Flag art by David Berman

Sad news came via Chicago on Aug. 7, when record label Drag City announced the death of poet, visual artist and songwriter David Berman, founder of widely loved indie-rock band Silver Jews. Berman was in New York ahead of a tour for a new musical project called Purple Mountains. The self-titled debut album from the project, released in July, features Berman’s first new music since Silver Jews dissolved in 2009. A spokesperson for the New York medical examiner’s office told The New York Times that Berman’s death has been ruled a suicide. He was 52 years old.

Berman moved to Chicago in early 2018, but he lived in Nashville with his wife and former bandmate Cassie Berman for nearly two decades. Many people who heard his deft, incisive, humanistic and unpretentiously literate lyrics found them inspiring. Many who knew him found him to be a deeply kind person, as well. A handful of those folks have shared their remembrances of Berman.

Family and friends are planning a public memorial event, but details weren’t confirmed at press time. In lieu of flowers, Berman’s family asks you to please consider a memorial contribution to the Music Health Alliance, to MusiCares, or both.

Brian Kotzur, drums, Silver Jews, Country Westerns and more:

David was my Jedi master, my big brother and one of my closest friends. I can’t put into words how much his loss means to me. He was a true eccentric and a man of integrity. His righteousness did not always make things easy, but looking back I couldn’t be prouder. Truly one of a kind — the world lost a lot. There will never be anyone like him.

William Tyler, guitar, Silver Jews, Lambchop and more:

I'm giving a wide-eyed stare at 40, and it's hard to believe I was always the kid back in the days when I had started gigging with Lambchop and Paul Burch, right around the time I met David and Cassie. I'm used to being starstruck — if you grow up in Nashville with a sense of perspective, you are bound to be — and I still am. I poured a beer for John Prine once at The Stone Fox, and I was totally blindsided. I was definitely starstruck around David at first.

I remember David telling me about being starstruck. It was 2008, and Charlie Louvin was doing a record at Mark Nevers’ Beech House studio, an album of celebrity duets. He gave David a heads-up that George Jones was going to be there in the afternoon, along with Will Oldham, Bobby Bare Sr. and maybe a few other hangers-on — the kind of magical cross-generational scene that only happens in Nashville. David got there as George Jones was about to drive off from Mark's in whatever he was driving, I think an old Lincoln Town Car. David tried to introduce himself and tapped his fingers on his window. He told me Jones just pulled the window down for a second and gave him a nervous grin and stare. “He was truly playing Possum,” David said.

I got to be friends with David around the time of the Bright Flight sessions in 2001. I was barely of legal drinking age, but even back then he and Cassie and their whole crew took me in without any precious sense of me not “belonging,” or being the kid. David hated being called “Dave” or nicknames. He joked that: “You can't call me Dave, it’d take away my ‘id.’ ” So he very graciously never called me “Willy” — only William. I had no business being in that session at that time, but he gave me a chance, and I am so grateful. It was a painful time — lots of hard living, drugs and things that made me feel a lot younger. Sept. 11th had just happened, and the existential darkness was similar to now. The music, of course, was brilliant and painful. 

I only saw David and Cassie intermittently until 2006, when the live incarnation of the Silver Jews took flight for three glorious and chaotic years. Apart from just being grateful for the experiences I had with them, from playing Tel Aviv to playing a cave in McMinnville, being around David was a master class in wit and wise observation. He's the only person I've ever been in a band with who read as voraciously as me. The van was littered with heavy books that we would unpack on long drives.

As much as anyone who moved to Nashville to work in country music, David understood the brilliant philosophy and wordplay behind country songs. He had a copy of the Ernest Tubb Record Shop mail-order catalog that he would just go through, quoting titles with the great mix of bad puns and sentimentality that only country provides: Gary Stewart, Moe Bandy, etc. I can't say he was drawn to tragic figures, but he was quick to point out lines of connection between them across disciplines — the tragic life and poetry of Mel Street and the similar path of Frank Stanford.

Like Roger Miller, David had a universe of one-liners that were as profound as zen koans. One night, when load-out was taking too long and some of the band wanted to go out partying, he yelled: "We're adults — we are too old to make new friends." He was a true humanist both in his work and his outlook on life. He hated pretension. He told me his favorite novel was Dog Soldiers by Robert Stone. He valued real storytelling and real connection. I was always self-conscious about not going to college and reading the classics, and I remember one time he said, kind of dismissively: "You have to go to an academy to have someone walk you through Joyce and Ezra Pound." On an eight-week tour in 2008, I am pretty sure all we listened to in the S-Jews van was country oldies, Black Sabbath, Grateful Dead and Tennessee Titans games.

His words and his songs meant a lot to me, but they meant an incalculable amount to people he never met, and some he only fleetingly met. He always made time for fans after shows — very gracious and generous with his time. He told me he didn't want his persona to be difficult or hard-to-approach — I think that represented a kind of friendly humility that he admired in country music stars as well.

I feel like I could write a book out of the anecdotes we all shared together, and I can barely fathom the pain that those closest to him are feeling right now. But his life and his work burned with a righteous fury that are growing scarcer by the day in our climate of short attention spans, memes and quickly moving on to the next thing. I'm glad he was able to grace us with one more record before he sailed his ship to the other shore. I am sad that I won't ever be able to share stories with him on this world, but I am truly grateful that we got to share some real estate and camaraderie for a time.

Flag art by David Berman

Alexa Sullivant, co-founder, Tennessee Hollow animal rescue:

In 2011, I worked at Portland Brew in East Nashville, and was playing Silver Jews over the speaker system. Cassie came in, smiled, and told me that was her and her husband’s band. I excitedly talked to her and went out on a limb and asked if David would be willing to meet me for a school project I was doing, where we had to interview and write about an illustrator. David was one of my first picks. She told me to email him, and sure enough, he invited me into their home to give me a tour of his "working spaces," and let me, a 20-year-old college kid, pick his brain for more than an hour. 

He visited me a few times at Portland Brew after that. Over the years we kept in touch over email, and talked when we ran into each other in public, which wasn’t too often. He always wrote his emails in an elegant poem form. He was one of my favorite writers, musicians and illustrators, and I considered him a friend. I’m heartbroken that we’ve lost such a great and vibrant soul.

This little piece is something he emailed me one day when I reached out to check on him after hearing he had an incident with his neighbor’s dog:

Yes, I'm all healed up from the dog attack now.

It almost bit my nose off.

Felt bad for my neighbor.

She was a little naive, trying to house a mighty force of nature,

but she loved the puppy inside the monster no one else could see.

Been playing with construction paper, making flags.

Going back to first principals and first materials.

Maybe make my way from there.

The last time I saw him was before he moved from Nashville. Daniel Pujol, my husband, was with me. David started talking about Johnny Paycheck and his love for him. He wrote down his top favorite songs on a piece of scrap paper for us. I have it tucked away in a book. I hadn't spoken to him much since he moved away. I emailed once or twice, but got his auto-reply that he was on email sabbatical. He had given me his phone number at one point, but I had spoken with Cassie and learned he was away writing music again, so I didn't want to bother him.

See you later, friend. Thank you for the music, the words, the art, and for being so kind to me.

Kevin Guthrie, artist; longtime cohort:

David was born on Wednesday, Jan. 4, 1967, the same day speedboat racer Donald Campbell died while trying to break his own world record.

He hated being addressed as Dave. He demanded the “id” be recognized. If you wanted to have a dig at him, you could always call him Bermo to get a rise. His self-imposed moniker Mr. Games was his preferred nickname.

Steve West and I moved to New York in September of 1990 from Richmond, Va. We settled in the least hip neighborhood possible in Staten Island. We didn’t have many friends there, but Steve had a high school buddy who lived in Hoboken, and we went over there to visit one Saturday night. That’s when I met both Bob Nastanovich and David Berman. What a tandem those two were. Their basement apartment was one large room with a bathroom and tiny kitchen. David had put down masking tape marking his private section, and it was immaculately clean and tidy. (Bob’s half, not so much.) I’m pretty sure they never locked their door when they left the house. We walked over to Maxwell’s, and I don’t remember who played, but I distinctly recall Bob and David hilariously heckling the band. That theme has continued for the better part of 30 years now. 

David got Steve a job at the Whitney Museum, and they were able to get me comped whenever I wanted to go. That was a nice perk. I’d line up a date and go a day early to study what was on the walls so I would look a lot smarter for the date. The only thing I really remember learning was that in gallery-guard walkie-talkie speak, “Code One” means you’ve gotta take a leak. 

On Dec. 29, 2002, Bob, David and I drove up from Louisville to watch the Bengals host the Bills in a meaningless season finale. The hardcore Bengals fans wore paper bags over their heads as they lost to Drew Bledsoe and crew 27-9. Peerless Price had five catches for 57 yards. David liked the Bills because they were named after an individual.

Half of my wardrobe has been provided by David. For someone who didn’t like to leave the house very much, he sure was a well-dressed man. I’ve got suits, boots, sweaters, T-shirts, Western shirts, dress shirts, sneakers and even his Pierre Cardin tuxedo in my closet. He had a good method of hair grooming I often put into practice today. It’s called “baking.” After you get out of the shower, comb your hair and put a tight-fitting baseball cap on and let it “bake” for 30 minutes until it’s dry. Remove cap and your hair will be done.

Back in the rotary phone days folks had to remember phone numbers — all seven digits. If you were lucky, your number would spell out something to make it easier for people. For example, my friend Clancy had a great phone number: PELE ALI. Much to Cassie’s chagrin, David proudly told people they could reach him at COCK DOA. Bob would always correct him: “C’mon David, your number spells out COCK DOC, too. Go with that.”

He was a tremendous presence, and I’ll never forget him. Nobody appreciates his body of work more than me, but I will miss my friend. The friend who came over to my house in the middle of the night and put up an art show of more than a dozen little wood drawings and knickknacks on my porch just for me. 

I used to make mixtapes for friends. David got several. To my recollection, the only band he liked of my offerings was the Geto Boys.

Steve West, drums, Pavement; one of David’s many best friends for the past three decades:

David was always there for me. Cheering me up when I was down. Inspiring me to follow my passions. Pushing me to do more. He was always in my corner when I needed him. He was a big gift giver. He had a dresser drawer in his basement full of gifts to give to friends and visitors. When I would visit him he would always have my room set up in a way that made me feel warm and welcome. He was such an amazing person, and we had so many wonderful times together. I will miss him so much.

Peter Townsend (drums, Palace Music and many more) and Elizabeth Townsend:

David officiated our wedding. By all accounts, he had stayed up for two days prior, working on his script, emailing us arcane questions about our compatibility to the point of requesting to speak to distant relatives. On the day of the event, which took place at my mother’s home in Louisville, David appeared frantic — legal pad in one hand, stuffed with research on Yiddish customs and wedding jokes, and a briefcase of candy in the other.

The scheduled time for the ceremony had come to pass, and someone made the obvious decision to get the ball rolling. As the piano played, Elizabeth walked down the aisle, I stood in the middle of the floor, and David — was nowhere to be found. Everyone looked flummoxed, eyes darting around the room.

Several awkward minutes later, David was discovered locked in a bathroom, ostensibly to scrutinize his notes for a few last minutes. Quickly summoned, he bounded into the room and crawled over the crowd like Roberto Benigni after winning Best Picture for Life is Beautiful. When he arrived to his spot, he looked over at the bride and whispered: “Why didn’t you tell me?” He proceeded to win over everyone with his wit and charm after completely freaking everybody out.

Maybe it was his plan all along — who knows? It was magical and made the ceremony even more memorable.

We love you David, so, so much, and you will forever hold a very special place in our hearts and minds.

Tracy Moore, author; former Nashville Scene music editor:

I first met David Berman in a dive bar in Old Louisville called The Mag Bar. I was dating a guy there, and driving up to Kentucky on some weekends. I looked a few booths over to where Berman and Cassie were sitting and said to my boyfriend, “That’s David Berman.” The boyfriend didn’t know who David Berman was, or who the Silver Jews were, for that matter. But he also didn’t understand how I knew for sure that was him. This was 1999, mind you. There was no searchable internet in the way we know it today, and the only reason I knew for sure was because I’d obsessed over the back image on the liner notes of Starlite Walker — my favorite record the band ever made, still to this day — because his wiry frame and shock of dark hair and brooding eyes were unmistakable.

Berman finally went to the bathroom, and so I gathered the nerve to walk over to Cassie to at least confirm my suspicions it was him — mostly so I’d have a story to tell my friends, who’d played the Jews’ records with me in Murfreesboro and would be so jealous. He was him. And she insisted I wait until he returned to tell him I was a fan, because it was the sort of thing no one ever gathered the courage to say to him. He was gracious and funny about it. They were moving to Nashville. I told them to look me up when they did, so I could introduce them to my friends. They did.

Cassie took a job where I worked copy-editing. And that summer, we met up a lot at various houses and bars around town, mostly The Gold Rush. It’s hard to remember it all now, because we were all pretty fucked-up. Mostly, a group of his friends and fans, me among them, sat enthralled at anything he’d tell us. He was brilliant, jokestery and kind. But with all of us gathering at the hem of his garment, and the bad habits many of us were developing, the dynamic of the whole scene could get strange, and frankly, I wasn’t sure what to make of him.

I understand it differently now. Those years preceded some of his worst addiction, his greatest suffering. A few years later, he emailed to congratulate me on a book and writing in Jezebel, and said the kindest things. We started a correspondence after his sobriety that made me realize I’d only met a complicated, kind, genius writer at one of the worst times in his life. All was forgiven; there was nothing to forgive. He’d just had to move through the world like that, that's all. He sent jokes, articles about Appalachia, class, and writing advice. I held out thinking he’d hacked it all somehow and figured out a graceful way to live in the middle of his troubles. I’m devastated he didn’t — even though now I see that’s actually what he’d managed to do for 52 years, and better than most.

I’m not sure if it’s in spite of his prickliest moments, or maybe because of them, but: I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who knew him — even if it was just a passing sideswipe — who wasn’t at least a little bit in love with him.

XXL rock tees like wedding dresses

Here Come the Brides comes to mind, with its theme song called:

“When it's time to leave your home and your loved ones

It's the hardest thing a boy can ever do

And you pray that you will find

Someone warm and sweet and kind

But you're not sure what's waiting there for you”

Music: Hugo Montenegro. Lyrics: Jack Keller, Ernie Sheldon.

Death takes another bachelor of arts.

So you died amongst the dying to die as figured and feared?

In a moment bittersweet chocolate, as Bobby Sherman’s tears

Guess we’ll never really know if that made you free at last.

I’ll have my doubts.

I wish you had had them too.

Let’s all take care of each other now, keep an eye out, ya know?

Just one more day can make all the difference.

James Toth, Wooden Wand; One Eleven Heavy:

The first time I met David Berman was at a backyard party at Grimey’s Records in Nashville. One of the fun ideas Grimey’s cooked up that day was to have a “Meet and Greet the Nashville Indie Rockers” table, and at this table were Berman, Kurt from Lambchop and me. I found David funny, avuncular and sweet. Not many people came up to talk to us — most of the people at the party already knew us, and we probably all felt a little silly and embarrassed sitting there. It felt a little like that scene in Spinal Tap when no one shows up for the autograph signing at the record store. Kurt killed time by drawing “blind caricatures” of us by placing a blindfold on his face and drawing our portraits from memory. I still have mine. 

David had with him two old Silver Jews 7-inch singles he was trying to sell. A young woman eventually came up and asked about them.

“They’re $3 each,” David told her.

“I only have $5,” said the girl.

“That’s OK, take them,” said David, handing her the records. “I’m not here today to make money. I’m here to make friends.”

Chris Crofton, comedian; musician; advice columnist:

I was lucky enough to meet David Berman at Springwater in 2001, shortly after I moved to Nashville. He was already well-known, and I was just starting out. He didn’t have to be nice to me, but he was. I admired him then, and I still admire him. Over the 13 years I was in Nashville, David was in the audience at many of my performances, and his presence always inspired me. I wanted to impress him. David was so damn good at what he did that he made other people better just by showing up. I will especially miss the distinctive sound of his laugh. When I heard it, it meant I was doing something right. And if David thought I was doing something right, that was more than enough for me. Thank you for the art, the laughs and the inspiration, David — I will miss you greatly. All my love to you, your family, and your many, many friends.

Sean L. Maloney, author; longtime Nashville Scene contributor:

Last week, I had the distinct pleasure of letting David Berman into my head for a whole day. I woke up early to write a preview of Purple Mountains, the new self-titled album by Berman’s new project. I spent the entire day wrestling with a profound record from one of my favorite writers — one of the indie-rock scene’s most complicated minds. I came away from the experience with hope for the future. I hoped that Berman was about to make the big crossover, to finally achieve the grander recognition and success that his work deserved. 

I turned in the piece (on time for once), went for a walk with my son and came back to discover that Berman had passed. It was disorienting and overwhelming and bizarre. My friends are evenly split between writers and musicians (often a little of both), and to see the effect that Berman’s work had on so many of us was beautiful and sad. I didn’t know David very well, but he was a presence, an influence and guiding light, a friend of friends and a pillar of my record collection. 

Back in 2006, when my friends and I were running Grand Palace Records in Murfreesboro, Berman would come into the store. He was in the early stages of sobriety and had joined the Big Brothers program, mentoring some wayward kid from Rutherford County. It was an awkward pairing: David, tall and erudite; the kid short, scrappy and, well, very Rutherford County. David walked this young ruffian through our tiny store, explaining the history of rock ’n’ roll with more kindness and patience than anyone has ever used to explain anything in a record store. 

Eventually, he landed on Dinosaur Jr’s You’re Living All Over Me, explaining the record’s impact with elegance and affection. And then he bought the kid the record, even though the kid didn’t have a turntable. He said something to the effect of "You’ll have it when you need it." This is the David Berman that I hear when I listen to Purple Mountains: A kind, beautiful soul that had a lot of wisdom to share, a clever mind with humanity to spare. He will be missed.

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