Thoughts on Danny Hutchens
As I begin writing this, Danny is technically still alive… the Catholic in me is unwilling to concede death until the blinking lights go off. There’s some chance that happens before I finish. It’s Mother’s Day, I’m in traffic in the Columbia River Gorge, no cell signal so he may officially move on as I write.
I’m getting old. Among the many fruits, revelations, annoyances, and horrors age brings, losing friends frequently is part of the deal. Still… this shit hurts… and for me, the news of Danny’s imminent departure is hurting in ways I didn’t expect. He’s not family or a band member, we didn’t talk for hours every Tuesday or trade tamale pie recipes. But for thirty years Danny has been my friend—a mirror of my own career hopes and dreams and disappointments—an unstated competitor, an example of a good dad in our world of shitty dads, a person with shared experiences that are unique to us (at least as far as someone I know), the definitive Southern Gentleman (whatever the fuck that actually means), and in the end, a gold standard of songwriter that I’ve always thought to be way above my pay grade.
Carison Stokes, my longtime friend, tour manager, and Danny’s manager, called me Friday morning to say Danny had been found unresponsive. Danny burned through his nine lives twenty years ago—somebody kept dealing him extras out the back of a ‘73 GTO with South Carolina plates—so part of me assumed he’d get a last-minute swig of virgin blood and walk away. But as anybody who lives and dies on “good connections” knows, even the best dealers don’t show up sometimes. Rama Rama Sita Rama Rama Rama Ram... which means “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” (Well, actually it means you’ve always been home.) And we will all be chanting some version sooner than later. Danny’s time to move on to God’s Bar has apparently arrived.
The Black Crowes Descending just came on, which I’ve always thought of as the best Bloodkin cover ever. Just when I thought I couldn’t bear to hear Kingly one more time without breaking the fuck down.
I met Danny in ‘92. Capricorn Records flew him to Portland for us to write songs together. He got off the plane like Jesus. He wasn’t just handsome, he was other worldly gorgeous, and even at that age exuded whatever the fuck lead singers are supposed to exude. He rented some dive-ass motel room (now the Doug Fir) to write. We sat down with our guitars. I said, “what’ve you got?” He said, “I’ve got a bag of black beauties, what’ve you got?” I said, “a bunch of balloons of black tar.” We seemed to hit it off immediately, and we wrote some pretty good songs.
Capricorn was slated to sign four acts—Panic, Colonel Bruce, Bloodkin, and myself. At the eleventh hour (and fifty-nine minutes), they passed on Danny and me. We both spent the rest of our friendship trying to say it wasn’t a big deal... really. I understood not signing me to a newly rebooted Southern label, but I never understood not signing Bloodkin. They would have had hits right out of the gate… and would’ve handed the Crowes their ass.
Just got the text from Martinez. Danny’s gone. While I’m writing this, listening to Good Luck Charm. Damn, impeccable timing, Danny.
Our mutual friend John Bell started a label for Danny and me, and we ended up in Alabama with producer Johnny Sandlin. Somewhere in that swamp there’s some pretty good recordings. From then on, Danny and I crossed paths during some interesting times of our lives. We’d always say to each other, “how’s the greatest unknown American songwriter thing working out?” Sometimes it was actually funny. I remember a conversation with Vic Chesnutt, Danny, and me about how we didn’t think of ourselves as jam band guys. But, at least for me and Danny (and somewhat for Vic), it was Panic literally paying our rent. And how fucking blessed we were for their friendship.
To be honest, I was always kind of jealous of Danny. He had a lot of things I coveted... his “Keef” in Eric Carter, his community (literally his beloved Athens), his lifetime of work with Dave Barbe, his amazing good looks (it took me while to realize what really made him sexy was his ability to write a song like “The Ugliest Part.” I don’t care how you gender identify, your jeans were coming off), the name of his band Bloodkin (coolest fucking name ever), his honesty, his beautiful side (had a shine to it I haven’t seen in a lot of artists), and his dark side (a shade of black that still seemed to give off light). I don’t know if he’d agree with this, but there was an unsaid competitive piece of our friendship, to hold what we looked at as our failures (being surrounded by success) up for all to see with dignity and a sense of being badass regardless, and then quietly go back to our rooms and kill it one way or another, trying desperately to avoid the bitterness that we saw in so many other “also rans.” I realize I’m talking about myself a lot here and speaking for a guy who can’t answer. But like I said… the mirror.
Jealousy is not necessarily the right word. It was knowing in my heart that he was better at his craft than I am. Everybody who does the lead singer thing figures out what works, what makes them different, why people should pay money to watch. Don’t get me wrong, Danny was as good a front man as anyone. But his songwriting... it contained a magic that eludes me. I hear it, I know when it’s there. Danny had it seemingly effortlessly.
When asked by some hipster musicians why in the world I don’t teach my kids music, my reply was, “cause if you’re good at it, it will kill you.” Danny is perhaps a perfect case in point. In my mind, there’s a small handful of people I would call America’s best songwriters. I’m lucky enough to be friends with a couple—Patterson Hood, Willy Vlautin, and Danny who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the best of them. His songs hit me harder than the Springsteens and Earles and people I look up to. I’d spend some insane amount of time on a record with Dave Schools or anyone and Danny would release some four-track song and we’d be like holy fuck. When you define yourself by something, in my case my music, and you know deep down your friend is better at it… it’s a weird thing. You’re excited to be close to greatness, and you’re inches from swallowing a barrel.
So, there it is, end of the show, Rama Ram. Danny delivered a massively beautiful Bloodkin record with his ridiculously great band, the press was glowing, big shows were booked. He lived his life exactly how he wanted to. Martinez told me Danny’s brother said at his bedside before shutting off the blinking lights, “Danny did what he came here to do.” You can’t ask much more of life.
My heart breaks for his children, his family, his bandmates, his many friends and fans… but if there was ever a master class in how to burn the candle down to the last drop of wax, we all just witnessed it in Daniel Hutchens. I was listening to Lou Reed’s Magic and Loss. “I want all of it, all of it, not just some of it,” and, “there’s a little bit of magic in everything, and some loss to even it out.” Danny understood these sentiments and left us an immortal legacy of his art to enjoy till it’s our turn for the blinking lights to shut off. And we are the better for it.
Thank you, Darlin.
—J