Rick Danko: The End of the Innocence

I slept with Rick Danko. No, I mean slept. Like eyes closed, out cold, dead to the world, possibly (I can only hope not) even snoring.

It was the second time I'd ever met him, and here I was, all alone with my hero--sleeping. Now normally, that would have been dreadfully embarrassing and humiliating, but the thing is, he didn't know I was sleeping, because he was sleeping, too. And, I might add, snoring--quite loudly, loud enough to wake me from what had to have been the deepest sleep of my life. And I wasn't even in a bed.

I know it sounds crazy. Wait--I take that back. For those of you who didn't know Rick, it may sound crazy. But "crazy" is a relative term, and for those of you who knew Rick, it's more like par for the course. But we'll get to that later.

How did it happen, you might ask? Well, Rick invited me to a Band show, and afterward, we split and ended up going back to the hotel. It wasn't as salacious as it sounds. In fact, it wasn't salacious at all--far from it. Back at the hotel, it was like a scene from Almost Famous. The guys in The Band had friends and visitors and road crew in and out, and nobody stayed in one place for long--it was like a whirlwind of activity and ringing phones and musical rooms.

We hung out with Levon for a little bit, then we found a quiet place to talk. And we talked...and talked...and talked. Rick played some songs, we ate--tea and muffins, I think--he played some more, we had a snack, talked some more. Apparently, we talked so much and for so long that we each fell asleep from exhaustion. I don't know who fell asleep first, but I know who woke up first--me--and when I did, my first thought was, "kill me." I had been stirred by his heavy asthmatic breathing and opened my eyes to see this mop of tousled dark hair and I realized that Rick Danko was sleeping on my shoulder. And I had been sleeping on his--sort of--we were wedged against each other, head to head.

I knew that it was innocent, but I'd just never fallen asleep with a perfect stranger before and I wasn't sure what to do. What was the protocol? Do I wake him up? And if so, what do I say? Do I just leave and pray to God I never see him again? And if so, how do I do that, because he'll fall over if I stand up. It was awkward--and just a little surreal to me.

Apparently, it wasn't surreal to Rick. In fact, he seemed quite comfortable with it, as if he'd done it before--perhaps many times. After I slapped myself in the face to make sure I wasn't dead or dreaming, I shook him lightly. I recall that he was wearing a blue t-shirt and a crumpled jacket and jeans. His eyes were closed and he had a smile on his face, as if he'd been immersed in a good dream. Knowing Rick, it was probably about food. He stretched his arms up and yawned and asked me what time it was, all gravelly-voiced. Before I answered, he asked me if I wanted to go get breakfast. "Um, it's like 1:00," I said. I remember the time, because I was discombulated and, for a split second, I wondered how the sun could be out at 1:00 in the morning. And in that nanosecond of horror and confusion, I realized that it was 1:00 in the afternoon and that an entire night and part of the day had passed. Rick sensed my obvious discomfort. "Don't worry," he said, with a wink and his usual slapstick timing. "You didn't do nothin'." I felt my skin turn colors and he patted me on the head.

For a while, I thought for sure that I'd had a one-of-a-kind experience. And it was a very special experience --for me, at least. Obviously, it was the beginning, if not the actual cementing, of a special bond, one that withstood lots of music-business bullshit and egos and craziness and major life changes. BUT...this falling asleep on people's shoulders stuff: that, apparently, was not an uncommon occurrence for Mr. Danko.

I've read at least two other accounts of him falling asleep on or with people he either didn't know at all or didn't know well enough sleep on/with. There was the San Diego Reader reporter--okay, Rick did not fall asleep on or with him, but merely in his presence--on the ground, at a Bob Dylan concert. Then there was the fan who somehow found himself on a ferry with Rick--and at some point during the ride, he realized that Rick was sleeping on his shoulder. The guy was honored to have one of his musical idols sound asleep, drooling on his jacket. I don't remember where I saw this one; I believe it was in a recent blog post. (I suppose you could always Google the key words "Danko" "Drool" "Sleeping" and "Shoulder" and see what pops up.)

The point is: there was one rock star, one guy in this world who could fall asleep on a stranger's shoulder without it being crazy or dumb or even strange. He was a ragamuffin, a troubadour, a rolling stone. And though Rick was, as one fan recently described him in a YouTube comment, "a badass all of his life," he was innocent in a way that doesn't exist anymore. And Rick leaving this Earth was, for me, the end of the innocence.