Under a Sky The Wrong Color
How much land does one man need?
Six foot long from head to feet
-Terence Martin-
Terence Martin is the best songwriter/singer poet you’ve never heard of, and he deserves better.
Born in London, he grew up in Los Angeles but moved East in 1994 to Fairfield, Connecticut, after the devastating Northridge earthquake in California that year. He had always dreamed of teaching and making music in New England, and the east coast offered him two advantages over the west coast: one was that things would stop falling off the walls; the other was that New England was a haven for acoustic musicians.
Martin wanted to become part of the flourishing NY acoustic music scene, some twenty years after another singer/songwriter you’ve never heard of, Steve Forbert, hit that same post-sixties acoustic scene with his debut album, “Alive on Arrival” and was cursed with a Time Magazine cover proclaiming him “the next Bob Dylan.”
Terrence Martin was never on the cover of Time or Newsweek, and his career never swept him into the same musical celebrity eddy that Forbert’s did, even though Forbert himself sabotaged his own shot at national stardom when he got into a contract dispute with his then record label, Neperor. At least Forbert managed to get a couple of his albums produced by friend and E Street bassist Garry Tallent. Martin had dual careers as a musician/lyricist and as a teacher of literature, language arts and philosophy. Forbert, on the other hand, hails from Meridian, Mississippi, and was never a teacher.
I have met Forbert several times, and I’ve always felt our lives were parallel in a number of ways, not the least of which is that he and I are exactly the same age. The main difference between us is that Forbert ran away to New York to try his hand at making a living at music and paid his dues playing in the subways and on the street corners of New York City. He was eventually “discovered” and has made a modest living ever since doing what he loves to do. The last time he and I spoke, I told him, “You know, I’ve got thirty years’ worth of memories wrapped up in your music.”
“So do I,” he said.
Unfortunately, I have not met Terence Martin, and I never will. He died of pancreatic cancer this past November at age 65. Ironically, like Forbert, he bolted for the East coast to make a living at what he loved to do most, teaching English and writing music, and he did it. The story goes that when he first learned he was ill, and his doctor told him he wouldn't be able to return to teaching, Martin seemed more devastated about not being able to teach his sixth, tenth and twelfth graders than he was about being diagnosed with an inoperable and aggressive disease.
I remember thinking once, a couple of years ago, how neat it would have been to have Terence Martin and Steve Forbert on the same bill together, maybe at some small New England tavern. Just an intimate acoustic show for true believers on a blustery winter’s night, the fireplace and music warming the room, everyone connected through the music, all of us reflecting upon our tightly-packed memories and thinking about what’s most important in our lives. Then, by pure coincidence, I came upon a photograph on Martin’s website (or was it Forbert’s?) of the two of them together in just such a venue. I mean, who’d have guessed they even knew each other?
I cannot tell you the impact these two men have had on me and my writing. The connections strike me as well: that Forbert and I are the same age; that he and Martin knew each other; that I grew up outside of New York City but never had the courage to try to make it there as a writer; that both of them fled to New York City to try to make their dreams come true; that Terence Martin and I both became teachers and worked our creative bents on the side to little or no acclaim.
Except for one thing: I have two folders of what I call “Notes and Smiles” from parents and students I have taught in my thirty years of teaching. Whenever I get frustrated or depressed because I think I have no impact anywhere, especially in the classroom, I thumb through these notes and letters and am reminded that what I do, exclusive of my writing, does matter. Interestingly, in his obituary on his website, I was touched by statements included by parents and students of Martin, echoing similar sentiments. Said one parent:
"You probably don't realize what an important figure you are in our household. You had our three children…in your classroom for one year. Yet each of them regards their time with you as seminal, as do we. Your instruction had an impact on how they write, how they read, and who they are. In fact, it would be difficult to underestimate the importance of your influence."
Another former student, who was in Martin's class eight years ago, wrote, (in iambic pentameter!), "What I learned in your class has guided me beyond school walls and classical literature. You made me a better person, not for what you taught me, but how you made me feel about it. Because of you, I will never look at a used book the same way. It has lived, and unlike its new counterpart, it has seen the world. It has planted the seeds that make its readers grow. Thank you, not only for showing me how to cultivate my grade, but for teaching me how to appreciate its fruits."
The world, and our society in particular, continues to catapult egotistical glitter babies into the sky in the hope they’ll light up the heavens and our lives. The pages of the tabloids and People Magazine are full of them, and the networks are glutted with talentless “reality” stars. But it’s the Terence Martins of the world who are genuine and who truly warm the room. We are diminished because he and those like him continue to be overlooked or ignored.
Or worse, are gone forever.
Originally published May 28, 2012
