Simple Man, Simple Dream…

John David Souther passed away on September 17th, 2024. I was able to reflect on our complicated relationship through a letter to music business analyst, critic, and blogger - Bob Lesfetz

Bob -

You and I met in the summer of 2011, during the weekend of Carmageddon. We had invited you to McCabe’s for one of JD’s two-night performances. I was so glad you were able to attend, and I’m happy to know that you and JD continued to stay in touch over the years.

Like John David himself, our relationship was complex. He was a force of nature, capable of sudden, meteoric shifts—sometimes destructive, sometimes breathtakingly beautiful, like a sunset casting a perfect palette of blues, reds, and purples. When I met him, I was a frayed, splintered wooden spoon. Seven years later, he had reshaped me into a finely crafted steak knife.

Watching the show Succession, I often saw shades of Logan Roy in John David. His presence made me nervous, as his boyish grin could suddenly turn mean with the lightning quickness of a snake—and his bite could be just as venomous. But if you were brave enough to look past the delivery, you could find your own truth and growth in his message.

While my partner Edward had the ability and patience to talk him off the ledge, I developed what I called the ‘Lethal Weapon’ management style. Lacking the credentials or status for him to lean into, my only chance to back down the lion was to seem more demonstrative—to give off that ‘you wanna get nuts, let’s get nuts’ energy, hoping the predator would reassess its prey. When I broke, it was as if he’d immediately abandon character, breaking the fourth wall. He’d get quiet, then in a soft voice say, ‘Hey man, you’re freaking me out—I’m the artist, I’m supposed to be the crazy one.’ He often called me *El Sensitivo*, one of several nicknames he coined over the years.

Now, from where I stand in my life, I know what it’s like to build something—and I understand the fear of trusting others with it. He had reluctantly trusted us with his career, and when he saw me pushed to my breaking point, I imagine it reassured him that I truly fought for him.

At our best, our relationship echoed the dynamic between Chris O’Donnell and Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman. He tested my limits, put me in difficult situations—and in doing so, he taught me how to expand into them, not shrink.

We hadn’t spoken in a decade, nearly to the month. When our relationship ended, I declined his calls.

But as the years passed, perception evolved into perspective. I became more grateful for our time together and the impact he had on my life. He opened doors to people, places, and experiences I could never have imagined, and he became the gateway to relationships that remain important to me today. He taught me the power of a good sport coat and well-worn side-zip boots, how to make a martini, and introduced me to quality scotch. I learned that money has its perks, but happiness can still be elusive. We shared a love of dogs, good filmmaking, mischief, and sharp wit. When asked a question outside of business, he’d often say he didn’t want to talk about it—but if you embraced silence at just the right moment, he’d fill it with stories that could make you rich. To this day, I always dress nicely when I fly, no matter the destination. ‘When people see you,’ he’d say, ‘they should know you’re traveling with purpose.’

As his manager, I helped him move mountains. But when the time came for us to simply enjoy being the friends we surely would have been, I found myself out of breath—muscles weak with jitters—and I took the space I needed to rest. Yet, over the years, he was still there for me. When I felt abandoned or misunderstood, I’d often remember something he’d remind me of:

‘When people don’t know what you mean, they may laugh at you and call you green. They’ll say your words are stupid, and your plans are only schemes. The truth is simple, but rarely ever seen.’

I’d sing it quietly in my head, and in doing so, I felt seen, heard, and known.

After COVID, I left the music industry to become a mental health therapist. As it turns out, working in the music industry is mental-health adjacent. I now focus much of my practice on artists and industry professionals. While John David remains nameless, I often tell clients something a wise man once told me: ‘Never agree to anything but flying first class, because if you do, you’ll never fly first class again.’

Of course, they usually stare back at me, confused. I respond with a gentle smirk and say, ‘You see… if you don’t stand up for yourself—your values, your integrity, your relationships, your truth—if you don’t set your own worth, someone else will.’

—

I woke up to the news of his passing on Wednesday morning. I was surprised by how disoriented I felt, as if I’d been ejected from orbit and was now spinning off into space. But when the world loses someone who exerted such gravity in your life, the same physics apply. I found myself unusually quiet, and when I opened my mouth, no words came. I listened to Natural History on repeat throughout the day, and when I went to bed that night, I had a dream. Unlike most dreams, I remember this one in vivid detail.

He was sitting alone at a table in a dimly lit, empty bar—it felt as if it had been created on a soundstage. There was a magenta hue that faded softly into the darkness where perhaps an audience had sat earlier in the evening. An untouched martini sat off to his right. His tie was loosened, draped just below the undone buttons of his blue oxford shirt. His suit was a darker shade of gray than usual. When he saw me, he smiled and rose to embrace me. It was a smile I rarely saw over the years, one that only appeared when he was truly relaxed and happy. His brow unfurled, and his narrowed eyes opened like shades, emitting light and warmth—a guarded oasis that gave life to such beautiful songs.

We spoke for what felt like a long time, communicating through visions and expressions. He showed me pieces of a puzzle that helped me see the larger picture of our relationship. Most of this I will keep between us, but I will cherish it. However, he did want me to tell you to stop putting the initials in his name—he prefers it as JD.

Though you and I only met in passing, I’ve read your blog for years and can see the similarities between you and JD. A thinker, often a curmudgeon, one who says the things most people don’t want to hear—but most importantly, someone who is, at their core, moved by the power of music.

I’m glad we connected along the way, Bob. I appreciate how you wrote about JD.

All the best,

Bradford