Up in Chicago last month for a memorial of a friend of mine, Eric Markowitz. I met Eric way back in the day, when I was getting my undergraduate degree at DePaul; we were both English majors and musicians. Excellent guitar player and songwriter, he wound up contributing mightily to my second record, as well as graciously lending his talents to my band for live gigs in Chicago, Minneapolis, Philadelphia, Cleveland, and probably some spots I’ve forgotten. He also had several fine bands of his own – Nothing, Billy Pilgrim, Agatha – his material bearing a harder edge, showcasing his mad guitar skillz and angular poetry. We were part of a circle of friends who also did co-bills and collaborated in different ways, in a scene of sorts, with roots in our old bands such as Tribe, Bucket Number Six, and Maestro Subgum.
Many years ago, around the time I left Chicago, Eric threw a big party on the northside, at his apartment, because he was heading in for brain surgery and he was unsure about the outcome. I remember our mutual friend, Jeff Kowalkowski (who has contributed in some way to nearly every record I’ve made) made a toast to him. I remember that moment mattering.
After the surgery, Eric recovered and kept trucking, defying odds, surviving and prospering. He founded a nonprofit in Chicago, Milkwood, taught underserved kids, married his soulmate Karla, continued digging the Cubs, and persevered through three brain surgeries. Apparently, this third one, which was recent, took more out of him than expected. His guitar playing was challenged, as was his general mobility and speech, but still, the expectation was he was going to head into therapy and recover once more. I sent a card and made a note to try and see him when my son and I went up for Xmas. Then I got a text from Jeff that he had passed – June 28. Too soon, it’s always too soon.
So, I flew up to Chicago for the memorial, which was full of friends and family giving tributes, connecting or reconnecting over his memory. Karla set up a room with photo albums, Eric’s guitars, his lyrics and records, and other talismans. Poignant and a reminder that everyone there knew a different piece of his life, really. My personal interactions started to come back to me, such as the time Eric, Jeff and I drove cross country to Philly to open for Keb Mo at Rittenhouse Square, confusing the outdoor crowd with our musical “stylings”; or the time Jeff’s piano fell on my guitar during soundcheck at Schuba’s in Chicago, smashing it to pieces, after which Eric ran to his apartment to get me a loaner; or the time Jeff, Eric, and myself and our significant others spending a strange New Year’s Eve together at Jeff’s parent’s house in Westchester, the town where my parents first lived, and my brother now resides. Many other stories, many other circles intersecting.
I took a few snaps to share, because somehow these talismans mean something beyond the objects they are and I wanted those photos as my talismans, as well. They are reminders that more than anything, he was an outstanding human being who made the most of his time on the planet and that ultimately, I was lucky to know him. But they are also reminders to anyone viewing, to do what we can to make the most of our time, to be a little kinder, to take care of those small moments, because those are the only moments that matter really, the ones we never have enough of. Thank you for your service, Eric.
Doug Hoekstra 