Buffalo Tom turns 25 Part 3 of 3: A Sheet of Paper

On the second floor of the Neilson Library at Smith College there were huge well-lit open rooms with rows of long dark wooden conference tables where students could spread out their textbooks and spiral bounds and chew on pencils while computing Calculus or studying Silvia Plath or contemplating aborigine customs in pre-colonial Australia. These tables were big enough to sit twelve or fourteen with adequate elbow room, which wasn’t always a good idea if the owners of those elbows were also your friends and housemates. The serious tables had no more than four or five while the social ones were crowded with eight or ten. In the fall of 1986, we were the latter. As Umassers living in Northhampton, we felt it a right more than a privilege to help ourselves to the luxuries the five-college consortium sometimes had to offer. We wore this “right” like a cologne. Those cool, crunchy Smithies would be drawn to our intoxicating danger when we, from the other side of the consortium tracks, slid into their library’s high-backed Windsor chairs.

Hamilton brothers Pete, Bob, and Paul at Paul and Amy's wedding.

One Sunday night when those girls weren’t paying us the attention we presumed, after a weekend of kicking ass western mass style, with Joe well on his way back to Boston, we were sitting at one of these trestle tables, sketching out possible names for the band three of our friends had recently formed. I don’t remember the exact list on the sheet of paper being passed around, but I remember the chief scribbler. If there had been a Varsity Doodling team at UMass, the captaincy would belong solely to Bob Hamilton. No surprise the guy today runs his own graphic design business. The sheet had a border of typical Hamiltonian characters - grotesques with bulging tummies and anemic tapered limbs. In the center was a list of possibilities, some of which were hybrids riffing on, for reasons that perhaps only Bob could explain, Buffalo Springfield. I don’t remember if Tom Maginnis, the drummer of the newly-formed band, was in attendance, but his name had also been penned into some of the hybrids. By the end of the “study session” the name with the oval around it was Buffalo Tom. I’m not sure any of the members of the band were present that night – maybe all were – but when the name was presented to them, it was Tom’s toothy resistance to it that sealed the deal. For however long they played together, a semester or twenty-five years, he would always have to insist the “Tom” part had nothing to do with him. How could it not, anyone with rational thought might ask. Then Tom would have to explain it on an ironic level, and then the joke shrouding it would wither in his unease. The name was perfect.

Lately I’ve been doing some home renovations. I’m at the mudding stage, whereby various materials – wood, drywall, glass, iron - have to merge together to create wholeness. I spend hours spreading mortar, sanding seams, hiding screws. My mistakes have to do with seams being seen. For not sufficiently camouflaging the process. I stand at the sink, picking out the dried joint compound and wood filler that has gunked up in the webbing of my fingers and wonder, watching the creamy mixture froth under the running water, how so much material waste there is in the process of construction.

Every now and then I wander down to my office and flip through the boxes of Joe’s photos. Sometimes I read his academic essays, written during his time at RISD and the Art Institute of Chicago. Sometimes they blow my mind. I don’t always understand them. Some really abstract stuff having to do with the memory and the construction of experience. Of course his drug addiction and recovery factored huge in his photography and video-making. In one paper he writes:

…Both psychologically and visually, my work considers the dilemmas of absorbing only a small part of the richness in the world in conjunction with dreams, memory and perception…From the path of perception to meaning, the mind is manifold, made in parts, operating on many computations simultaneously, bundling them together only as needed. I have been shown just how delicate and changeable memory is, as it forms and reforms after the fact. It has become clear that the act of memory is an act of construction. That is to say, we create our experience and our experience creates us…I’m constantly reconstructing my past experience when living in the present or even when designing the future…

There are two Joes in my memory. The concrete Joe and the abstract Joe. The former is the one I see performing a task, a skill, a maneuver – the one hurdling picnic tables in a tuxedo at my wedding reception or the one hovering over the hot glue of seam tape, joining two rugs together, rubbing them out and trimming with scissors the frizzy threads unspooling from the seam, like a proud barber. The seam is unseen. The abstract Joe is the one who operated in the internal world, who took his drug addiction and recovery and fashioned it into an art by which he could further understand himself specifically and human nature in general. This Joe could talk for an eternity about the human psychic condition. This was Joe the philosopher.

Anyway, I don’t remember if that’s exactly how Buffalo Tom came upon its name. It might not have been the second floor of the Neilson Library. It might have been the first or the sixth. But I distinctly remember the sheet of paper with the name Buffalo Tom written on it in Bob’s droopy penmanship. Those two words – Buffalo and Tom – written on that sheet of paper on that long conference table, surrounded by giggling, not so studious students, on some floor of the Neilson Library, on the campus of Smith College, in Northampton, Massachusetts, in the fall of 1986, is “a small part of the richness in the world.”