Thank you, Glen.

On music, memory, and saying goodbye to an artist whose work became part of my story.

I was 17 years old when I first saw the little musical indie film that became a far-reaching, beautiful cultural moment in early aughts.

As a Southern Baptist pastor’s daughter, I was staunchly against curse words at the time, but I made an exception during the opening scene of this movie because “the F-word doesn’t sound as bad when it’s said with an Irish accent.” It’s pronounced more like "feck,” which is honestly very charming.

The movie was low-budget and low-production, but the music in it filled up my inspiration cup for years to come. Every harmony, lyric and chord choice had me entranced. I even fell in love with the gritty-Euro-indie aesthetic of the film. I’m sure that’s when I decided to try layering socks over stockings with a patterned skirt.

I was transfixed.

Of course, I immediately bought the soundtrack (or more realistically, burned a friend’s copy), downloaded it to my mp3 player, and listened on repeat while trying to plunk out the melodies on the grand piano in my parents’ living room.

I’ve always loved the arts, but few films had the kind of impact on me that this one did. It was the movie Once, starring Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová, who together made up the musical group The Swell Season.

“Falling Slowly” is the band’s biggest hit and went on to win an Oscar for Best Original Song. It was so well deserved.

This film, this music, and these musicians have been on my mind since Glen Hansard tragically passed away this week in a motorcycle accident at only 56 years old.

Normally, I’m not one to sit down and write about the death of someone I didn’t know in real life. I have enough grief in my personal life to fill a million libraries. But, this one hit different, and I haven’t been able to shake the urge to write it down.

When someone’s art has a profound impact on your life, it’s like a piece of your soul is connected to theirs. I know that sounds kind of “woo-woo,” but I really do think art, specifically music, is one of the most profound experiences of being human. Music can reach parts of us that words alone never could.

In 2009, I had the privilege of seeing The Swell Season play a show in Kansas City. It remains one of the very top live music experiences of my life (and I’ve had many). The show was in an auditorium with over 2,000 people. At one point, the whole band left the stage, and Glen stood there alone with no microphone and an unplugged guitar. I had never seen someone perform with that much heart.

It was like he was busking on a street corner, trying to make a buck that his life depended on and it was also like he simply had to sing because his life depended on it. As he screamed “If you have something to say, say it to me now,” he played his guitar so intensely that he broke a string.

Photo sourced from Glen’s instagram @glenhansard

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One night during my senior year of college, my roommates and I found ourselves with an excess of watermelon and sweet tea so we decided to have a spontaneous gathering at our house.

Very late into the evening, there were only a few stragglers left, and one of them was J (now my husband). He had discovered a guitar in the room that doubled as the dining room and music room—which meant it also housed a keyboard.

“Falling Slowly” was most definitely played during that very first jam session together. It’s the perfect male/female duet. One of my roommates always went to bed extremely early, but I still remember her peaking her little head around the corner with a grin on her face once she heard a Swell Season song being covered.

Fast forward a couple years, when J and I started dating. I have a very fond memory of driving across Kansas on a nighttime road trip while listening to the entire Once soundtrack. It wasn’t just background music; we listened intently, harmonizing with every note. I remember feeling just as in awe of the music that night as when I first heard it—only this time, J and I felt that reverence together.

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Eleven years later, J and I sat in lawn chairs at a park very near our house and saw The Swell Season perform on their reunion tour. This was August of 2023. I was a few days away from checking into the hospital with sweet Jemma still in my womb. I was terrified.

We had been told that her chance of survival was very fragile, and the safest option was for me to move into the hospital for what we thought would be three months. We had so many fears and so many questions. I had no idea what was ahead of us.

We almost didn’t go to that concert at Ruby Hill Park, but the band had meant so much to us that it felt worth it. I was scared, and I wanted to return to that familiar sanctuary of lovely music that had accompanied us for so many years.

Now, I’m grateful we went. I know now that it was my last chance to witness Glen Hansard’s talent live. It was also my one and only chance to experience it with Jemma. She was there and J was there. We were all together.

She died one month later.

Music matters. It is memory. It is connection. It is medicine. It is mystery.

Thank you, Glen, for letting us bear witness to yours.

(This was one of the few videos I took that night. Excuse the poor quality, I was on partial bed rest trying to take it easy in the way back.)

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CAN’T COPE: Here are some things that helped me survive this week:

• My dog. I always say this, but it’s true. She’s my best gal.

• A walk with two of my sister friends.

• A deep tissue massage.

• The Once soundtrack

• We started watching a show called The Burbs. It’s a cute and intriguing whodunit type of show. (Trigger warning for loss parents, there is a living baby and a daughter that goes missing.)

• Cookie dough ice cream.

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