I suppose that in some ways it's only logical that people who can't hear are fascinated by music. Think about it: music is a thing that most of us take for granted, a powerful, deeply meaningful and continuous presence in our lives, a soundtrack to good times and bad and, for the musicians among us, a voice, a savior, a lover, a muse (which of course is the root of the word music).
The weight of such a muse, the importance revealed by its ubiquitous tendrils in our society through live performance, recordings, radio, television, must seem even more powerful to the deaf, much more mysterious and, in many cases, ultimately and sadly unattainable.
Nearly two weeks ago, Timothy J. Young passed away at the age of 59. Tim (Timmy to some) was a fixture of the Northampton music scene whose efforts to support local performers were second to none, a fan whose dedication went well above and beyond the call of duty. Two things were puzzling to me about him. One, there was obvious irony in the fact that Noho's biggest music fan was a deaf guy, and, two, I had no idea he was 59. I knew he was "older," but pegged him in my own estimation at about eight to 10 years younger than he actually was. Whether as a side effect of his name or a benefit of celebrating music 24-7, there was just something youthful about him, and I was surprised and saddened to hear of his passing.
"Not only was Tim at every single show I have ever played in Northampton," recalls local musician Jason Borgeois, "I happened to see him almost every day of the week. I work at the public library in Northampton, and this was one of the many stops he would make throughout the course of his busy day. I would often be on the phone at the reference desk when Tim would approach with his printout of local concert listings for that day (sometimes the header of the paper would read Tim's Concert List), or I'd be dealing with a disgruntled library patron and I'd see an anxious, suspended fist inches from my face out [of] the corner of my eye."
"The guy had spreadsheets, like Excel spreadsheets, with all the bands and where they were playing and when," says Carla Racine, a steady patron of local music venues, "so he could bounce around between places and see everybody."
One of Tim's trademarks, perhaps his most basic expression of non-verbal communication, was the famous fist bump. Long before Barack Obama had nationally debuted the knuckle-to-knuckle high-five (which through some labyrinthine pundit logic was twisted into something associated with terrorists), Tim's exploding fireworks fist was already in effect, too indie still for even al Qaeda to cop. Though his speech was at times difficult to comprehend (especially in the loud locations in which you were likely to encounter it), you could get the hang of it, as he was usually referring to a show he was headed to or asking about which band was up next.
"I had Tim over to my house for Thanksgiving," says local promoter Mark Sheehan. "He spent time watching my sons play video games and he messed around on my computer. My kids really got a kick out of him, and always asked about him whenever they'd come to Noho. Tim had a knack for giving me the old fist bump just when I was at the door of a busy show with my hands full of money and IDs, and I'd tell everyone how annoying it was!
"Now that he's gone, I miss the charm he brought to our scene. He knew all the bands and would really light up for some of his favorites, such as Treefort. He'd have them written down as to where and when they were playing and would be really excited. We'll all miss him, and the money we raise from his show will go towards a fist bump monument or tombstone along with money from Bishop's, Sierra Grille and more."
"It's strange to think that he won't fly into the front door of The Elevens ever again," Borgeois laments, "or be seen lobbing paper airplanes at three o'clock in the morning [another commonly observed habit of the man's]. Unquestionably, he was the absolute greatest supporter of our community's music scene and will be missed by all those who ever met him. Tim was an extraordinary personality, a beautiful guy who essentially had a key to the city, and I'm glad that he and I were friends."
"The first time I met him, he took a piece of paper and made the coolest paper airplane I've ever seen," says Trash Studios' Chris Croteau. "[It] stayed in the air forever. I wanted my son to meet him. He was the sweetest man."
A toast was held for Tim on Monday, Sept. 28 at Bishop's Lounge, and a memorial concert on Friday, Oct. 2 at The Elevens (one of his favorite haunts), was organized by (Evil) Bill Stearman and featured an all-star lineup of local musicians. To contribute to the proposed memorials for Tim, inquire at The Elevens, Sierra Grille or Bishop's Lounge or contact Mark Sheehan at carrotnoise@yahoo.com.
