When Glen’s version of Urge Overkill’s “Wichita Lineman” came on, then it felt really real, the mixtape was complete. The soul of someone casually talented and intuitive enough to grasp the golden dream longing behind Brian Wilson’s aching genius and host a golf tournament was there and it wasn’t and that gave it everything. Put it over the top.
And maybe it was at the wrong speed, but losing Glen is, too.
We all were bracing for his departing and knew he was going to kick off and were prepared for it in the way that a proper organized organization might be but why that didn’t matter?
He was always there and once (and always) was the seven-tees in the best way and I guess that era of where (are) all of your pillars and foundations are vulnerable to vanish is now so upon us that we didn’t even realize.
Every hungover Sunday (arrival) was an iconic moment we didn’t know we were living through, a semi-star-spangled rodeo.
And he got on that horse. (we will all have to get on that horse one day, eventually).
But it wasn’t and isn’t so much about Glen writing songs as it is about how he undertook them. How he imbued them with his essence on guitar and that scotch and soda voice, honey, and as a sideman, he understood what others wanted but knew they mostly didn’t have the talent dedication or obsession to get but knew that he could throw it down for them.
And I have a tee-time this afternoon like I always do, so tell me where and when my manager gets the check. Better yet, tell him.
And we all have to eventually reach Galveston one day. Oh Galveston.
Glen made rock and pop as much as they make you right now, just like that time you bought a 45 in Woolworth’s of, yeah, I think it was “Southern Nights” and then the flip side was so what it was.
Rest in the best power and may the power of pop rest in you. I’ll look it all up the next time we’re all in L.A.
— Patrick Foster