Michael Supe Granda
In Remembrance Of Steve Cash
I met Steve before the band ever began. It was around the autumn of 1971 at a “Student Film Festival/Final Exam” for a film class, held at Ellis Hall on the campus of SMS. Both he and I had small parts in a couple of our friends’ films.
Set to the soundtrack of the “Good Guy, Bad Guy Cheer” buy Country Joe & the Fish, I was part of a gaggle of hippies. We danced around, waved our arms in the air and frolicked on the lawn when County Joe hollered “Let’s hear it for the good guys.” When Joe hollered “Let’s hear it for the bad guys,” a few of our friends jumped into the frame dressed as cops and Republicans. They proceeded to knock over all the hippies like bowling pins. It just went back and forth from there.
Steve’s film debut was in a flick about another group of hippies living in an old farmhouse, eating brown rice and bean sprouts, reading poetry, burning candles, wearing feathers in their hair and skinny-dipping in the pond. Neither film would win any kind of prize.
Steve was there with his tribe—his friends from the farm. I was there with my tribe—my friends from the House of Nutz & Loonies. He and I bonded right off the bat. He’d just come back to Springfield from San Francisco. I’d recently arrived from Saint Louis.
Our tribes melded immediately and completely. We’d watch a couple films, have an intermission, step outside and smoke a couple joints before the next film started.
When I looked at him I could see that our pilot lights were set on the same setting—ULTRA HIGH.
He began to come into a club called The Warehouse where I was in the house band. It was always a blast to see him walk in the door. Rooms lit up where he walked in the door. Once again, I recognized another similarity between us. We were both there for beer and babes.
When our new band Family Tree began to assemble at a club called The Bijou, I enjoyed it when he showed up. I knew he’d never played in a band before. I knew he’d just begun playing harp. I didn’t care. His sheer presence made the bandstand swing.
One of the first songs he sang that impressed me the most wasn’t “Black Sky” or “Chicken Train.” It was his song “Rhythm of Joy.” The groove was so tiny and funky and the lyrics were so simple, precise, and joyous. When we got to the end of the chorus you couldn’t help but sing along: “And it makes me feeeeeeeel like a dancing boy.” We all became dancing boys.
In my opinion, he is the greatest lyricist I have EVER heard. Who else you got? Gershwin? Lieber and Stoller? McCartney? Ted Nugent? Steve Cash was the greatest lyricist of ‘em all.
Plus, he generously helped his friends—myself on numerous occasions—when we would lyrically paint ourselves into a corner. He would effortlessly move a few words, write a few words, say a few syllables and smooth out the song with Master precision. I'm one of his biggest fans.
Another couple of his fans were my mother and father. They adored Steve Cash. My Dad fashioned himself to be Tony Bennett or Mel Torme. When I was younger I would hear him croon, “I left my heart in San Francisco,” and “Oh the shark bites, with his teeth, dear” as he showered, bar-b-qued, or just tinkered in his garage. Years later I could hear him sing “Cause I’m just a good ol’ boy who’s learned to wait.”
“It’ll Shine when it Shines” was one of his favorite songs.
My mother, on the other hand, was another story. When the band started to paly around Saint Louis she would tug on the elbow of my shirt and ask, “Michael, are you going to play ‘Commercial Success’ tonight?” When I asked why she liked “Commercial Success,” she simply replied “I think that’s the cleverest song I may have ever heard. It just makes me laugh.”
Yeah, Mom. We all laughed.
Steve’s lyrics are—not were—mighty and not to be denied.
We shared a mutual love for the game of baseball (both Cardinal fans). He, as I, understood the concept that a band is much like a baseball team. With everyone contributing and doing their part, mountains could be climbed, games could be won, records could be made—and broken. Our band’s longevity is a testament to that theory.
I jumped into many, many airplanes, busses, vans, rental cars, and front-loaders with the man. Times over these past 48 years, though, weren’t always rosy. The roads were long. Food was iffy. Hangovers reigned. Problems arose. Voices were raised. Feathers were ruffled. We argued, as all brothers do. Sometimes it just didn’t shine when it should.
One of the biggest feathers in my crazy cap happened not too long ago, when we were recording Off the Beaten Path. Steve went out of his way to pull me off to the side and tell me how fond he was of my song “My Old Man was a Good Ol’ Boy.” I’d written it about my father when he passed away. Unbeknownst to me at the time, with a recent listen, it could also have been written about Steve.
He may be gone, but he will live on—in his poetry, in the lyrics of his songs, and in the eyes of his children. Star and Cody, you have good reason to be proud. From this day on, you can proudly and safely say “Yep, my old man was a good ol’ boy.”
Cash-O, I know you’re sitting there with Steve Canaday, Charlie McCall, Benny Mahan, Wayne Carson, Mike Bunge, Don Shipps, Lloyd Hicks, Lou Whitney, and Jim Wunderle.
Cash-O, it looks like your second band is a pretty good one, too—another fine group of dancing boys.
I’m going to miss you, buddy.
We’re all going to miss you.
Rest in peace, my brother.