Justin finished the song and took a sip of water.
One night, during a slow number, a sudden pounding came through the wall. (Fun fact: The single barfight I ever saw was in that room, before the show.) His songs were low, high, sad, sweet, and, one showgoer observed, nasty. But with every homecoming came a Wednesday show, and there he’d be, rocking the packed room. By then he was reportedly touring 200 days a year, and recording. The whole thing, which took maybe a second, produced a contrasted and two-part rhythm: One part rattling and percussive, riffy and messy-and one bass-y, an echoing low click, a ‘tock’ like that of a grandfather clock. It turned out the swatting motion we’d seen at the Beacon was actually two-part: His hand would come down, and he’d knock the fat top string with his thumb, and make a pincher to pluck the top two strings, then flick the other three fingers down, a rough scuffing sound. Probably because it was the first time I saw him play up-close. It was also, of the 25ish times I saw him, the most memorable. It was the best solo show I’ve ever seen. Half an hour later, he walked in, slung on his guitar, and with little adieu launched into “Bad Gasoline” by Lightnin’ Hopkins. His teeth were tan and his face somewhat pitted. His workshirt was open, a tattoo on his collarbone, and the X on his hand turned out to be two sledgehammers. He wore pressed jeans that ended well over new white bucks. He was 6’6" and rail thin, with a parted brushcut. You could see him practically from Avenue A. That night, as showgoers filed in, he stood on the tiny cement patio out front. He didn’t say where, but it was the 11 th Street Bar, on the block where the East Village turns into Alphabet City. He’d gotten sober after his fifth OD, released three full-length albums, and signed with Bloodshot Records-the Midwestern indie powerhouse that launched the Old 97s and Lydia Loveless. Things had changed in recent years, and rather a lot. Because it turned out Justin had just moved to New York. Other things were going on, things we were too far away to see. “It sounds like three guitars,” said another reporter. While his left hand fingered (very hard) chords, his right hand-marked with what looked like an X-moved in patterned blur, swiping the strings with a flicking motion. Guitars don’t sound like that, normally, and even from our seats we could see there was nothing normal about Justin’s playing.
It took a song or two to notice, but then it made sense. That night at the Beacon, Justin played without a pick. Like Prince or even MJ, fans don’t talk about Townes’ end, slow and excruciating, at 52.) (Justin had TOWNES tatted under his neck, and as a kid attended Townes’ funeral, where both his Dad and Lyle Lovett performed. Earle’s hero, friend, and sometimes housemate was the great, troubled American songwriter Townes Van Zandt, Justin’s namesake. His dad was Steve Earle, a country rocker who went to jail for drugs, married seven times, and left Carole Ann Hunter with Justin when he was two. Justin was born into a world of music, then hardship (fostered mostly by him). While the Nashville coroner’s office will likely confirm initial police reports of a “probable overdose,” in the coming weeks, anyone reading this article knows it wasn’t just drugs. Splitting the person from the music turned out not to be so easy. I knew him only in passing, but I saw his shows and listened to and loved his music a lot. That life, so sad and grueling that it ultimately killed him, was also essential to the music Justin loved, played, and, so thankfully, left behind. “It’s as hard as you make it,” he once told me.
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