Brody is a rock star. I know this because I rarely see him without his sunglasses.
On the surface, we seem to have little in common. Brody is a master guitarist and has tattoos, and I'm as dorky as that Christopher Cross album with the flamingo on it, as straight-laced as a pair of Pumas, still crisp white, the squeak-step yet to subside.
We appear to be different. But then, appearances can be deceiving, and, in addition to being cooler than the bass line in ‘I Wish’ by Stevie Wonder, Brody has a heart and soul as deep as the ocean.
If I were more of a dude and less of an academic, I’d say, ‘he fucking rocks,’ and leave it at that.
As a human being, Brody is an elite model. He volunteers for summer camps for the intellectually disabled (although I didn’t find this out until months into our friendship), is philosophical about creativity, and cynical about the overt commodification of human experience. He plays with my son, Plooker, as though Plooker is not so much his friend’s son, but his younger brother.
Why does Brody belong here? Because he's kind and patient. Because he shreds licks in life that Yngwie, Jimmy (Page and Hendrix) and Hetfield could only dream of pulling off.
Brody is, in broadest terms, a rock star. But his jams, the albums ‘Brody,’ are so much more than just a series of chords. They’re the melody, the rhythm that connects endeavour, hope, and love. When the world is filled with noise, he’s the music that reminds you it’s OK; to be strong, sure and centred, wholly you, in everything you do.
Having known him, I’m now more of a dude, and less of an academic. So, I’ll simply say ‘he fucking rocks,’ and leave it that.