Gary, Music & The Unknown Challenges of Neurodiversity

It was about 1:00 in the morning, summer, 1981. I was tucked up in bed. There was a gentle breeze coming through a slightly opened window. Like a seesaw of sound, drifting in and out on this breeze, were the distant strains of a rock band. Occasionally, a set of tom fills would intrude, as if an engineer had ridden up a fader. Then, the screech of a wailing guitar at its peak punctured the air, along with the sketchy, penetrating low hum of a slapped bass note. My Mother was up, and she wasn't happy. She contacted this notational romancer of the night, inviting him over to have a serious discussion about what was deemed reasonable hours to play music in the suburbs. This is when I met Gary.

Gary was unique. I know, everybody is unique. So, I will say it again with additional feeling. Gary was unique. At his funeral, his older brother Greg recounted him playing back pocket in junior football, being more interested in what made his opponent tick. Preferring to be deep in conversation, playing the man and not the ball. That was Gary. Fascinated by people, yet strangely walled off and repelled by them simultaneously.

I was eleven years old when I wandered through the living room amidst thick air and a serious monologue, side eyed, side mouthed, dropping lines (not those sort) such as, "the music was pretty cool" or "I love the drums." Gary had a secret grin on his face and with his Kentucky Fried brain in tow, started to overthink that I was some angel placed in the room to support him. The nude, naked truth, I just liked his music and thought it was cool they got to jam and wanted to do it myself.

Fast forward a few weeks and I held an executive meeting with my best friend, attempting to muster up the courage to knock on his door. We needed a streamlined excuse because he might suspect we were just there to inspect and try out his musical gear. How would we even execute a segue with our lack of cognition?

Finally, after much ado about nothing, we walked around the corner to his place and knocked on the door. The knock sounded like a mining implosion against the backdrop of a chilling silence, our hearts pounding between asynchronous smirks and giggles.

A large, poorly dressed man with a beard and mattered hair, wearing thongs that couldn't contain his extra long toenails, answered the door in slow motion. It was him alright. He had a strained grin on his face. A smile "wide on" with a glazed look in his eyes that I would come to understand, had something to do with a strange sort of experimental cigarette.

We followed him in, mustiness to the left and to the right, making our way past the glistening musical gear, like it was a showcase on Sale of the Century. It was so cool! A red Tama drum kit with two kick drums, two floor toms and both Paiste and Zildjian cymbals. Delays, reverbs, preamps, samplers, sequencers, mixers, keyboards and standing up against the board, a classic candy apple red Fender Strat. This was heaven! And coincidently, this was all meant to be because Gary actually thought he was on heaven's board of directors. In fact, he was adamant he was chairman. Perfect! Planets aligned.

We asked if we could borrow a lead, which was our masterpiece of an excuse for knocking. When he quizzed us on the size of it, all I could say was "the big one." We forgot the detailed part. Was it a 1/8 or 1/4? Like the scrawny, cheeky kids we were, after a build up of fakery, we asked if we could play the musical equipment. The answer that followed is still being delivered to this very day. An initially vague start, that cycled on the spot into something of an essay, morphing into what felt like a sermon and eventually, a bit of a circle jerk. At our tender age, looking side eyed, we thought he was speaking another language, or in tongues.

To debunk the mystery, Gary was kicking off a monologue with no beginning, middle or end. At the crux of it, sorry make that crucifix, was how advanced he was. I found it quirky that he had to tell us. I wasn't aware that those at the upper echelon of evolution needed their own marketing and public relations disclaimer. The man was way ahead of his time.

Gary spoke directly to our under developed misfiring neurons, which turned his diatribe into lumps of lard and we were meat heads already. He dutifully informed us that according to his exhaustive research, he was correct about everything. Cool. So where to from here then? Reassuring as that may appear, it left us with more english literature puzzles to solve than anything. He also told us not to take offence and/or hate him for his honesty. It was wild. Like starting at the finish line, relationally. It could have been the Banach-Tarski Paradox or an indigenous dialect from the Star Wars cantina. We had no idea. He was crazy smart or er, the other way around. Almost nothing made any sense, baring the odd word colliding against pie in sky paragraphs, like a fireworks display of hundreds and thousands.

"The dunces were in confederacy," he said, pointing to the inside of his pantry door, which was laced with possible album titles, written top to bottom, no space left. A short two word example, "the wrong religion." Once again looping around to a key point, "we would not understand." This reassuring statement was on tape loop, not just for that day, but for the decades that followed. Along with insightful commentary on the best curries, the new love of his life working at the drive through and his ongoing attempt to attain an enlightened state, getting into a "good space," using strategically positioned psychic enhancers such as a bourbon and Coke or a spliff.

Continuously paranoid of us taking offence, he proceeded to enlighten us that he was light years ahead of us spiritually. Huh? What in the hell was he saying? Fortunately, he was very thorough and asked us if we understood, to which my best friend earnestly responded, "er, no Gary, I don't know what you are talking about." Then, a stone cold silence. Gary had sweet and sour nothing for just the tiniest second on record. A silence that was calm, like watching a beautiful, peaceful white dove land gracefully or a flower gently swaying in a sun filled, dewy morning. My friends honesty was the equivalent of a fly spray, killing that conversational insect, dead.

And that is how it all began. These spiritual disclaimers continued to cycle on rinse and repeat for the next thirty two years. Gary had a silicon chip inside his head that was switched to overload, (just borrowing a lyric from Sir Bob) or perhaps the chip had melted down in some form of acid that apparently gave people utopian experiences in a previous musical era. An acid Gary had experimented with and was only too happy to discuss with anybody that prompted him or unfortunately happened to make eye contact. His brother Greg once told him, "the lid's shut." You need not speculate as to why.

Gary was up against a few seriously debilitating social obstacles, thus life was never going to be easy. Over the years, he lost his marriage, his three children and his backpacker style friendships, all while wearing the same clothes. But he gave me so much. Underneath the faded, unwashed look, lay a genuine artist, an observer, a scientist, a philosopher, a deeply troubled soul and a friend. A chronically insecure musicologist, disguised as a hippy. His passion for the heart of music, infectious.

When the opportunity presented itself, I really enjoyed our jam sessions. We had hundreds of them throughout the years. It was a tricky manage. The friendship was not traditional. There were times I needed to distance myself when conversations veered back into elongated terms and conditions. He would love bomb guitarist style, exchange a few pleasantries and then be trapped mysteriously under something heavy. That was Gary.

There were potholes, literally, along with walls, ceilings and bridges to mend. So I chose to sip, not skull our friendship. The ups and downs meant that forgiveness needed to be on tap and boundaries secure.

Gary passed away in 2013. He died of stomach cancer after collapsing on a driveway and being taken to hospital. I recall he died on a Good Friday, which fitted in nicely with his schemas. In the days leading up to his passing, he was surrounded by family and in excellent spirits, smiling and joking. I was touched when he said "I could have played the worlds best music with Justin." Coulda, shoulda, woulda. I delivered the Eulogy at his funeral a few weeks later.

Gary will always be missed and his eccentricity will always bring a smile to my face. His neurodiversity made my life all the more richer. But not easier. The world is a lesser place without him. "Some birds aren't meant to be caged, their feathers are just too bright."

Here we are jamming at his studio in the late 80s. This was about eight years after we had met. Yamaha DX7, Roland S50 Sampler and that mid 60s candy apple red Fender strat!

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