Faye Hunter, RIP

I house-sat for Mitch and Faye in Chapel Hill back in the mid '70s on occasion when they played a gig or wanted to go out. Their house had been broken into and some of Mitch's fabulous sound equipment and musical instruments had been pilfered. She was sweet and kind and offered to pay me. I was just happy to be able to listen to their great stereo system and unbelievable record collection (mine were for shit), read, write some poetry, and get wasted—free beer and other stuff graciously offered in trade.

Her death by apparent suicide has hit the companions of my youth in Winston-Salem and Chapel Hill pretty hard. I've lost touch with that tight-knit crowd over the ensuing years, but I'm feeling the grief from there.









This comes on the heels of having seen the documentary Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me this weekend on On Demand TV. My college roommate and other friends from HS and UNC feature prominently, as do HS friends from Wisdoc's Memphis past.



As a matter of character, I try to resist waves of nostalgia. Yet the past seems so insistent. Maybe it's a Southern thing—that inescapable past. Maybe it's a human thing. When I do give in to nostalgia, it's often to music I turn. And always at the top of the list are these two songs: