, a place of deep-rooted observation and feeling.
After we made some introductions, I carried Mark's guitar through the airport and slid next to it in the backseat of the truck. I carried his guitar on several ocassions, my self-awareness getting the better of me. I felt like I was guarding the medium of his wonderments, protecting Van Gogh's brushes and colors. So I was always surprised at Mark's absolute ease in letting it go.
During our drive we talked about his concert in San Francisco the night before. We talked about his upcoming tour dates, Ben Gibbard and his new life with Zooey, and Alan Sparhawk from Low. I pointed out that Mark name-dropped just about every western state but Utah in his new song "Third and Seneca," an oversight he would have to remedy in the future. There could have been little doubt after the first fifteen minutes that we loved his music and were thrilled to have him as our special guest.
But Mark seemed even more interested in us, our lives, our families. His questions were genuine, and throughout the rest of the weekend, we felt like he wanted to learn as much from us as he could. Our inquiries about his life and music were returned with equal interest in our experiences and viewpoints. Every conversation that we had together seemed to be filled with a searching import. And it was exhilarating for this devout follower.
Enjoy "All Mixed Up" from 1996's Songs for a Blue Guitar.
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