“He’s Gone”
Last week Boston, and even more specifically, Cambridge, lost a legendarily proud participant in and true proponent of his community. I lost a friend.
It all happened so quickly.
There was an unexpected social media post about a scheduled procedure, then one final text thread between us as he waited for the results. The next missive also arrived via the internet and to say it was not good was the type of understatement my friend was not widely known for. Next a message from a close mutual friend that he had entered hospice care before the shuddering call last Sunday that informed me that what myself and countless others had been holding up all of our hope against had happened.
Stephen Prince Morse had shuffled off this mortal coil.
Steve and I met at a definitive crossroads in my life. I had bounced around a bit, both geographically and occupationally, and had come to the conclusion that there was only thing that I was confident that I did reasonably well and that was writing. There wasn’t anything I knew as much about - or was as keen to learn more about - than rock n’ roll music. And, at that moment I met Steve.
I had already been contributing to a fledgling website for Spin Magazine but the World Wide Web was more like a bumpy dirt road than an information superhighway at that point so when the man in charge of the Boston Globe music section was pointed out to me downstairs at the Middle East in Cambridge I didn’t think twice about approaching and introducing myself. I had written exactly one story that had been published in print: a feature about an industrial Men’s basketball league in neighboring Foxborough for my local daily, the Attleboro Sun Chronicle, while doing a winter internship in the sports department.
Based on those merits I had absolutely no right to bother this person about writing for a major daily newspaper but I also had no familiarity with the way a goal like this was traditionally achieved. The path of college paper to the slowly rising ladder of small town newspapers with escalating circulations was totally foreign to me. I had been reading Steve in the Globe since I was a kid though and now here I was giving him a completely off the cuff elevator pitch with Sleater-Kinney playing to a half filled room behind us.
He must have seen or sensed something which I later learned was not at all out of character for Steve. Many of the great writers I had read previously in Boston publications and who eventually became colleagues and now remain established friends have recounted similar stories of Steve generously providing a seemingly unobtainable opportunity and then offering boundless encouragement if he felt that his intuition had once again been proven correct. The record that opened the door for me was by a British female singer who delivered a now obscure classic in a then burgeoning genre called “alt-country.”
I enthusiastically reviewed, “Cowboy Sally’s Twilight Laments… For Lost Buckaroos,” by Sally Timms and faxed it from the high tech PR firm where I was interning while a graduate student at Emerson College. Then, I waited… and waited… and waited…
You see, I hadn’t yet been educated to the fact that reaching Steve on his line at the Globe - the only initial contact I had for him - was virtually impossible during standard business hours. Calling him before midnight was simply pointless and even thinking back on this it occurs to me that Steve and I were friends for over 25 years and I probably saw during daylight under 100 times, only half of which were planned. I was much more likely to encounter him when the sun was out walking around his beloved neighborhood of Porter Square where he was guaranteed a chat with a familiar face than on the rare occasions he’d accept an invite to Fenway for a day game.
Eventually, I got Steve on the phone and braced for the rejection I’d been warned about by the other writers who contributed to Spin.com, asking hesitatingly if he’d received my review.
“Oh yeah,” he responded sunnily in that distinct voice that would eventually grow so familiar that I could have picked it out anywhere (and which anyone with even a passing familiarity of the man offered a good-natured impersonation of). “It’s good! It’ll be in the paper tomorrow.”
As I picked my jaw off the floor, he continued, “Why don’t you send me some more ideas?” It was that simple. From that first 200 word record review I eventually pitched and then was assigned columns and live reviews and features. I had the opportunity to eventually contribute to every publication of note in Boston, and then a few shots nationally. All of which started because Steve gave me a chance.
And, when you were a protege of his that enthusiasm and encouragement never wavered, if anything it grew. I remember clearly him once congratulating me as we sat at our friend Joseph’s legendary corner table at the Middle East in Cambridge (I treasure my memories of our very regular conversations there) on my “Triple Double.” I had no idea what he meant and he explained that he noticed I’d had three pieces in the Boston Phoenix on Thursday and three in the Globe on Friday, his newly defined version of a “Triple Double” (a basketball term no doubt inspired by our shared love of that game). I laughed and he beamed - proud of someone else’s achievement - an undeniable component of his personality.
Steve’s personality was defined by exactly that innate spirit of generosity, it is perhaps the ultimate rarity in the human condition to meet someone who sincerely thinks - naturally and with zero hesitation - of others before themself. Yet, that was who Steve always was. Being witness to that quality of character, being the recipient of that generosity, being invited to share in his seemingly inexhaustible lust for life was the basis for a friendship I would have never expected and will surely never forget.
Music was the impetus for our friendship but as it grew it no longer defined us. We had a long running Monday night tradition, one that he referred to as our weekly “Writer’s Meeting.” It often began at the B-Side Lounge in Cambridge, sometimes on nights when I would DJ there. From there it inevitably segued to J.J. Foley’s on Kingston Street in downtown Boston. On many occasions there was a hearty group of late night enthusiasts keeping Steve and I company, the most memorable being when U2’s Bono stopped by for a Guinness and to offer congratulations to the man of the hour on his recent retirement. Of lesser legend were the two nights we spent there with Shane MacGowan after the Pogues singer missed his flight home at the conclusion of a tour.
While we always enjoyed an extended cast there were easily just as many late nights when Steve and I crossed the Charles on our own. On many of those nights Foley’s was virtually empty save for the regulars that we were friendly with and it was on those nights that our friendship flowered without interruption. One night I took off my coat to reveal a tee shirt that read simply, “Old & In The Way,” a band familiar mainly to bluegrass enthusiasts and hard core Deadheads (Jerry Garcia was a member). Steve laughed and then told me he had the same shirt before revealing that his first byline in the Globe had been reviewing another band member, the bluegrass legend, Vassar Clements, at the equally legendary Harvard Square club, Passim. Steve frequented that room for the entirety of his professional career.
It was the quieter moments during a friendship that was most frequently occurring in loud spaces that have really stood out and been recurring in my memory during this last week. Discovering his love of Buddy Holly, his firsthand account of soccer balls being launched off the feet of Rasta’s as he navigated his way through clouds of ganja smoke to chat with Bob Marley or his explanation of the process of loving AC-DC equally with both Bon Scott and Brian Johnson at the helm (though “Powerage” was his favorite band’s favorite record he never dialed that one up during the many wee hours we shared, “I do have neighbors,” he’d offer with that sly grin).
Of course, it wasn’t strictly music. We’d talk about sports and politics and current events, not to mention the current gossip in the local scene which always gave us a good laugh. He’d ask often and supportively about the women in my life, all of whom tolerated if not embraced the hours I kept with “The Closer,” a moniker he earned through the countless opportunities he embraced to witness the lights coming on at the end of the evening in an establishment serving adult beverages.
Inevitably, our conversation would move to Steve’s beloved boy, Nick.
Nick was the greatest love and prevalent concern of Steve’s life, one that he sometimes struggled with because his son’s care, health and happiness were never far from his mind. As Nick became further and further encouraged and advanced in his visual art, Steve became increasingly both proud of his talents and equally relieved at the joy this outlet for his creativity provided. Anyone who ever encountered them together - be it on a stroll through Cambridge or at a gallery showing of Nick’s work - or who had the good fortune to hear Steve rave about some recent work will readily attest to the passionate intensity of this proud father’s love of his son.
I had the great pleasure of their company many times but my personal favorite was on a night Steve brought Nick up to the Tsongas Arena in Lowell. My brother, Mick, and I met them and were ushered into a luxury suite. The word “luxury” was a bit of an oxymoron in 2000 for the sky boxes at this hockey rink but I remember Nick smiling and watching my brother and I rock out to the Smashing Pumpkins. I will never know if he was enjoying the music or amused watching us banging our heads to it but seeing him grin made the impetus for it moot. It was more than enough that he and his dad were having fun.
There’s so much about Steve that I will miss, but in a life that touched so many people I have no doubt that each person has their own favorite moments. I was honored to speak at Steve’s “official” retirement party at The Paradise in Boston and that evening I compared Steve to Willy Wonka. “He somehow manages to be simultaneously everywhere at once,” I said before explaining, “Always with a smile, and more than likely with a fun treat hidden in his pocket.” Knowing laughs followed.
The outpourings of love in so many different expressions from so many different voices speaks to that intimate friendship so many people felt toward Steve. In the day or so after he passed I had the good fortune to catch up with a number of dear friends that shared the privilege of having worked with Steve. Each will undoubtedly be reminded at some future date of the role Steve played in their lives and just as undoubtedly they will smile. Others thoughtfully reached out via social media, many who knew of our bond asking after me. Each message was appreciated and made me smile, it was just like Steve to still be connecting and re-connecting those he loved.
This was not an easy thing for me to compose and even now as I “put it to bed,” a phrase so seemingly inappropriate when speaking of a man who fought so heroically against going to sleep on such a frequent basis, I worry about what I should have or shouldn’t have included. I think of our adventures. I think of his sage advice (“If you have to be negative, at least try to be funny about it,” was one I have always held close). But, there is one thing that I have thought about a lot over this last mournful week and that has been his laugh.
In the music biz a good hearty laugh is exceedingly rare. I have never been sure if that was because most of the denizens of this universe are simply bereft of a sense of humor or that they’re too cool to offer up more than a snort, a soft chuckle or a nodding grin. Steve was most definitely and delightfully not saddled with this affliction. When I tickled his funny bone he would let out a joyous roar, doubling over as he slapped me on the shoulder.
It is those moments of quick, spontaneous and fleeting shared joy that I will miss the most and for which I am most grateful. Thank you, Steve, for everything.
