Denver comes back in flashes—like sound checks bleeding through a wall.
Dowlen Sound. Red Rocks. Local 7. Mile High. Brooklyn’s. The Loft. Wazee Supper Club—Gian, the manager, his wife, three kids. Bill Gians metal culptures at the mall. Hot air balloons festivals, drifting over lodo and Denver cafés. McNichols Arena. Grateful Dead. Tom Petty. . . .Locals friend had a classic Bronco we’d take to the mountain casinos. That bar—low-lit, half-known one off, met. Annie we clicked but i knew i was not long for here, missed her. . The Chapel—an old church converted, like ‘limelight in nyc bre and I would go she knew all the local owners and musicians, so out going & fun.
And then—Brea as I mention above. lol!
That night is one of the last things I can hold onto clearly. We were both there, fully in it—whatever it was. Close, connected, like time had narrowed just for us. I told her I was heading back to New York after the partying. There was this shared understanding—no drama, no clinging—just a quiet recognition: this matters, and it’s ending.
It felt like something meant to be remembered.
And then… nothing.
A hard cut to static.
I know I had a whole miniute of a life there—a loft filled with paintings, gear stacked in corners, A loft worth of shit!. But I can’t access any of it. Not how I rented a rider truck, Not the packing, not the drive from Denver to New York. Gone.
Just fragments:
I left the Porsche outside Brendan Carr’s place on a snow day—for a friend.
Then suddenly I’m at WBT. And I remember Lisa offering me in-house sound design for theater.
That’s it.
That’s Denver.