My brother left this Earth 43 years ago. Forty-three years! I shake my head at how inconceivable it is that this much time has already passed. I was 20 when Steve made his transition and have lived more than 1 ½ of his lifetimes since then. He was 26, almost 27 when his defective heart finally gave out. Yet the legacy he left behind is timeless.
It is said that those who have passed away live on in what they leave behind. They do, in so very many ways. Certainly, they live on in our memories, the joyful ones as well as the sad ones (I choose to remember the joyful ones). They live on in the pictures we pour over, savoring each detail and nuance. They live on in the letters and cards they wrote us and the stories we tell about them. They live on in the lives they touched, the effect that was made on the people they interacted with. And, along with all of this, my brother lives on in the music he wrote, played, and recorded. His soul was expressed through his music.
Steve was born with a congenital heart defect. In layman’s terms, he simply had two holes in his heart. If he had been born today, his condition would have easily been fixed due to advancements in medical technology. But in 1952, this was not an option. My parents knew this, and knew his life would be short, but my siblings and I weren’t aware of his limited lifespan when we were younger. To my older sister and 2 younger brothers and me, Steve was our big brother who we looked up to. He took care of us, as older brothers often do. He was frail, yet he was smart and did well in school. He was not allowed to run or play sports as the stress would be too much on his heart, but he gave us wagon rides down the steep driveway that led out of our backyard (okay, one or two of those rides ended in a collision with the side of the house!), built model monsters and model rockets (which we had the pleasure of launching with him from time to time—the rockets, that is), and he was a musician.
Ever since beginning piano lessons at age 6 or 7, piano music could be heard daily as Steve practiced. Every day. He took to the piano like a fish to water. It was never a chore for him to practice, it was his passion. And that energy permeated throughout our house, and through each of us. By the time he was about 12, he added guitar to his musical skills, and we were treated to the sounds of his guitar, along with the piano, until just days before he died.
Along with our daily dose of piano and guitar scales and pieces, and some rock’n’roll garage band weekends, we also had our daily fill of the music of classical composers and professional music artists. Steve had an eclectic album collection that eventually grew to about 1,000 albums. By the time he was a teenager, music from one or more of those albums could be heard playing from his room every day, filling our whole upstairs with the sounds of Beethoven or Frank Zappa, Debussy or The Beatles, Herbie Hancock or The Doors, Neil Young or Jimi Hendrix. Whether he was working on homework or getting dressed for the day or getting ready to go out, we were all well educated in a variety of music genres, styles, and artists. Go ahead – ask me some music trivia of the 60s and 70s!
I had my share of piano lessons as well. I studied for a of couple years between the ages of 8 and 10, took a break for a few years (though still practiced here and there), then took 1 more year of private piano at my high school. I was intrigued by Steve’s innate talent and by the beautiful music that came out of that piano, and for a time I tried to do what he did. If I heard him play a piece I especially liked, and if it was doable for me, I’d pull out the music when he was not using the piano and learn it myself. Of course, I could never come close to the grace and ease in which he expressed these classical pieces, but I certainly gave it a good try. At first, I almost thought he was bothered by my “copying” whatever he was working on. But as imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, he truly did support my efforts.
By the time I got to more advanced pieces in high school, the work became much more complex and took much more time to perfect in the limited amount of time and effort I gave them. These pieces now required much more practice. At the end of that school year, I had to do a recital, and that thought petrified me. The Chopin, Debussy, and Gershwin pieces my teacher had selected for me to play felt like they were just a notch above my actual ability, though, again, more practice might have solved that problem. I dreaded that day, not only because I was embarrassed at the idea of my subpar performance, but also because Steve was planning to be there. My big brother who I looked up and who I knew was a talented pianist, came and sat in the front row. And even after the dozens—yes, dozens—of flubs and wrong notes, he smiled and told me afterward that I had done a good job. I remember how wonderful it felt to have him tell me that, even though I didn’t believe I deserved it. But that was the end of my piano career. I chose to focus on my dance classes instead and leave it to Steve to pave the way to musical genius.
Steve’s gifts flourished even more when he attended the University of Southern California as a music composition major. There, the rigors of that program opened all the doors to his gifted soul. By then, he was composing music at a rapid pace and could often be found at our kitchen table with blank staff paper, a fountain pen and bottle of India ink, notating the complex arrangements in his head. He wrote dozens and dozens of compositions in various styles of music. Most of these songs were performed by the new bands he eventually formed and, thankfully, most of them were recorded in one way or another, whether in a recording studio, or simply with a cassette recorder placed next to his piano. What a thrill it was to attend any one of his gigs, which now comprised of his own rock’n’roll compositions, with a cover piece thrown in there every so often just for fun.
Keeping up with rehearsals and performances became more and more difficult for Steve as his heart continued to weaken. At this point my siblings and I were sadly aware of his limited time with us on this Earth. Though he longed to attend concerts, doing so involved much more walking than his body could handle. By the time he turned 26, his activities had really begun to wane. Steve’s bandmates loved him and helped him out as much as possible. They had to move all the equipment at this point. He was still able to drive, and still had some good days. But his condition was taking its toll.
I have a special memory of one day in October of 1978, just less than 4 months before my brother died. I was now attending USC (Steve’s alma mater) as a theatre arts major and was involved in a production of Federico Garcia Lorca’s Blood Wedding. Steve drove to campus to attend a matinee performance, and once again, sat in the audience to watch my performance. I felt honored to have him there, to have his support (I was much better at acting than piano). Afterwards, he took me to a little local restaurant and bought me dinner. I don’t think he had ever done that before. It was very sweet, such a loving gesture from him. I wish I could remember exactly what we talked about. No doubt it involved USC, theatre…and music.
Two months after that event, Steve wanted to go to our local bookstore to do some Christmas shopping. He wasn’t strong enough to drive, so I drove him there. I parked on the street, about 50 feet down from the store which was located on the corner. It took all his energy to walk from the car to the store – I think it took a full 5 minutes for him to do what would have taken me about 20 seconds – but he was determined to buy these Christmas gifts. I remember the sadness I felt as I watched him put so much effort into something that we all take for granted.
On February 7 of 1979, I spoke to my mom on the phone just before heading off from my dorm room to a final dress rehearsal for our production of Pippin. Steve was home and had not left his bed for many days. My mom held the phone to my brother’s ear so that I could say hello to him. He could barely say hello back. I sensed what was coming, but I kept that thought at bay. It was too painful to acknowledge. That night when I went to bed, as I was falling asleep, I felt like Steve was standing at the foot of my bed, just there, just for a moment. I thought it was probably a dream. The next day I was told that my brother had passed away right after midnight. Right after midnight. That must have been about the time of my dream. Maybe he came to say goodbye.
I often wonder if Steve would have been the same accomplished musician he was if he hadn’t been disabled. If he had been healthier and fit, maybe he would have spent more time playing sports or running around with friends and less time at the piano and on his guitar. Maybe he wouldn’t have had time to practice as much as he did and write as many musical compositions. Who knows? All I know is that we were so fortunate to have him with us for almost 27 years. I know that he had a huge impact on all our lives with the gift he gave all of us, his family and countless others, with his music. How fortunate we are to still have so many recordings of his music, including many of his hand-written musical notations. How magnificent it was to have a 10-piece chamber orchestra perform one of his most accomplished works at a concert in his honor only 5 years ago. I have absolutely no doubt of the influence his music had on me personally, how much it affected the kind of music I love today. I truly believe that my own joy and passion for music comes from many sources, but mostly from Steve.
Yes, 43 years have passed. Have we forgotten about Steve? Not at all. His essence surrounds us and is brought back to life in the photos and the stories we tell, including this story I tell in this moment. He is here. And he is here in the music he brought forth and left us. The music, which came directly from Steve’s soul, lives on. And every time we listen to his music, or share his music with others, or tell the story of him and his music, Steve lives on, too.
Thank you, big brother. On this day, February 8, 2022, the 43rd anniversary of your entrance to the big rock concert in the sky, we honor you. And on this upcoming anniversary of your birth into this world, we celebrate you.
