SAM DINGMAN: On Monday, Nov. 3, I told you about my conversation with folk singer Todd Snider, who’d been scheduled to play a show that evening at the Van Buren.
As you may recall, that story ended with the unexpected postponement of Todd’s show. At the time, it seemed like the postponement might have something to do with something Todd told me about during our conversation — a steadily worsening case of degenerative arthritis that he’d been battling for the last several years.
Shortly after we got off the air, however, Todd’s team posted a troubling message on his Instagram page, stating that Todd had been the victim of a violent assault of some kind before a performance in Salt Lake City, and that the entire tour was being postponed so he could recover. Over the next few days, some murky details began to emerge about the alleged assault, but it was never really clear what had really happened.
This past Friday, another ominous message appeared on his social media feeds: after being admitted to the hospital to treat his injuries, doctors had diagnosed Todd with pneumonia and he wasn’t doing well. On Saturday morning, the feeds were updated one last time: Todd Snider had passed away at the age of 59.
As you know if you listened to the story I did about him, I was a huge fan of Todd Snider. And since his death, I’ve been reflecting on what I think we’re losing without his voice. I’m hardly qualified to comment on his place in music history — suffice it to say that his obituaries namechecked many of his heroes in their assessment of his career: Jimmy Buffet, Jerry Jeff Walker, Kris Kristofferson and John Prine.
But just as important as his music, I think, are the values with which he made it. In our conversation, Todd told me, “I would rather be remembered for the way I lived than the songs I sang.”
That might sound a bit high-minded, but Todd meant it exactly the opposite way. He told me he lived by the troubadours’ code: have guitar, will travel. His favorite thing to do, he said, was to roll into town, find a bar where people were drinking during the day, strike up a conversation and see where things went. His only goal was to be invited along to wherever the people he met were going next.
Then, around 7 o’clock at night, having not told his new friends who he was, he’d ask if they wanted to go see a folk show. Then they’d watch him jump on stage and sing songs about people just like them who he’d met in some other town, knowing they were likely to be the subjects of the songs he sang in the next town.
As a result of this approach, Todd’s music was often centered on the stories of drunks, gamblers, small-time thieves and generally desperate people. But he never made fun of them; the songs were invariably about doing your best against overwhelming odds, and trying to have some laughs along the way. If there were villains in the songs, they were usually politicians or record executives — but even for them, Todd had a generous perspective. If he had a moral code, it was perhaps best expressed in the chorus of his song "Happy to Be Here."
Exhausted from another day of news headlines about political chaos and human depravity, he sings:
Well I’m sure it’s all true
And I’m tired of this too.
But I can’t pray for someone to fall.
Let all them people do what people do.
I’m just happy to be here at all.
Towards the end of our conversation, I told Todd Snider that was my favorite of his songs.
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