Was a nice young man from Jacksonville,
A nice young man, not the kind who’d kill
But a jealous fight and a flashing blade
Sent him on the run to the Everglades
Now he’s runnin’ like a dog

Sandman’s songwriting for Treat Her Right resonated with me as much as anyone’s: a mix of dark humor, reckless attitude, hillbilly spite. Perfect for growing up in Florida, living in a rented cracker house without air conditioning, shirtless most of the time. My roommates and I were very amused to hear Sandman wasn’t actually from Jacksonville. A few years later, I followed him eagerly to Morphine, who I latched onto even moreso than Treat Her Right. I was still living in a cracker house in Gainesville, but it was my own now, and I was married to Erin. Sandman was different, too. “Buena” made it onto an episode of Homicide: Life on the Street. His work with Morphine felt more urgent, less oriented around storytelling. Going on a roadtrip, kidding with a waitress, finding a party, miscommunicating with friends, relationships, gambling, Sandman wrote more about the mundane. Less fictional. That was fine with me.

In the morning, I was by the sea
And I swam out as far as I could swim
Until I was too tired to swim anymore
Then I floated, and tried to get my strength back
Then an empty box came floating by
An empty box, and I crawled inside

This week marks ten years since Sandman died while performing on stage in Italy. Stunned, I wrote a friend, who was living in Cambridge at the time. “I saw him a few weeks ago,” Erich replied. “He looked like hell.” Not much later, on 9-9-99, I sat behind my house in Gainesville, drank wine, ate french fries, and listened to Morphine. A few friends came over. We talked about dead musicians, dead movie stars, and listened to Morphine’s baritones.

The Night was released in February 2000. Erin bought it for me, and I returned to the back porch to listen. From the first bars of the opening track, I knew it would be an amazing record: not just a collection of low-growl staples, but something much more adventurous, moving beyond the sparse instrumentation that had characterized Sandman’s work to that date. Sandman, Colley, and Conway paced the record stunningly, using breaks and rests to keep the production from becoming cluttered. Right away I thought, as I do now, what a shame Sandman wouldn’t get a chance to follow through, to begin again, as his last lyric for Morphine suggested.

—Tom Petty

• Can I watch Dora for a little bit?
• Mama, your toothpaste tastes NASTY!
• Oh. It’s the merry-go-round song again! I turned it on with my foot.
• But we don’t have a rhinoceros!
• Does anybody want to go to the… children’s museum?
• Daddy, you’re sweaty. Get in the shower right now!
• My mouth is EM-PTY!
• This is the mama. She has a baby in her tummy.
• Do cereal bars taste good?
• Miss Poo Poo has problems. But Big Big doesn’t.
• I don’t want to do ANYTHING!
• But I’m not pregnant.

—Tom Waits

I don’t care about
the things I leave at home
cause things can’t really keep you company
when you’re alone
—Morphine, “Take me with you”

My girls come home tomorrow. Not a day too soon.

—Tom Waits, “Shore Leave”

My father’s words were always sure and clear,
and like his presence they would rid me of my fears.
When I crawled up on his knees,
I was safe as I could be.
He’d hold me tight, and whisper in my ear:
He’d say, “Girl, you are a part of me
and I have made you strong.
When you grow up and are on your own,
remember to win them with your song.”

—”Musical Key”

Heaven is for the weak at heart
And those who never were as smart as me
But I would trade all that I believe
And keep no trick card up my sleeve
Just to know the angels hold you in their arms tonight

—Freakwater, “Heaven”