A portrait of a man and musician who lived a good life
I have an image that appears whenever I think of him, or possibly a series of images, like a little slide show that plays in my mind. It’s from before he stopped drinking and lost the weight. He’s still slightly rotund with that cherubic face smirking out from under a cap, wearing his clear glasses and his rubber Crocs. There’s that sardonic smile twisted into a sort of grimace, and more often than you might imagine, a middle finger directed at the camera. Chances were good that there would be a guitar close by, but there was always that mischievous glint in his eye.
Ed Dobbs always looked to me like he’d just thought of something darkly funny and was trying to decide whether or not you were worthy enough to share it with. More often than not, he kept it to himself, which is presumably the same reason I didn’t know Eddie was sick until I got a text from him last night. Only it wasn’t him after all, it was his wife, Fran. Eddie, it turned out, had already left the building. Ed had cancer, but chose not to share that little tidbit with the world, instead keeping it to himself. He had died just that afternoon, and I was heartbroken. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.
I first met Ed at Crow Creek Farm in Goshen, New Jersey. This is Stan Sperlak’s place, a heavy timber, Amish-built barn that is now part of the larger Sperlak Sculpture Gardens, but back then it was just Stan’s creative sandbox where he painted, held lectures and workshops, and where I occasionally took photos. I was producing a magazine at the time called SALT and thought it would be cool to take portraits of a bunch of the local musicians. I didn’t want to show up to some open mic night at a bar with horrible lighting, so I asked Stan if I could shoot them in the barn.
Since they were going to be there with their instruments, anyway, we figured we might as well turn it into an all-day jam session, and it just so happened that I had also been featuring a local brewery and a coffee roaster, so I convinced them to donate some of their wares to the cause, and we threw a little party. We called it “The Great Goshen Barn Jam,” and a local filmmaker even managed to capture it.
I ran into Eddie a few more times here and there, though usually at Stan’s, during various functions, both musical and not, and we often found ourselves off in a corner somewhere making darkly funny jokes about the proceedings and the people. Sometimes his buddy Andy Vernon would join us.
I was vaguely aware that Ed and his wife spent time in the winter on a little island off the coast of Puerto Rico, called Culebra. They loved it there, and Eddie often sported apparel that proclaimed his fondness for the place. One day, I got a text from him that he had brought me something back from Culebra—a gift he wanted to give me. We weren’t really all that close, so I was a little surprised when he showed up at my house with a bottle of rum, but we cracked the bottle and proceeded to get to know one another on a different level.
We lived pretty different lives, Ed and I. I was working in the world of branding, spending a lot of time traveling to and fro to various conference rooms, whereas Ed was living the life of a professional musician, showing up to gigs in bars and clubs with his guitar, and playing what was required of him. He would call out of the blue to chat about some bit of snarky news, or we’d spot each other at an event and immediately begin wherever we’d last left off.
He was playing with a large Brazilian band in Philadelphia called PhillyBloco, which featured a large percussion session, and although it wasn’t guitar-centric music, Eddie loved being part of an ensemble. He didn’t need to be out front, but he did enjoy adding a little flavor to the proceedings. I convinced Ed to speak to the bandleader about letting me shoot one of their shows, and so one evening I drove up to World Cafe Live, the theater in Philadelphia. It was fun to see him in a different environment.
Another time, he convinced me to go on a road trip to visit our old friend Andy Vernon, who was living somewhere in Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania, for some reason I was never quite clear on. It was an old guy’s jam in a garage off an alley. We brought a handle of rum. I filmed the proceedings that day and threw them together into a pile of clips, but I have to admit that rum and finely tuned focus do not mix. Not many people have seen it, but here it is.
Come to think of it, that might have been the last time I saw Eddie play in public. Not long after that, he essentially retired from playing. I would check in on him from time to time and ask what he was doing, and he never had much to say. I would try to nail him down to figure out how he was spending his days, but he was pretty tight-lipped. Nothing was what he would say. Nothing at all.
He had quit drinking, and I think a lot of the draw of the nightlife lost its luster. He’d had enough of the musician game. He got into weed and video games, a combo more fitting for a much younger man, and which tickled me to no end. I tried to encourage him to play music for himself, and possibly even to collaborate on some original work, but nothing ever came of it.
I understand. I really do. For many years, people knew me through my photography, but I rarely pick up a camera anymore. It’s not really a part of my life these days. I burned out on it, much like I suppose Ed did when it came to music. He’d done what he wanted to do. He’d played all he ever wanted to play, and it was enough. I guess the same goes for life. We just run out of road.
We are all allotted a certain number of days and not a single day more. We just don’t know how long the ride will last. I like to think Eddie simply used up his allotment, and used it well, I might add. I recently heard someone say that someone they knew was “good at life,” and I like that as a goal. Not to be remembered for any great accomplishment or deed, but for being good at life.
I lost touch with Eddie these past few years, so I can’t say what his quality of life was like, but from afar, I always thought he had life pretty dialed in. Eddie was good at life. I suppose it was simply time for Ed to move on; to get back to the peace and quiet of a warm Caribbean sea, where the breeze is always at your back, and the fish are always biting. So, keep your hand on the tiller, and maybe a few cold ones stashed away. We’ll need someone to show us around when we get there.
You will be missed, Ed Dobbs. You will be missed.
The photos here were part of a second life of Salt Magazine that never quite took off, but it was nice to capture Eddie in all his smarmy glory. – DTM