finding a spot to watch them directly. A good drummer is the pulse of the band. They sort of disappear
from the Here and Now and enter into the song
they’re playing. They are the blade in the blender,
the power steering in the car. Without them there’s
still music, but it’s not half as driving. Demse
breathed through his kit, both serious and playful.
The show was incredible.
Sweaty and exhausted afterwards, I waited for
Demse to pack up. We went to an after party, which
was mostly the band sitting around being tired and
happy, and around 3 a.m. I drove him to his house a tiny, tall establishment in a comfortable neighborhood outside of Northampton. It had been a rainy
night, but the clouds were parting ways.
Demse pointed out the stonework he made a hobby of and asked if I wanted to chill in the backyard,
so we found two Adirondack chairs and sat beneath
a clear sky with thousands of stars gleaming. He
thanked me for driving down and told me a bit
about how much gratitude he felt overall.
Demse said he had come from a history of violence and addiction. His role models hadn’t been the
best, and he had struggled when he was younger,
especially with his motor-mouth, getting into trou-
12 • CIDER MAG • cidermag.com
ble. He told me that music saved him. With it he
had focus for his intense energy, and he admitted to
being stubborn, but that’s how he knew how to get
things done. He shared that when was drumming
he was creating, and reggae and hip-hop had given
him a message to spread. He told me about how he
taught lessons and enjoyed working with kids. His
desire was to make life for his kid easier than what
he’d gone through. I thought that the title of the
new record, Spread Hope, fit Demse’s mission.
Then we talked about my article with him. He
gave me the best advice I’ve ever received as a journalist. He said, “I like your writing, but you ask the
same questions every journalist ever asks. I don’t
want to answer questions about how the band got
together anymore, or about our favorite place to
play.” Sure enough, I had come prepared to the interview with a typed set of questions that seemed
smart, but were cookie-cutter.
Because of Demse, I never again had preconceived questions for interviews. I learned to not be
an interviewer so much as a truly curious person.
Now that we were just talking together, I got the
true story of Demse Zullo. From then on, I knew,
this was how interviews had to go.
We talked until both us were dozing off. We
went inside. I crashed on his couch and left early in the morning. I was very tired and had a
lot of work ahead of me to synthesize my notes
into an article. After that, Demse, The Alchemystics, and I stayed in contact. I caught their
shows as often as I could, but I never got another sit down as long or as deep with Demse as I
had that night.
Music is a powerful tool that can build bridges. It’s a magic spell that chemically alters our
moods. Music changes us, and to meet someone
like Demse who had knowledge of this was incredibly important to me as someone who wrote
about music. Losing Demse made me realize
how much musicians go through to share their
messages: long nights, long drives, being away
from home, self-promotion, and staying true to
the message.
I’m grateful Demse’s music lives on his recordings and in the way he touched so many
fans and peers. I’ll never forget his advice or his
kindness. Because of him, I gained courage to
reach new bands and have since had the honor of capturing many people’s stories. The last
time I saw him was at Mount Snow this past
spring. I missed getting backstage to talk to
him before the band hit the road. My last memory is of Demse playing drums and making the
audience dance.
Demse, we’ll miss you. Thanks for spreading
hope. ■
June• 2015