Let Us Pay Tribute to Jesse Colin Young and Get Together

Come on, people now/Smile on your brother/Everybody get together/Try to love one another right now.

-The Youngbloods

Like most, I knew Jesse Colin Young’s music long before I knew the man. The music he made, both with his band the Youngbloods as well as a successful solo artist, for me and many others, personified a certain musical era and ethos. Absolute and unwavering in those ideas that defined the Woodstock generation, he sang songs about coming together, respecting one another, finding hope in darkness, and understanding that we are all part of much larger systems – environmental and otherwise – worthy of respect and preservation.

Inspiring stuff – perhaps too inspiring.

I say this because when, long after his music had become integrated into my personal soundtrack, I was offered the opportunity to meet and spend some time with him. It was a prospect that, quite frankly, made me nervous. While I was interested in his art and creative process, I harbored a secret fear that the ideology that defined his music might prove mercenary, a convenient costume donned in an effort to sell songs to a peace-and-love consumer base.

My fears were unwarranted. What I found was a generous spirit who gave freely of his time and talent. I found an artist who managed, at every turn, to avoid artifice and embrace personal truth. I found a man who loved his family, his fans, his home, and the simple act of singing a song. I liked him very much.

Young died March 16 at his home in Aiken, South Carolina, where he had lived for many years.

A quick story. Several years ago, I was producing a singer-songwriter competition/performance held in conjunction with the Arts In the Heart of Augusta festival. Part of my duties included lining up a panel of judges. I didn’t know Young very well, although we had met on a couple of occasions. Still, I thought it would be a real boon for the event – and a thrill for the performers – to have Young as one of the three judges. I rolled the dice and asked him if he would be interested.

Here's the thing. It would have been easy for him to say no. It would have been easy for him to refer me to someone who would have said no for him. He could have even manufactured a plausible excuse and I would have been none the wiser.

He did none of those things. Instead, he came out and hung out. He sat in the sun, listened to songwriters, and offered kind critiques and encouragement. He embraced the idea and, in turn, elevated it. I know I thanked him at the time and, I believe, offered some sort of token of appreciation. It probably was not enough. It certainly does not feel like it was. But he didn’t seem to mind. He was happy to be there, happy, if only briefly, to mentor emerging artists and happy to be part of the community he had come to call home.

Everybody get together.

I’ve been thinking about Young a lot since learning of his passing. Thinking about how I would have loved to spend another afternoon with him and wondering what, in his final days, he made of the divided world he was leaving behind. It could not have made him too happy.

So maybe, in the spirit of the 1960s, we should take a moment to think globally and act locally. Let’s take a moment to smile on our brother – or sister. Certainly, there are things that divide us, but it is important to remember that those things we debate the longest and hardest over are primarily opinion. Fighting over politics, for instance, is really differing opinions on management styles.

The truth is, as members of this community, finite in its geography and population, we already share so many significant things. We sweat in the summer, freeze in the winter, sneeze together in the spring. We want our community to be strong and vibrant and have all, collectively, agreed to put a temporary moratorium on naming babies Helene. We don’t need to point fingers or level accusations. We need, instead, to take a page from Young’s book.

Get together. Love one another. Let’s start right now.