Most Sunday morning, I bum around my house listening to old vinyl
while my wife sleeps in. This morning, I'm going through Bill's first
three albums and reminiscing about how much Bill's music has meant to
me over the years.

I first heard Bill in 1989 or so, when my father heard "Handsome
Molly" on WWUH (University of Hartford radio) and bought "Standing
Eight." That winter we went to see Bill at the Roaring Brook Nature
Center, and I was hooked for life. Bill has always sounded to me like
the incarnation of New England itself, and his songs are likewise
everything I love about my neighbors - stoic, fatalistic, often
depressing, but wickedly funny.

Since that first show in Connecticut, I've seen Bill at festivals,
theaters, coffeehouses, with various friends and impromptu bands.
"Standing Eight" has always been handy on whatever media I'm using at
the moment - cassettes, CDs, iPods, now back to vinyl. I sometimes
delight in making friends tear up by calling their attention to the
dog verse in "These Cold Fingers."

Bill's been a companion of sorts since I was 16, now I'm almost 40 and
the songs just get better. It's sad to think that I won't get to see
Bill again, that these last few years of struggle and adversity won't
produce another epic like "Standing Eight." But it's obvious to me
that the songs he's left us will continue to grow with me, and there
will always be something new to hear.

Thanks Bill, I'm gonna miss you.

d.