Sandy is my Brother
Words (unspoken) from Sandy's sister about her complicated hero
Writing about my brother is difficult for me. We had a complicated relationship. We were both victims of our crazy upbringing which involved some traumatic events for each of us…. events which we didn’t talk about.
If you read Sandy’s book, you know that he moved out at 16. However, he still kept a bedroom at home.
To me, he was always the shining star when he would come home. I would be so happy. Everything seemed better, calmer, and safer.
Throughout our childhood, even though he was often torturing me in some brotherly fashion (or vice versa), he was also offering a connection I really needed.
My favorite memories of my brother are mostly remembering all the silly things we did as kids. We were six years apart, so we weren’t exactly hanging out all the time. Yet, being the quintessential little sister, I took my job seriously: how can I best annoy my brother?
Mostly this was a way to get his attention since being the youngest was pretty isolating in my family. I was fascinated with Sandy and his world, so I had to weasel my way into it any way possible. I idolized my brother. I thought he was the coolest guy with his rock persona, his political activism, and his wacky sense of humor.
As we got older he would let me tag along sometimes with him and his girlfriend of the moment. I was about 8 or 9 and he was a teenager when he had a band called The Hungry Nose — with the tagline, Be one of the millions who pick The Hungry Nose! He would bring me to his band practice and I would be the number one (and only) fan. They eventually did a concert in our living room.
I remember seeing him play with a different band at his huge high school “Battle of the Bands,” an event which he also organized. I was so proud. He looked really cool in his suede, flag-emblazoned, fringed jacket a la Roger Daltrey. I thought the band sounded great.
By sixth grade, I was a huge supporter of his musical endeavors.
I think my brother liked me best when I was a participant in his world. In the late ‘70s and early ‘80s in NYC, I went to every show.
In the early ‘90s in L.A. when he started to do some solo work, I was his official videographer. It was one of my favorite periods of his music. I felt he was being his most authentic and vulnerable self, just going out there alone and singing his heartfelt songs.
It was very powerful. I’m so glad I got to be a part of it. I think he was happy and maybe even relieved to have me along – even though he wouldn’t say that to me.
After Sandy moved away from CA, he would come back to do a show every so often. I always tried to go to all his shows and gather friends to go as well but, as years moved on, that became harder to do. I was an adult with my own life.
Notwithstanding, when together, the brother/sister dynamic would always cause us to regress into our childhood roles. That was okay with me. I just wanted to hang out as brother and sister. I loved when we got to do that, watching goofy old sitcoms like Car 54 or some crazy movie that we both thought was hysterical, but no one else did! Those were the times I liked best.
When I found out that my brother was ill with IPF, the same horrible disease that my mother had succumbed to in 2002, I was devastated. I couldn’t believe this was happening to my only brother and there was still nothing that could be done. Oddly, Sandy didn’t seem that phased, and it appeared he was going to keep going on doing his projects despite not feeling well. I watched him from a distance producing and editing his movie and the crazy amount of work that entailed. I was so worried about him, pushing himself so hard. It was tough to care about anything other than his health, so our conversations were often short. He really didn’t want to think about his physical being, the reality that his life would be shortened by this disease.
It was difficult that we couldn’t talk about what was happening. Obviously, our “realities” were completely different. His art WAS his reality – it always had been – and remained his focus for the two years after his diagnosis. Being sick was just a nasty inconvenience.
Even in his last days, he was thinking about what he wanted to do next and was never willing to acknowledge that there may not be a next day. I was very happy I could be there with him and Liv during this time and try to be whatever he needed me to be, even if that meant not having that heart-to-heart that (maybe) I wanted; I would be the supportive person who was there for what he needed.
So we watched more goofy shows and the movie Being There, a story that questions our understanding of truth and reality. The absurdity of it all!
And then – it all seemed to happen so fast… one minute he was joking around, being Sandy, and the next thing I knew, he was gone.
Now I think about the magical nothingness that somehow created closeness.
Sandy, all the unspoken words ended up somewhere else, in your songs, in our heads.
The Things You Never Say, from my favorite album of yours, 12xMe, seems to say it all.
Love always, Lola.
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I admire how you explore love and complexity, something I, and many of us, know well—though it's not easy to find the right words. Sandy was indeed brave, and so are you!
What a beautiful piece, expressed with such so much heart and a fitting touch of humor. It's nice to see that Sandy wasn't the only gifted writer born of this family.