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On Nov. 14,
2003
Louisville lost one of its most compelling and
distinct voices.
Aaron Todovich was one of those musicians who
just killed you to watch play. Always experimental and
stuffed full of
a seemingly endless outpouring of songs, he was truly an
innovator.
Aaron started his musical career in a band called Chains of
My Own, which later morphed into Month of Sundays. The
team of Aaron on guitar and singer Jim James (who later
would form the band My Morning Jacket) was a truly spicy
pairing. Songwriting duties were shared between the two,
but Aaron’s exotic and distinctive guitar
lines always cut though the mix, often turning an average pop
song into a vibrant soundscape. In Month of Sundays, he honed
his songwriting skills and melodic sense. Still, Aaron
realized that he
had more to say and eventually he bowed out of the band to
front The Helgeson Story.
The Helgeson Story was Aaron’s chance to finally share the
constant flow of feeling and emotion in his head. His
atmospheric guitar lines and brassy tenor provided the
ideal backdrop to his abstract and thoughtful lyrics.
Whether singing about a life-altering dream or relations
at home, it was always easy to connect with what he was
saying. His charismatic persona commanded you to hang on
his
every word and believe everything he had to say.
No matter how close you felt to him at any time, in one
second he could turn inward, both in life and on-stage.
At practice, working with him could be the most
exhilarating musical experience — or the most maddening.
There were frenzied moments where it felt like together
we could convey everything we’d ever hoped to express, and
moments where he would shut himself off with us waiting for
him
to sort out whatever was going on in his head. In the end,
however,
the music was always a positive, life-affirming entity that
embraced
all of the strange, remarkable, distressed and hilarious
aspects of
his character.
The important thing to never forget about Aaron is that,
within all the gravity of his music and persona, was a
strange joy and sense of astonishment about all of
life’s gifts. Aaron was funny. His unusual sense of
humor always lent a smile. If you knew Aaron, he had a
nickname for you and you one for him. If you were
friends he always shared an inside joke with you. It was
this ability to treat all people
as crucial individuals that left you feeling like you meant
something.
A conversation with Aaron could revitalize your feelings
about
yourself in a time of self-doubt.
Aaron was never as generous with himself as he was with
others,
and this was true to the end of his days. The insecurities
and impossible standards to which he held himself always
haunted
him, and after The Helgeson Story, they kept him from sharing
some of the most vital and innovative music he ever wrote
with a
wider audience. His last few performances were achingly
beautiful,
raw and inspiring, but only a lucky few were able to witness.
As his inner turmoil grew, he performed less and less,
and he chose
to leave this world on
Nov.
14, 2003.
Most importantly, Aaron was human. He was blessed with an
amazing voice and the ability to write spectacular music, but
even
he had his bad nights on stage. What made him miraculous was
that even on an off night, whether it was vocal
difficulties or guitar
problems, he always managed to convey everything he wanted to
say, and you could see, hear and feel that he meant and
believed in every word he sang and every note he played.
It was impossible to
see him perform without being affected emotionally. His music
brims with humanity.
Written by Jeremy Johnson |
