Hi. I'm Michael Foster. Chad and I were best friends for fifteen years, but before I get into this, I need to ask you for some grace. Public speaking is not my forte... at all. When I was asked to do this, there was no way I was saying no. Chad was my best friend. So even if I stumble through this, it's an honor to be up here for him.
I had no idea where to even begin with any of this, and then I remembered a book that I picked up a few years ago. The book is called Lincoln in the Bardo. It took me a few tries to read it, but it eventually became one of my most favorite books of all time. The book is set in 1862. It follows Abraham Lincoln and the death of his 11-year-old son Willie. What makes the book difficult to pick up is the way it's written. There are no big paragraphs... no narrator telling you what's happening. It's mostly single lines of text with a name underneath. Lots of them. It's not readily apparent at first, but the lines of text and names belong to ghosts. The book is written from their perspective. At some point, I figured out that I had to stop trying to keep up with who said what, and you have to read the book as if you're listening to chatter. You have to let the voices talk over each other, interrupt each other, contradict each other. And somewhere in the mess, this beautiful story shows up.
That's kind of how I want to do this today. I could stand up here and give the timeline that somebody else would have to write for me... where he was born, what he did, all that. But I didn't meet Chad until later in life. I didn't know him in his early years like a lot of you did. So, I'd like to tell you about the Chad Smith that I came to know and love through a bunch of different people talking at once. I want to let some of those voices come through... the way different people knew him, in different rooms, at different times. I'm hoping that somewhere in there, just like the book, you can see who he really was to me.
I don't remember the exact year my story with Chad starts. Somewhere around 2010, I think. I'd started a little photography group on Facebook, looking for other photographers in the area who wanted to get together and shoot. Chad's version of how we met is different from mine — I'll tell his first.
The group planned a trip to Dismal Canyon in north Alabama. Maybe fifteen of us went that day. Chad was one of them. At the end of the day, we set up a group photo — my camera, on a tripod, timer set so I could jump in the shot too. We tried it a few times, and the timer kept tripping early, going off before I could get in the frame. Turns out somebody in that group had a remote trigger in his pocket that just happened to work on my camera. The way Chad always told it, I got mad because my camera kept misfiring. I don't remember being mad — I remember standing there at my camera trying to figure out what was going wrong, looking back at the group, and only one of them had a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. I have a feeling a lot of you know exactly the grin I'm talking about.
That's his version. Mine's a little different.
We'd been going back and forth in the group, and somehow it came up that I lived in Oxford but worked at ACI in Batesville. Turned out Chad lived in Batesville too. He invited me to stop by after work the next day — told me about a little recording studio in his house, said a friend of his would be there recording. Gave me the address. Broad Street. The friend? Harpo. I had no idea I was about to meet two of the most influential people in my life.
I'll come back to the Harpo stories in a bit.
I remember walking into the house on Broad Street for the first time. First room — a wooden piano to the left, vinyls hung on the wall and stacked on top of the piano, a little soundproof recording booth to the right, about the size of a phone booth, mic inside. Second room — another piano, buried under stuff. Beer bottles, ashtrays, an over-saturated picture of Savannah he was really proud of — he was deep into that super-saturated look back then — guitars, a trumpet, a tambourine. Instruments everywhere, and Chad knew how to play every one of them. And stretched out on the couch to the right — Harpo. I knew right away Chad was a fellow creative. Music was his first love, but he dabbled in photography too. That's actually what made us click.
Looking back now, it feels like we became instant best friends. He kept inviting me over. I kept saying yes. There was always a beer to be had, and long conversations that went with it. The stories, the characters — they started showing up immediately.
We'd spend hours pouring over recordings from his studio. That's how I started hearing the stories — Mark Peoples, Jim Ellis, Robert Earl Reed, who everybody called Rev, Robert Nix from the Atlanta Rhythm Section. Erika, and Jesse and Casey Lipe. Ricky Swindle. Local Yokels. Tony Boyd. Jason Evans. Duwayne, Cedric and Gary Burnside — one of them still owed him money for a recording session, and I honestly don't remember which one. I'd add Harpo to that list too, but he was always there anyway, putting his spin on things. Chad's little living room studio hosted everybody from Hill Country Blues legends down to some lady from the choir down the street who just wanted to record a few songs.
Then I started hearing about the band he'd been in — Big Strung Thumb. Larry Newsom, Eric Summers, Luke Woodruff, the two Zacks — Zack Stallings and Zack Tillotson. Chad's band days were winding down by the time I came along, but judging by the stories, I missed a party. A big one. The only time I ever got to see them all play together was a reunion show at the Enid Depot — where I also got to meet Chad's date that night, and his future wife, Ashley.
Some of those names I already knew. Some had already passed on. But a few of them I'd come to know really well over the next few years — Robert Earl, Jim Ellis, and of course, Harpo.
Chad's passion for photography was still in its infancy back then, but it was growing fast. I mention it here because the two worlds — the music and the photography — started mixing a lot more once I was around. There was no shortage of characters to point a camera at.
I remember Jim coming around a good bit during this time. He and Chad were working through arrangements for Jim's album Friend Behind Your Back, which would eventually get recorded at Tweed Studio. One of Chad's photos of Jim ended up on the cover. Jim would come over, they'd do a little recording, and once everyone had slipped into one too many beers, things would move out to the front porch. More picking, more stories, more beers. I remember one night in particular — my son Grayson was with me, probably four or five at the time. Jim sat him down and played a song just for him — 'The Fishing Song.' And then he played my favorite song of all time. Literally. 'Portland.'
Chad Smith's life could not be told without including Richard Harpole — our beloved Harpo. He was one of those characters Chad just seemed to collect wherever he went.
Harpo was there from the very first day I crossed the threshold of that house on Broad Street. Sprawled out on the couch — that day, and the next few times I came over too. Harpo was living in a camper behind a friend's house, but he'd stay at Chad's for weeks at a time. Over time, I learned just how compassionate Chad was by the way he treated that man. Chad made sure he had food, his medicine, a ride to hospital visits — you name it. Harpo depended on Chad to live.
I've got so many Chad and Harpo stories I could tell you. But I think I'll share two today — both from toward the end of Harpo's life.
Harpo had come into a little money when a distant relative passed away. More than six figures. Now — do you know what happens when you give a man that much money who's never had any in his life? Let's just say there were some fun purchases. Tannerite. Guns. Whiskey. Luckily, he also bought a few acres of land with an old trailer on it before all the money disappeared. Oh — and a yellow hearse.
Chad had told Harpo about a hearse for sale out on Highway 6, between Oxford and Batesville. Bright yellow, with a light bar on top and a crawfish-catering company logo on the hood. Across the back door, in big letters: 'BETTER THAN CRABS.'
One day I get a call from Chad. Harpo's house had burned down. Burned good, too. Harpo kept a propane bottle inside the house, and the fire was so intense it exploded that bottle and sent his refrigerator flying out of the house. The hearse got damaged too — it was always backed into the driveway, and the fire scorched the back of it. Lights melted. Drapes partially burned. Harpo lost just about everything he had.
So what does Chad Smith do? He organized a little fundraiser — the two of us made tintype portraits on the square in Batesville. We raised enough that day to eventually buy Harpo a little camper trailer to live in.
Chad was taking care of Harpo. Like he always did.
We always knew that when Harpo got sick, it would be his liver.
Harpo took me and Chad out to a still he had in Crenshaw once. Chad took a little sip. I asked him how it tasted. He said, 'Like garbage smells.'
And sure enough, things started showing up. He told us, 'There's nothing wrong with my liver. I've been pickling it for forty years!'
Close to the end, his daughter called Chad, who'd moved down to Philadelphia by then. 'Daddy's sick, and he says he's not going to the hospital unless you or Foster take him.' Chad was too far away, so he called me. That night in the emergency room ended with a doctor coming in late and saying, 'Mr. Harpole, you are a very sick man. There's a mass on your liver, and it's probably cancer. Your lymph nodes are swollen, and it's probably cancer. You've got fluid buildup in your stomach, and it's probably cancer.' There seemed to be a lot more said after that, and it was all followed by the same three words. Probably cancer.
After everyone left the room, and it was just the two of us, Harpo rolled over and said, 'Well, that wasn't a very good prognosis, was it?'
Before long, Harpo was put on hospice. He told Chad he wanted to take one last trip, and that he wanted to die in the camper we'd bought him. But Harpo and some friends had started 'renovating' that camper, and it wasn't fit to live in anymore. We knew hospice wasn't going to let him stay there — but we could still help him take that one last trip.
Chad booked a room at the Shack Up Inn. The Electric Blue shack. Chad and Ashley helped Harpo in, and he sat in the wingback chair in the front room. Emily Darby was there. We listened to Harpo tell a few stories before he got too tired and needed more morphine. He'd had enough.
We got Harpo home to his daughter's on Sunday. We knew it wouldn't be much longer. I think he made it to Tuesday.
Chad Smith literally took care of that man — from the first time I met them both, to the day Harpo passed away. When no one else would, Chad Smith did.
Throughout my entire time with Chad, there was one thing that was a common thread through all of it. Photography. There was always a camera present. Always.
One Fourth of July, Chad and I took Chandler and my son Grayson down to Big Bend National Park, on the border in Texas. We were out on a back road in the middle of the desert — I was driving, Chad was in the front seat, the boys were in the back. One of them bet Chad he wouldn't run through the desert nekkid. Next thing I know, I'm snapping a Polaroid of Chad wearing nothing but his boots and his hat, with both kids in the back seat crying, they were laughing so hard.
That was, by far, my favorite part of that trip.
I'm actually the one who introduced Chad to tintypes. Back in 2011, I think, I took a photography workshop called Rebirth — it was billed as a workshop for photographers looking for 'it,' when you're not really sure what 'it' is. We spent a week wandering the Delta, doing writing exercises, making portraits of strangers. There were a few people there doing demonstrations, and one of them was Euphus Ruth, doing tintypes. I was hooked from day one — though it was a few months before I got the nerve to actually buy the chemicals.
Chad came over the day I got them, and watched me mix everything up. We ended up spilling an entire tray of silver nitrate all over my bathroom counter. Silver nitrate stains black. My ex-wife was furious the next day — she said it looked like we'd slaughtered zombies in there.
There's a reason she's an ex-wife. Best friends are forever.
But the very first tintype I ever made on my own — that portrait was of Chad Smith.
Mr. Ruth and Chad became fast friends too. Both of us admired him deeply. There's never been a single time either one of us texted or called him with a question, or asking for advice, that he didn't go above and beyond to help.
In the early days, Cindy Neal, Chad, and I used to take photo trips — just the three of us. One time we went to New Orleans and spent a few days making photographs in the old cemeteries. Of course, we'd have a few drinks in the evenings, which usually led to a headache the next morning.
The morning we were heading out of New Orleans, we stopped at a Burger King for breakfast. Chad was nursing a pretty sizeable headache that morning. Cindy and I had already placed our orders. Chad's turn — he's looking up at the menu. He glances down at the cute little black girl working behind the counter, in a tiny little dress and fake electric blue contacts, and flirtatiously says, 'Girl, you've got some pretty blue eyes.'
When we got in the car, Cindy and I were dying laughing. The cute girl in the dress with the fake electric blue contacts was neither cute, nor a girl. Chad was hitting on a dude.
Oh, the Delta. It had Chad's heart. I've lost count of the number of times, and the number of roads, we wandered through the Delta making photographs. There was always a stay at the Shack Up Inn or Tallahatchie Flats involved. And there was always a Chad Smith story to be told afterward.
I watched Chad Smith's photography grow and mature right alongside him. Every single day after work, he'd get lost in his darkroom with a few beers, tinkering, making photographs. He learned so many processes — he became an unbelievable wealth of knowledge. Obsessed. Meticulous.
He made a comment recently that bothered me, and I pushed back on it. He said, 'I've learned all these processes, but I'm not really doing anything with them.' He couldn't see how great he was becoming. He was as good as, or better than, any photographer I know.
The portraits he was making lately were some of my favorites — the family next door under the tree, his neighbor from across the street, Bo, out at the lake in an American eagle Speedo. It's hard to make people comfortable in front of a camera, and he was learning to do it masterfully. It's the one area I ever saw Chad be remotely shy about.
The Fourth of July before last, he took me out in his boat on the Alabama River. We were going to dock on a bank with a bunch of other folks, and I told him to bring the tintype stuff and make some portraits. He said he didn't know if anyone would even be interested. I made him bring it anyway.
Guess what? They loved it. They loved him. We made some beautiful portraits that day.
Remember the book I mentioned in the beginning? Lincoln in the Bardo?
If you Google what 'bardo' means, it's a Tibetan Buddhist word that describes the period where consciousness moves from one life to a new birth. But the concept applies to any gap where an old phase ends and a new one hasn't formed yet — which I think we can all agree is where we are today.
Chad Smith was my best friend. We were supposed to get old. Together. All our kids are mostly grown now. They're knuckleheads, all of them, but they're grown knuckleheads. We were at the age where things start to slow down, or fall apart altogether. More gray hair. More doctor visits. Thicker glasses.
How thick, you ask? Let me tell you a story from a few weeks ago.
Chad had decided he was going to make some changes, get a little healthier. We'd both been thinking about — and failing miserably at — losing a little weight. He'd also decided he wasn't going to drink as much, and at one point he hadn't had a single drop of alcohol in over thirty days. I was so proud of him. He was so proud of himself. He joked that he hadn't gone that long without a drink since he was eight.
The night he decided to break his dry spell, Ashley had made a big supper. She put the leftovers up and went to bed. When she got up the next morning to let Shamus out, there on the TV tray next to Chad's chair — an open, mostly-eaten sleeve of crackers, and a dirty fork sitting in a big empty can of soup. She did a double take. Took a picture. Walked down the hall, woke Chad up, and asked him what he'd had for supper.
He said, 'I don't know, but you bought some ruirnt-ass soup.'
It wasn't soup. The can, top to bottom, read: 'With real beef. In savory gravy. Purina Dog Chow. Since 1926. High protein.'
Chad Smith had eaten an entire can of dog food.
I'm going to miss my friend. My brother. For the rest of my days.
I'm going to miss our trips to the Delta. I'm going to miss our yearly float down the Coosa, and the boat rides on the Alabama River. I'm going to miss having someone to geek out with over collodion recipes.
But most of all, I'm going to miss those everyday phone calls.
'What are you up to, man?' 'About two-oh-six.' 'Damn.'
Or — 'What are you doing?' 'Chad, it's 6:30 in the morning. What do you think I'm doing?' 'Well, get yo ass up.'
I tell all these stories to say this — none of this is unique to me. Looking out at all of you right now, I think it's safe to say every single one of you has a Chad Smith story to tell. It's clear. This is a story about people. A story about family. A story about love.
To Chandler, Savannah, and Alden — Chad loved every one of you. I know there were times he had to be tough, but that's what dads do. He was so proud of his grandbabies. You know I'm here if you need me.
To Chris — thank you for sharing your brother with me. No one can ever replace Chad, but as long as I live, you still have a brother left.
To Mrs. Donna and Mr. Mark — thank you for raising such a good and decent man. The way Chad loved so fiercely could only be possible because of the way you loved him. His family was everything to him. I can still hear him now — 'I'm coming up this weekend to see my folks. Come by Blackjack.' You were his rock.
And to Ashley — I know I've told you this, just like I told Chad Smith to his face so many times — he found and married the one person on this entire planet who could put up with him and love him so unconditionally. You made him happy.
I'll close with this.
My friend Joni, who I'd recently introduced to Chad and Ashley, shared a video with me that I want to share with you. It's only thirty-eight seconds long, but it couldn't be more fitting for this moment. Joni was walking through an abandoned church, filming on her phone. A few seconds in, you hear a few notes from a piano in another room. As she rounds the corner into the sanctuary, the video slowly pans around the room. The roof is caving in. The walls are open. The floor is gone. And there's... music.
And there he is. Chad. At the piano.
Then another glimpse of him, in a mirror on the choir wall.
There he is again — walking out of frame, camera in his hand.
He's here with me now. Just out of frame.
The very last words he said to me were, 'I love you, bud.'
I know. I love you, too. We miss you already.