It’s appropriate if the New York Times ran Henry’s obituary on July 4 because he was an American original.
I just sent out some thoughts to another of his former agents or managers, and left two voice mail to total strangers as well.
I presented Henry Butler at Cubberley Center in Palo Alto in 1998 (with Venus Opal Reese a wordless story teller) and was his personal manager for about six months in 2002-2003. I missed my 20th high school reunion because I was with Henry Butler in France.
The fuckers at the French airline wanted to inspect his fucking eyesockets as a security measure, then put us in the very back of the small plane.
Good times, some bad. Le bon temps roulette. Not only is Henry in heaven but he’s driving the bus, that big old cloud.
(Some of this is like Plato’s allegory of the cave. I remember waking up in Clermont-Ferrand and thinking it was a bunch of cement boxes but then wandered over to the old city and a cathedral and a violin shop. Mostly when I think of Henry I think of a flury of big black hands banging away on a Kurzweil keyboard and practically knocking it off the stand and a clang of notes like angels or demi-angels building a Brooklyn Bridge from Alpha Centuri to Valhalla or sumpin’ sumpin’)