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Life After Life
By Philip Roufail
In Memoriam
Doug Weeke
February 20, 1969 – June 27, 2006
Doug Weeke, a man I knew for almost fourteen years, was tragically killed in a motorcycle accident last week. You always hear that these kinds of things happen all the time. As of this writing, there are 24 traffic accidents listed on the California Highway Patrol website for Los Angeles county with 7 ambulances responding. But last Tuesday it wasn’t just one of those things that happens, or a listing on a website. It was Doug.
That night I did something I haven’t done in years. I put my headphones on, cranked the volume to eleven, and I danced all around my home office like a silly teenager – on the furniture, off the walls, with love and fury and desperation and uncertainty, until the sun came up, until I was out of breath, and energy, and my clothes stuck to me like I had just jumped in a pool. I wanted so badly to feel alive – to participate in the timeless struggle between Eros and Thanatos, but that in my small corner of the world, even for just one night, Eros would prevail. It was the most fitting personal tribute I could offer Doug and honor that he is. Hopefully by the end of these thoughts you will understand what I mean.
We had a wonderful celebration of his life at his house in Silverlake on Saturday night. For reasons that are not important to the reader, I saw Doug less and less over the last three years though I knew what was going on in his life on a day-to-day basis. I know that sounds odd, but you’ll just have to trust me that was the case. After seeing his family again, and speaking with mutual friends, some of whom I haven’t seen in years, I felt that I wanted to put some thoughts down about who Doug was to me, and to hopefully infuse it with some of the emotions of the people I saw on Saturday. I know Doug has many friends that I do not know, but who love him just as much. As my experience does not intersect with theirs, I will not presume to speak for them.
In January of 1993 I moved to Los Angeles from North Carolina with five other people – Eric, Marty, Suzanna (now my wife), Samantha (Doug’s wife), and Kristen, to pursue our various artistic passions. I think that if I were suddenly transported back to that time, I may just be embarrassed by how full of life we all were – how much fun we had, how wide open we all were to the possibilities of this life. I remember it all so well. And it was at this special ripe moment that we met Doug Weeke. Actually, allow me to digress because the story is funny. Suzanna was an “extra” on “Herman’s Head” (remember that gem?) and met another “extra” -- a musician named Andrew. He invited Suzanna to his next show and that night we met Doug. Last Saturday, Andrew told us that he use to tell every woman he met to come to his shows and Suzanna and Samantha were the only two who ever did (I’m sure he was exaggerating!). How’s that for fate? And in case you were wondering, the lower left half of Suzanna’s hair made an impressive and memorable television debut.
We learn that Doug is a musician – a guitar player – and a rock and roll tech junkie. He is just as comfortable with a guitar strapped around him as he is in front of a mixing board, or running a million cords in a million directions that somehow always manage to crank out the perfect sound. We learned that Doug is a transplant Belleville, Illinois. Everyone in Los Angeles is a transplant from somewhere.
 Just like that we were swept up into the Los Angeles music scene as directed out of a dingy apartment on Harold’s Way Street in Hollywood. This was not the best neighborhood in the world so we called it “Hell’s Way.” Doug lived there with another guitar player/singer, Jonathan. All of this is important, so bear with me – Jonathan was in a band with a guy named Damon who plays this great Jimbay drum. I always privately called Damon “Good Vibes Damon” because it was absolutely impossible to be with him and be in a bad mood. Absolutely impossible. Suzanna and Samantha would soon be singing with Damon & Jonathan in their band “Blue Sun.” Samantha and Doug would soon be an item. And just a month later, Suzanna and I. Those were fantastic and miraculous times, and I was just along for the ride. A music worshipping writer in a musician’s world lying back and reveling in all of its beautiful chaos.
The first time I visited the house on Hell’s Way I walked in, took one look around, and did ten Hail Marys on the spot which was easily the first time that had happened since I was ten years old. I remember Doug standing there with his guitar and to me he looked like a giant, mostly because he’s 6’1” and I’m 5’8” (that’s right ladies – 5’8”). But it was more his presence and perhaps all that hair. Samson himself would want that hair. Doug’s arms were as big as tree trunks and I remember thinking, “Okay, do not upset that guy or he will crush you with his pinky finger.” I soon discovered that Doug just wasn’t the type that would ever do that to anyone. Not to mention soft spoken, intelligent, challenging, and compassionate. You don’t find that mix of qualities every day. You just don’t.
In 1994, we helped Doug, Jonathan, and I think one other person I do not recall, move into a beautiful house in Silverlake – which was only fair because they helped Suzanna, Samantha, and I move into our apartment on 6th & Crescent Heights several months before and that debacle included throwing our mattresses through a second story window. The accident took place just a stone’s throw from this house, but if anything represents everything that Doug is it’s that house! Here are my three quick stories about THE house.
 One. We moved everything in the front door and through the most ordinary carpeted room you could ever imagine. That was the last time I ever went through the front door because Doug single handedly transformed that ordinary room into the most spectacular home recording studio I’ve ever seen – and around here you see quite a few. When it was done I remember thinking, “You better up your game if you’re going to survive in this town.” You enter through a black grotto like passageway into a soundproof room draped with curtains and overflowing with drums, microphones, amplifiers, candles, and the smell of incense. Vintage guitars hang on the wall. A round revolving booth houses the recording equipment. Feeble words can’t do it justice. It’s the feeling of it. Many  people spent many long days and even longer nights in that studio – jamming, recording, smoking too many cigarettes, talking, and jamming again. It is a musician’s paradise constructed from scratch with passion and devotion. It was like everyone’s private “Laurel Canyon.” To many it will always be a sacred place.
Two: Doug is not only a musician, but a talented carpenter and artist as well. You could even say inventor. He can basically make anything and frequently he makes the same thing many times until he feels he has perfected it. I don’t know how many times I walked through THE house and pointed to something and said, “Where did you find that?” and the answer was always, “I made it.” Translation: I made something of beauty today, what did YOU do? And I’ve put my money where my comments are. In 2001, my twin brother and his wife had their first child. A girl. Doug had a rocking horse sitting around THE house and I asked him if he would make one for my new niece. He shook his head with surprising dissatisfaction and told me that he just wasn’t happy with that rocking horse and would only do it if he could figure out a way to do it “properly.” Here are the results:
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Three: Doug definitely has some ancient pyramid builder in him, because he has a weird habit of digging and building underground “basement’ rooms which are in complete violation of every single Los Angeles municipal code you can imagine. Not that they aren’t stable or well constructed. They are. But you need all kinds of permits for that kind of thing and we’ve got earthquakes around here which adds about six hundred more bureaucratic layers to the process of getting said permits. He’s never had any permits. We jokingly, but affectionately, call these rooms, the “Silence of the Lambs Rooms.” You cannot understand Doug without contemplating the many long hours he spends building these subterranean caverns. Whether music, art, or the earth itself, Doug is an explorer.
No man is perfect, and a tragic accident doesn’t suddenly make someone perfect. Doug is stubborn as ten mules that haven’t eaten in a week. He never pays his bills on time, if at all. He’s hermetic. Seriously, it takes a crowbar to get him out his house sometimes. He’s obsessive about his work and if it means having lights as bright as the Sun blasting into his yard at 4am so he can do some quick landscaping then the neighbors be damned. His house sometimes resembles Sanford & Son. Did I say sometimes? He owns cars that look like that they’ve been used for big destructive Hollywood stunts that took sixty takes – not that he should drive them in the first place as he almost never has a license, but almost always has a hundred parking tickets. He smokes two packs of cigarettes a day. He’s absent minded. He should eat better. In brief, like every artist I’ve ever known, present writer included, he has at least 10 -15 screws that are not just loose, but completely missing. God love him.
Yet, it is a person’s most perfect qualities that leap out and embrace you through the shock and sadness. I’ve always been struck by what a kind man Doug is. Kind to a fault. Kind to the point that other, lesser people took advantage of his generosity and gentle nature back in those early days. I was always more angry at those people than he was, though I don’t think it ever occurred to him to be angry for any reason, unless a guitar string broke, or the track he had been working on for sixteen hours straight had static in the background that only someone with a freakish canine sense of hearing would be able to pick up.
Okay, so now let’s roll back to last Saturday night in Silverlake at THE house. Update: No, there are still no drawers in the kitchen. Yes, the studio is just as spectacular as ever. Doug’s parents and brother were there and I praise their strength and poise for hosting us all in what was a great celebration. Doug’s two sisters were not able to make it from Missouri and North Carolina. I know these words cannot make up for seeing them in person, but I hope the collective thoughts and condolences that are expressed here will suffice.
Damon and Andrew were there. I spoke with some people I hosted in my parent’s house in my hometown in North Carolina the night before Doug and Samantha’s wedding. Many circles of people from various stages of Doug’s life were there. In the center of the back yard, Samantha set up a vigil -- a stunning wood trunk Doug made adorned with his favorite guitar, personal affects, burning candles, and incense. Damon pulled out his Jimbay– that same drum from so many years ago – and began what ultimately and inevitably became a group of people jamming and singing as always in this musician’s paradise.
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At times like these, it’s nice to believe that there is life after life, and that life takes place right here on Earth. Doug will return with a different face and a different name (but let us hope with the same hair) and he will lead, follow, explore, invent, create, jam, laugh, and love with a whole new group of people we will never know. They will be the lucky beneficiaries of a creative and benevolent soul.
The question of life’s value has consumed me since last week, and it is unfortunate that it takes events like this to jolt us out of our daily grind and force us to remember the people who are truly important to us. There is a lot of dismal news these days -- so much unnecessary and avoidable loss -- that sometimes it’s easy to wonder if there is anywhere, including our own hearts, where this lifetime is truly valued. I believe Doug is one of those people who make you value life, friendship, music, and art no matter how much you want to hit him in the face sometimes. Not that you would do that (see arm, tree trunks). I also believe that Doug’s friends embody those principals as well.
Like Doug, we are artists. We are the writers and poets, the musicians and singers, the painters and sculptors, the designers and dreamers. We live moment to moment, hand to mouth, paycheck to paycheck, and we do not ask or expect very much in return for our tireless efforts except for people to embrace that one simple truth: that this lifetime has value, and that those around you, whether lovers or strangers, have value as well. That is the criteria we use to determine success or failure. In this way, Doug’s life was a tremendous success worthy of any history book. His immediate legacy may be confined to a relatively small number of people, but they are the right people. We will carry his life and art into the world like worker bees spreading pollen to the flowers so that they will bloom.
Thank you Doug.
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