Two Cans and a String

Many moons ago, in March of 1988, I went to see the Daniel West Dancers perform at the Kennedy Center's Terrace Theater.  While waiting in the lobby before the show, a tall, somewhat frazzled looking woman was being slightly too pushy and slightly too loud as she bumped her way through the crowd.  People started to buzz. Some laughed nervously while others tried to get out of her way. No one wanted to make eye contact.  Once inside, this same weird person started a ruckus by loudly asking people to move so she could sit in their seat. Finally an usher came and escorted her down the aisle- still arguing. Then suddenly she was climbing onto the stage where the dancers stood waiting. Surprise! She was part of the show all along. This is one of my favorite memories of Susan Mumford. Performance artist. Musician. Writer and friend. She was also an all around good egg.

I talked to Susan many times before I got to know her. She was the ethereal woman with short cropped blonde (or sometimes black) hair,  usually dressed in shapeless clothing sitting behind the ticket window of the old 9:30 Club on F Street NW.  Back then artists of all stripes felt comfortable there when the club was little. We congregated like moths under a street lamp and ended up becoming friends for life. My friend Peter was one of the regulars. A decade or so later I told Susan that Pete had had a big crush on her. (Now I know lots of guys had crushes on Susan.) Her reaction was basic incredulity, and a slightly wistful "I wish I had known."

Susan in person was a very different ball of wax than Susan performing. On stage she was wildly unpredictable. Powerful. Loud. Off stage she was quieter, very funny and cool, but always strong. Susan might be best known for her role in the avant-garde band Tiny Desk Unit, but I will always remain impressed with how she moved in with her father who was suffering from Alzheimer's at the end of his life.  She stayed with him until he died. After that, Susan pretty much kept to herself and too soon afterwards also became ill. She had to battle cancer for the rest of her life, but she didn't lose her sense of humor. I once emailed her telling her I was sorry for not being in touch or taking her out for air.  She shot back:

Yes you should have taken me out for more air. or tried a bicycle pump. It's a coon's age since we yakked girl!
(as in raccoon - how long is a raccoon's age?  i bet it's a long time)

I'm sorry to say that Susan left the planet earlier this month, but for those who knew her- Bill Warrell is organizing a gathering this Saturday evening in Blagden Alley at 926 N Street from 8 p.m. - 2 a.m. In the meantime, I will leave you with another email to me from Susan in the same format that she wrote it in. I think it's more poetry than message. I will miss you, Susan. Wave at the nice man.
(I hope you can hear with me with two cans and a string.)

aaaaagh  sorry, my computer's crapped up (ooh, visuals)

so i only open it maybe once a week
maybe not

meant to answer this before when i saw it, but was watching the battery minutes deplete
and chickened out

prefer 2 cans and a string

will now call on your cell if anything fascinating leaps up and slaps me in the face (ooh, more visuals)

just thinking of you,

love,

susan