Remembering Jared Kennedy Rodgers
It was during the first week of school in 8th grade, in Mr. Wood’s social studies class. I had transferred into Pikesville Middle School and didn’t know any of the other kids. I was the new kid, and though you might not know it to look at me now, I was small and scrawny — at least that’s how I remember it. I felt like an outsider and imagined myself a rebel just biding time until I could get out of there and change the world.
I don’t recall exactly what the topic was or exactly what Mr. Wood asked, but I’m reasonably certain that my answer was a flippant shout of “Nuke ‘em!” when someone called out, “Yeah!” and started laughing, sounding even more rebellious and mocking than I did.
Who was this wise-ass kid in combat boots, army pants and a fishing hat, looking like an adolescent version of Bill Murray in Caddyshack? The bell rang and we gathered up our things to go to our next class, I sidled up to this kid and said, “hey” and he said “hey” and we started walking and talking down the hall, the beginning of a great adventure that Jared and I shared over the next 35 or so years.
We spent hours walking around and talking, later driving around and talking, or watching Mad Max and Repo Man over and over again on the VCR in his mom’s living room. We shared countless adventures, many involving illicit substances and reckless, possibly criminal, behavior that are not appropriate to share here.
We acted side by side in nearly every theatrical production at Pikesville High. You might be surprised to know that we were in the Barbershop Quartet!
But no matter the scenario or setting, Jared always found a way to inject his sly, surreal sense of humor into everything we did, to discover the hidden joke, to find an unexpected and surprising new way to look at the world that was both hilarious and profound.
But more important than anything was the music.
The first time we played together was in 8th grade. He was still playing piano, I was teaching myself to play guitar, I think we wrote a song called, “My Mother/Father Was a Hermaphrodite”.
Later, Jared and I formed a band that played under several monikers — The Aimless, The Hax — and whose repertoire consisted almost entirely of early Beatles and Who covers, and garage rock staples like “Wild Thing” by The Troggs. Our set list was rounded out by music of the day like “Stray Cat Strut” and “Marching On” — the great rebel anthem by 80’s British band The Alarm that David Gelwasser turned us on to.
One of my favorite memories of that time was a Battle of the Bands straight out of a John Hughes movie — our scrappy little band of nerdy outsider gifted and talented garage rockers, with our 60’s-inspired outfits and mismatched, second hand musical equipment going up against a fancy parachute-pants and synthesizers rock band doing Billy Idol and Night Ranger tunes. We mopped the floor with them, concluding our set with an epic, almost endless version of the Isley Brothers’ song “Shout” that we’d first heard in the movie Animal House. We brought the house down with thunderous applause. Jared destroyed a guitar that night — one he had borrowed from Eric Rubenstein. I don’t think he ever apologized for that. Sorry, Eric.
Soon after Jared discovered punk music — Dead Kennedys, JFA, Circle Jerks, Black Flag, Agent Orange and The Minutemen — and we started going downtown to this dingy storefront music venue on Eutaw and Mulberry called Jules’ Loft.
Jared was always restless, always on the lookout for new adventures and new horizons, new ways to challenge himself and others, always looking for new ideas, new music and places to explore. His intellectual and creative restlessness was matched only by his fierce intelligence and his astounding persistence and discipline.
I have never met — and don’t imagine I ever will meet — anyone as stubborn and willful as Jared Rodgers; someone who, once he set his mind to something, could not be dissuaded by any obstacle no matter how daunting; someone who would practice, or study, or argue, until he achieved what he wanted to achieve.
When we were there in Carmel, just a day or two from the end, the hospice nurse took me and Jared’s wife Ali aside and said she’d never in all her years met anyone who had held on so tight to life, who had refused to go, even in the state he was in, and who was still able to boss her around, directing his care and telling her exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it done.
Jared was demanding of himself and others. Sometimes it just about made you want to holler or even resort to physical violence, he could be that cussed and difficult. But whether it was music, or philosophy or just plain living, most times you’d come out the other side of an argument or situation glad that he’d pushed you. You may not have ended up in agreement — there are plenty of times where it was just easier to cede the argument than to try and continue the debate — but inevitably you knew that Jared had forced you to exercise your mind and your will, to push beyond what you thought you were capable of, to push beyond what you thought you could know, like he pushed himself.
He was fiercely intelligent and I don’t think it was easy for him, honestly, to almost always be the smartest guy in the room. He could be incredibly difficult and witheringly dismissive of people he considered fools or — for lack of a better word — assholes.
He was also incredibly generous and supportive. If you were ever in need, he would help you out. He was always willing to lend an ear, to offer advice and insight. I’m sure there are many people in this room who could tell stories of a time Jared was there for them, or surprised them with a gift that was deeply personal and meaningful.
After his first bout with cancer, Jared, David Cohen and I went to Las Vegas to celebrate a year of remission. Within minutes of arriving we realized that none of us really liked Vegas — though Jared, of course, had a complicated and inscrutable system for gaming the house at craps — and we spent most of the time eating, drinking and talking, and driving to pawn shops looking for good deals on guitars.
Jared told us all about this girl he’d met, Alison. He showed us pictures of her, told us stories. He asked us to take a photo of him goofing on a guy dressed like a Star Wars Storm Trooper on the Vegas’ strip and texted it to her.
It wasn’t long after — August of 2012 — when we all met again in Big Sur for Jared and Ali’s wedding. It was an incredible day. After all this time and all these ups and downs, Jared had met the love of his life. He had found his professional calling and defied anyone and everything that stood in his way to graduate top of his class at Tufts and become a veterinarian. He was building a life in Carmel with Ali and the dogs, and was still making music. It was an incredible time of hope, and love and possibility.
On the day of the wedding Jared had, as usual, roped me into doing a bunch of stuff to help him out that he said would be easy but was actually really complicated. He had incredibly detailed instructions of how everything was to be done and in what order. The thing I was most nervous about was that he asked me to cue the entrance music for the bride, the music for the ceremony, and the recessional music for the bride and groom. Using an Apple Remote connected to an iPod, from the bridal canopy where I would already be standing alongside the officiant. No pressure, dude, but if you fuck it up, you’ll ruin my wedding. I didn’t fuck it up.
And as Jared and Ali walked away a from the bridal canopy as man and wife, to the strains of “Scarlet Begonias”, I thought about what a long, strange trip it had indeed been and how after all that restless wandering, it seemed that Jared had finally found home.
I know some of you may have been wondering how I could possibly have gone this long talking about Jared Rodgers without mentioning the Grateful Dead. The story of me, Jared and the Grateful Dead is far too long to possibly recount here.
Our first show together was Merriwether Post Pavilion in 1984 and I would be hard pressed to say how many shows we saw together over the next thirty-some-odd years. But from our days as teenagers playing Grateful Dead songs for spare change on the boardwalk in Ocean City to our numerous road trips following the band, to the 2015 farewell shows at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, the music and myth of The Grateful Dead carried us through life’s changes.
Jared would study recordings intently, dissecting the band’s complicated musical structures and playing styles, figuring out how they did what they did. Every time he explained to me how a certain song worked, or taught me to play a new riff or chord, I felt like I was getting a glimpse into the mysteries of the universe through song, guided by Jared.
One of my fondest memories of hanging out with Jared in Carmel was playing “The Wheel” together one last time. One of the saddest was playing “Black Peter” and the way he looked at me as we sang the lyrics, “Just want to have/ a little peace to die / and a friend or two I love at hand.”
Jared Rodgers was a bold and fearless adventurer, he possessed a formidable mind and was a talented musician, he was creative and compassionate, often difficult but always decent, and more than anything he was a great friend to me, and I’m sure many others. I will always remember him, and somehow I feel like he will always be here with us, just outside the frame, looking in, laughing, and guiding us on.
