When I met Billy Conway I was 25 years old and looking for my life. He came in to play drums on my first album and though I didn’t know my ass from my elbow, I had enough sense to recognize that he had the map to somewhere I wanted to be. I asked him to produce my next record, and I set my course by his light.
Billy brought me into his world, centered around the loft/studio/clubhouse known as Hi-n-Dry. He and his partner Laurie Sargent and their circle of friends were larger than life to me. They seemed to have their shit all the way together, and I held them in awe. I didn’t realize until much later in our friendship that Billy had been mapless then too. Mark Sandman had recently died onstage with Morphine, abruptly leaving Bill without both his friend and his band. He was reeling, disoriented, unsure what was next. We two beginners then, each in our own way, started where we were and built a world together. Over days and weeks in the studio we made a blended family of our respective communities, through endless days of takes, playbacks, pacing, and laughter; long late conversations crowded around the old battered studio table covered in glasses, lighters, and liner notes. Billy gave me the keys to the kingdom. He showed me what mattered and why, how to listen, what to chase, and what to ignore. Working together created the whole architecture of how I think about recording and music, and friendship too.
We made two albums and toured them a little, and then Bill’s next band Twinemen formed and got busy, and I was on the road and couldn’t often afford a full band, and we didn’t get to play much for a while. A handful of years later, I’d met and married Jeffrey Foucault, who one day asked me who was the best drummer I knew. From that question grew another marriage, JF and Bill’s ten years on the road together, music and miles, books and greenrooms, rivers and backbeats. That Billy would appear like a guiding star in each of our lives just when we needed him, who could have written that story? How to describe such a seamless braiding together of music and history and family and love?
He was the shepherd to my younger self, and the partner to my partner. To our daughter he became some unnameable combination of uncle, conspirator, straight man, and coach. As a musician, he was like no one else. His playing was deep, elemental, and infused with joy. He was the rare drummer who always wanted the lyrics when recording a song, and when he was onstage no one could take their eyes off of him. Musically as well as personally, he possessed a rare magic that allowed everyone around him to be the best version of themselves.
Billy left the world the way he lived in it: with generosity and humor, and surrounded by love, showing us all how it’s done, just like always. There aren’t enough tears to cry, and not enough stars in the sky to thank.