In the spring of 2002, two musicians, Larkin and her husband, Andy Cohen, encountered me in the bicycle co-op in the basement of a Midtown church. The kid who was teaching me how to build a bicycle, Anthony Siracusa, introduced me to them and told them that I did a lot of plumbing for the church. A few days later I got a phone call: “This is Andy Cohen, the Yodeling Jew. We’d like to have you look at a few things at our house.”
When I entered the venerable grotto at 95 N. Evergreen a few days later to do some work on a ninety-year-old toilet, only Larkin was present. (Andy was often off touring somewhere.) We immediately began talking about the power of music to touch hearts and she set up her hammer dulcimer near the bathroom to demonstrate what she meant. Like everyone else, I was entranced by her playing. Thus began an intense friendship that continued through our last visit together this past Sunday afternoon. Brain cancer killed her three days later.
Larkin got me interested in folk music. I bought a McSpadden dulcimer from her Riverlark business. She sold me her old Dana Hamilton hammer dulcimer. Andy taught me the rudiments of clawhammer banjo and, while on tour in Utah, procured a 19th century instrument for me from Intermountain Guitar & Banjo. Larkin got me started on autoharp and on sacred harp singing. These instruments and the old time music I learned to play have probably been the greatest influences in my life for the past twenty years.
Larkin wrote the book on mountain dulcimer in 1982. It has been common through the years to see knowledgeable people refer to it as the standard against which other books should be measured. She was a highly-sought-after teacher at the major festivals. For years here in Memphis she held the nation’s preeminent dulcimer festival annually, attracting the finest teachers and players. Her CD Lark in the Twilight is a masterpiece.
I sort of worshipped her. At festivals or other performance venues I would attend to her like a bond slave: meeting her in the parking lot and carrying her instruments, setting them up, fetching whatever or whomever she needed, helping her pack up, and then sitting with her luggage for upwards of an hour sometimes, alone in an empty hall, waiting for her to finish talking to all of her other admirers so that I could escort her and her stuff safely to the parking lot.
Anywhere I went in the old time music world, if I were a complete unknown, all I’d have to do was explain “I’m Larkin Bryant’s plumber” and I’d gain instant prestige.
I summoned the utmost intensity when I watched her perform. Afterwards I’d talk to her about the fine details in what she had done. Several times she replied with some combination of wonder and thankfulness, “Kevan, you’re the only person who hears these things and understands.” If that was true, it was because I realized what a treasure she was and I paid more attention than some casual listener might have. Everyone wants to be understood.
For all that, I was never really her confidant. There was much of her present and past life that she chose not to share with me, although she spoke freely of those things to other friends. We were quite different in some ways.
Her brain was only barely working during my visit with her this past Sunday. Our last conversation, such as it was, had been on Easter Sunday. I sat with her at her piano, trying to get her to play something simple, but she just couldn’t get her hands to obey, nor could she maintain a line of thought for long. Her condition was reminiscent of a person who hadn’t completely awakened from sleep.
After an hour, I rose to go and bent over to put one arm around her bony shoulders and give her a gentle hug. Always underweight, she was becoming literally skin and bones. My head was down by her chest and she managed to bring her two hands up from her lap so that her forearms could curl against my head in a feeble hug. Her voice swelled with emotion as she uttered, “Oh, Kevan, if I could only express . . . .” Her power of speech was also limited by the brain disease and she could say no more.
But she didn’t have to.
I understood.
I was googling her name because a young musician was asking me last night about dulcimer. I was a student at the University of Memphis with Dr. Evans in the 90s and often heard Larkin and Andy play. I’m sorry to read of her passing. She really was a force both as a remarkable teacher and a performer.
I was friends with Larkin when she was married to my painting teacher at ETSU 69. He treated her badly and when they broke up, I drove her home to Memphis and never saw her again. I found her online a few years ago and we emailed a bit. She was a beautiful, talented, artist and musician and she seemed to not know in what high regard she was held by those her knew her in Texas. I am sad to know of her passing, but glad she escaped to a much better creative and emotional life. Truly a beautiful person.