I returned to Hays on the 24th of Janurary. I hadn’t planned on seeing Hays for at least a year, maybe never again…I didn’t have any idea. I returned in one month’s time. I had found out, a few days before, that my ex-roommate and bandmate, Brett Zamrzla (aka the Swedish Fortress) was killed when his car went off the road and into a tree.

 This is not what this letter is about.

On Friday I attended Brett’s funeral in Lindsborg, Kansas and was joined by many, many friends. I fucking hate funerals. They never remember the person for who they ACTUALLY were. My experience with these rituals can be summed up in a series of denials told by family and friends who did not want to speak about the awful or beautiful truths of their loved one recently deceased. The music is horrid, the church filled with pain, and stuffiness. So we drove to Lindsborg,and I was sitting in the back of “Black Shadow” sweating like a nervous wreck due to the fear that Brett was going to be the next unresolved spirit, remembered in a distorted fashion. I was relieved to find his final departure beautiful and REAL.We were in a large methodist church, and it was very sunny outside. The light filled the sanctuary with a bright glow that would cause anyone in low spirits to be somewhat cheerful. The music playing before the ceremony was The World Percussion Group; Brett’s drum group, and it saturated the room with an ambience of warmth and mysteriousness. The sermon and rememberances were given in his name, friends talked about him in an honest manner, which was soooooooo refreshing. His favorite death metal band was played for the end of the sermon. I am rushing this because once again:

This is not what this letter is about. 

Brett was creamated and placed inside his djembe, or ceramic handdrum. I had played on this drum many times before and it filled me with joy to find him resting in his most cherished lover. We took him to a plot, in the middle of the country, with a small grove of evergreen trees. He was poured into the earth from his drum; his final resting place. The crowds of people disipated until there were only a handful of us, his close friends, standing over his dirty hole. We mourned in silence as the crisp wind blew into our faces and froze our tears. We gathered back at the church for a dinner and celebration. We had made our amends with Brett and now was time for the lifting of his spirit from our bodies and minds in a celebration of his life. Brett’s cousin Brandon had brought a myriad of percussive instruments for all to play on. Around twenty or so people gathered on a stage; each gathering a drum of some sort. Some had Celtic hand drums, others had African or latin bongos. Brandon chose to play on a cooking skillet with a stick. I was handed Brett’s burial drum, the one I had played on so many times before. I teared up at the touching of his sarcophagus. My fingers ran across the goat skin top and I gave it a hit allowing it to resonate it’s amazing tone. I have never played on a drum that compares with this one, and its dynamic flavor and bold expression. Once we were situated and too anxious to wait around anymore Brandon, like a conductor, or more like a shaman gathering his tribe for connection with the gods, lead us into a rhythmic cycle of hands and feet. I have partaken in drum circles before, and watched many as well, but this was beyond that. This was one of those moments that I live for. It transcended emotion, music and ego. Everyone on that stage came together in one thought, one energy and that energy relayed into the audience–for they soon were banging on their tables with sticks out of exuberance for the moment we were in. No one was playing the drums, no one was thinking about the drums, and no one was accomplishing anything–we were channeling Brett’s spirit effortlessly and we shared one whole creative movement of sound and consciousness. 

I had not felt as alive and in an eternal moment as those thirty minutes of my life melted away. Not only were we playing in rememberance of his life, but the pounding and beating of the drums was a physical and psychic therapy session for all of us. We were freeing his spirit. I understand now the tremendous power of tribal celebration; the root of our existence and the root of our connection with nature and each other. We do not know where the “person” goes when they have died, but eternity can be found in all of us, as proof through our drum circle. Brett lives on eternally in all of us, in everyone he touched or laughed with; in everyone he hurt and discouraged, with everyone he loved and created with. When we exorcized with the drums we expressed that part of us that IS Brett. Each and everyone of us is not a singular entity but an accumlulation of all the people that have played a role in our lives and in that moment we all focused on the part of us that was Brett. We left that afternoon to head back to Hays, all of us smiling and emptied of pain. We may call upon a memory of him and feel loss or pain in the future, but the overwelming remorse of his death was lifted that afternoon as we let him go. 

When I returned back in Chicago, I was listening to one of Krystal’s professors give a talk about her new book and experience living in Spain. She talked about how Spanish men have a very different sense of physical and emotional expression towards each other than Americans. They touch each other all the time and speak bluntly, with no hesitation, as a signal of companionship, love and honesty. She talked about how Amercians do not do this and we “beat around the bush” and avoid contact. I looked back on my friendships in Hays, and my times with Brett and feel so fortunate that I have experienced what these Spanish men act upon effortlessly. Through Brett, we have grown closer together, our love strong and uncompromising. Josh Richards–Thank you for always putting your arm around me and saying you love me. That is what a real man does. And to the rest of you, thank you for sharing with me, and I mean truly sharing with me in your vulnerability, your hurt and confusion, your joy and your deep strangeness. Unlike so many people in the world I can say that I really KNOW my friends to their core.