The Caveman Sings

How Chris Smither and The Worst Gig of My Life Helped Save It

On Feb. 5, 1999, I opened for legendary Americana singer-songwriter Chris Smither at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. If you play live music you know: Certain gigs don’t go well. Sometimes it’s circumstances beyond your control. Sometimes you do it to yourself. I’ve mounted stages large and small hundreds of times over the past four decades. Some of these gigs were laughably bad. Some were just bad. Feb. 5, 1999 was, hands down, the worst. The experience carved a gaping valley of glacial regret into the bedrock of my being. For 26 years, I couldn’t think about it without physically wincing. It was a cold humiliation as pure as ice in the Alaskan wilderness.

In 1999, Chris Smither was a critically acclaimed master whose intricate finger work, profound baritone voice, and unforgettable songwriting had sold out UAF’s 900-capacity Davis Concert Hall, a venue widely considered the best acoustical venue in Alaska for non-amplified concerts. His songs had been covered by Emmylou Harris, John Mayall, and Bonnie Raitt. At the end of the millennium, a renewed creative focus, which he attributed to his sobriety, had inspired a bunch of incredible albums, including the masterwork “Small Revelations”. A musician’s musician, Chris was widely respected by his peers and constantly touring. Hence, the swing through Alaska.

No one tours Alaska in winter. It’s rarely a good financial decision. The miles between venues are enormous and the weather conditions can be downright lethal. February 1999 was one of the coldest months on record. The high temperature for Feb. 8 was -33 degrees. That’s negative thirty-three degrees.

At the time, I was 27, in the third year of a Masters of Fine Arts program for creative writing, and living alone among the black spruce in a tiny cabin outside of town without running water. I’d been asked to open for Chris because I fronted a relatively well-known local band called Goat Boy Johnson and had connections to the university. That winter, I was unwell. The drummer of Goat Boy Johnson and my best friend in Fairbanks, Krist Anderson, had drowned in the Klutina River the previous summer, and I was drinking myself to death over it. I’d been an active alcoholic for nearly a decade at this point, but the winter of 1999 was a new low for me. I was like a trout trapped in a lightless pool of frozen water, unsure if it wanted to see another spring thaw.

Fairbanks is roughly 200 miles from the Arctic Circle. The darkness in winter is absolute. For months, I’d isolated myself in this tiny cabin, only emerging to go to class, the liquor store, or a bar. Depending on when you caught me in my drinking cycle, I was alternately wildly cocky, mean, or self-hating. The toll on my mental and physical conditions was heavy. I looked like a frozen burrito; overweight, bloated, flaky, and pale. Depression oozed from my pores. Between beers and shots of whiskey, I pissed, puked, and shat into a gray water bucket beside my bed, which I’d empty into the outhouse every few days. Constantly dehydrated, I was often reduced to eating snow because I failed to fill the two five-gallon water cans in town on my way home. It was not a fun way to live.

On the morning of Feb. 8, I awoke with a deep dread. A fear so complete that I lay trembling in my filthy bed. The gray water bucket hunched beside me, my loyal, hideous companion. I rolled over, gagged into its frigid, putrid depths, wiped my mouth, and climbed out of bed to rekindle the fire. I’d agreed to open for Chris Smither during one of my wildly cocky upswings and now my arrogance had come home to roost.

There was nothing left to drink. There was never anything left to drink. I also had no water, so I boiled some snow and drank it, then stumbled out to my truck, drove into town and bought a case of beer. It was the only way I could function.

I spent the afternoon drinking and staring at the clock. By the time I picked up my guitar, I was hammered. The instrument, a beleaguered Ovation, had been frozen and thawed so many times over the past couple months that it could no longer hold a tune. Panicked, I considered calling the university and telling them I was sick. This was one of the few good ideas I’d had in weeks, but my ego abolished the thought. No, we were doing this, goddamnit. An hour before I was scheduled to go on, I shambled out to the truck wearing overalls, moonboots, and a filthy sweater under my coat, climbed in and drove to Davis Hall with all the enthusiasm of a man headed to the gallows.

Despite the subzero temperatures, the community of Fairbanks showed up for Chris. It was a packed house. The promoter gave me a strange look when I arrived. You’re the opener?, she seemed to ask. But this was Fairbanks in 1999. My condition wasn’t totally out of the ordinary. I tried to tune up backstage, but the loud buzz of the 900-capacity crowd in the hall paralyzed me with stage fright. When I heard my name over the P.A. and walked out on stage into the bright lights to polite applause, my soul nearly left my body. It was like a nightmare, nauseating and surreal. My guitar sounded like I was choking it to death. My voice cracked and quavered and trailed off as I forgot lyrics. Each song was worse than the last. I ended many of the tunes mid-song, apologizing again and again, which, other than stopping a song before it’s finished, is the worst possible thing a performer can do.

After a half hour or so of this pathetic behavior, I stood up and shuffled off, my guitar clutched by the neck like a dead goose. As I stepped backstage, a large, imposing figure with long, flowing hair materialized from the shadows. He towered above me like a moose, a full 12 feet tall if he was an inch. Chris Smither put a hand the size and weight of an iron skillet onto my shoulder and, with a concerned, pinched look, said, “You need to sober up, son.” Then he walked past me, into the blinding stage lights and full-throated roar of the audience. The promoter handed me a signed CD, the album “Small Revelations,” and said, “Chris wanted you to have this.” I mumbled something, utterly mortified, and left before Chris had even played a note.

Twenty-six years later, on Dec. 11, 2025, I went to The Landing in Scotts Valley, California to see Chris Smither play with his new band, The Motivators. Today, Chris is 81. He may not be the firebreathing baritone he once was, but his guitarwork, songwriting and stage presence remain world class. His music is still inspiring, philosophical, and deeply moving. A May 4, 2024 New York Times review of his new song “All About the Bones” reads, “The folk-blues stalwart Chris Smither has been contemplating mortality throughout his decades of songwriting; at 80, he’s more convincing than ever.”

I’m 53 now. As I sat in the audience with my wife, I realized that, when we’d crossed paths backstage at UAF’s Davis Hall in 1999, Chris was roughly my age now. That encounter had a big impact. His words of advice and the weight of his big paw on my shoulder stuck with me. Not long after that fateful show, I quit drinking for the first time. Getting sober usually takes a few tries and, for me, it required many years of trying, but I eventually succeeded. Today, I’ve spent more of my life sober than drunk.

Chris Smither wasn’t the only reason I quit, but he was a catalyst. The indignities of that show were certainly motivating, but the words of a man who’d been there and done it meant more. Here was a guy who walked the talk and knew how to spin lightness from dark. His advice meant something far more to me than pedestrian disgrace. Hell, if you’re a real alcoholic or drug addict, humiliation is a constant, like breathing.

After the Scotts Valley show, I waited near the merch table and, sure enough, Chris came ambling out. I was shocked to find he was shorter than I was and his hand, when he shook mine, was not the size of a catcher’s mitt. While I explained who I was and what his advice all those years ago had meant to me, he bore a genuine, bemused smile. Thankfully, he didn’t appear to have any recollection of my performance. As we chatted, I told him that his album “Small Revelations” had been a constant companion throughout the decades since our last meeting, its songs eerily resonant with my life.

Others were waiting to speak with him, so I bid him farewell. Before I turned to go, he looked me in the eye and thanked me for telling him how much his advice and music had meant to me. And, like every word that comes out of the man’s mouth, I believed it.

“Caveman” by Chris Smither (from “Small Revelations”)

When I was a caveman
painting on the walls,
I never had a dollar,
man, I had it all
And I was very high in the order of things
Just one step and I’d spread my wings and fly
I would fly, just one step and I’d 
spread my wings and fly

When I was a liar
screaming at the walls,
I never heard a whisper
I could not hear at all
And I could only cry for pity of me
I never knew the truth might set me free,
set me free

Round we go
these faces show
and they leave, and every one seems ever real
Each one is truly mine,
they never last, but at the time 
it’s how I feel, it’s how I feel
Each one is truly mine,
they never last, but at the time it’s how I feel

When I was a dreamer
floating through the wall,
nothing was forever, I could change it all
and I could live with my heart on my sleeve
I could save your soul I do believe, I do believe
Oh, I could save your soul I could’ve saved your soul
I do believe, I do believe

Then I’ll be an old man
staring at the wall
looking for an answer
to make sense of it all
and I can safely say
that if it comes my way,
it will not stay for long
and I’ll be in my way
before it’s gone, before it’s gone

Oh, round we go and
these faces show
they leave and every one seems ever real
and each one is truly mine
They never last, but at the time 
it’s how I feel, it’s how I feel
They never last, but at the time 
it’s how I feel
but when I was a caveman
when I was a caveman
I had it all, I had it all.