By Stacey Morris
Staff Writer
Published
in The Post-Star newspaper 5/28/01
"Tell me what you want to learn, tune it up and take your turn, my name is Chan, welcome to my land. Have yourself a seat and let your mind expand."
Norm Boyea, mandolin student of Chan Goodnow. Lyrics from "Chanland," a song Boyea wrote last week after learning of Goodnow's death.
Ask anyone who knew him, anyone who heard him silence a room with his mandolin, and they'll tell you Chan Goodnow could have skyrocketed to Billboard-esque stratospheres with his musical ability.
Goodnow fell in love with the banjo and later the mandolin in his early teens. From the day he picked up his first banjo at age 13, he had honed a God-given talent into a captivating excellence.
Goodnow and his musical gifts could have caught a one-way ticket to Nashville or L.A., making his gigs at Glens Falls taverns and aboard Lake George cruise ships a distant memory.
But Chan didn't think twice about rejecting a shot at the big time.
And as his mother Ann Goodnow recalled last week, he definitely did not regret it.
"He told me, 'Mom I don't want to go, I want to stay here with my wife and son.'"
His cousin and fellow musician Arlin Greene recalled how Chan rebuffed offers over the years from bands based in Nashville.
"What kind of life is it to be on the road 300 days a year?" said Greene. "It's no life and he knew that."
Last summer
This summer was to be like any other for Chan Goodnow. At age 43, he had spent the past 27 years making his living as a musician, playing year-round at area venues. Summer season in the Lake George area meant gigs almost nightly, sometimes more than one a day.
Goodnow and Greene got their musical start in bluegrass. Both 13 at the time, the cousins would roam the woods of Bald Mountain near Greene's childhood home, perfecting their harmonies.
"We'd walk around the woods playing bluegrass out of a portable eight-track player," remembered Greene. "Chan's the one who taught me how to harmonize."
Last Friday, Chan and his cousin packed Chan's pop-up camper and headed to Connecticut for another festival where they were scheduled to perform Saturday and Sunday.
When Greene woke up Saturday morning, it was clear something was wrong. He tried to wake his cousin, then he called an ambulance.
"I had some hope in the emergency room," said Greene, his eyes welling with tears. "Then the doctor came out and told me he flatlined."
Missing Chan
On the second floor of Goodnow's home, in what was his office and recording studio, his closest family members gathered last week to try to shape into words the life of a husband, son, brother and friend.
His wife of 25 years, Georgia (Burrows) Goodnow, mother Ann and Greene were seated on the couch, clutching hands. In a nearby chair was Goodnow's brother Stan, who had recently arrived from his home in South Carolina.
The bustle of a steady stream of visitors in the living room below echoed up the staircase.
"Everything has been surreal this week," said Greene with a glazed look. "Nothing in here looks the same."
"I just got a stack of cards yesterday from people I don't even know," said Georgia. "They're from all over, Virginia, New Jersey, Maine."
"There were myriads of people who loved him," said Ann, tightening her grip on Georgia's hand. "Not just for his music, but for Chan."
A black and white cat named Tabitha glided silently into the room, stopping at each piece of furniture for a sniff.
"She misses Chan," said Georgia. "That was his cat."
Her eyes swollen from crying, she looked across the room at Stan.
"Would you take her downstairs?"
"She's Chan's baby," Georgia said, managing a smile. "Tabitha would wait for him to come home at night. Chan would cradle her like a baby in his arms and take her out to the back yard. He'd stand there with her underneath the floodlight and let her swat at the bugs."
Georgia's smile froze for a moment, then faded as she collapsed like a falling tree into Ann's arms, her body heaving with sobs.
Growing and learning
Georgia met Chan nearly 30 years ago at a club in West Glens Falls owned by area country legend Smokey Greene, Ann's brother and Arlin's father.
"I worked as a cook there but I didn't want to leave my sons home alone so I brought them with me," Ann recalled. "They'd sit down and listen to Smokey play while I worked."
"We both loved music," Georgia said of their first meeting. "I taught Chan his first three chords on the guitar.
"Chan was a quick study, he went way beyond me," she grinned. "And he picked things up so easy, he'd watch Bela Fleck play and then turn around and play it."
When Chan turned 18, he and Georgia married. A year later, their son Kristofer was born.
"He used to tease me and say I'm older than dirt," giggled Georgia, who's three years his senior.
"Chan loved his family desperately. His wife and son were his priorities," said Ann. "When he looked at Georgia and Kris you could see the love come out of his eyes."
Arlin Greene recalled how his father Smokey did more than just inspire Chan -- he taught him.
"He taught us the basics of rhythm and percussion when we were about 13," he said. "With bluegrass there are no drums so you need that mandolin chop."
"Smokey's club is where Chan first heard banjo," said Ann. "One day he said to me, 'Mom I want a banjo.'"
"I bought him a $60 banjo, not sure if he'd use it, but Chan wore it out."
Greene said that his cousin's talent extended to a variety of musical genres.
"He could sit down and play with just about anyone -- country, bluegrass, jazz, rock, Dixieland," he said. "There's going to be a musical void in this area that will never be filled."
His musical voice
Last week, Hank Soto and John Strong, founding members of the Stony Creek Band, struggled to come to terms with Goodnow's sudden death and the realization that they'll never again share the stage with him.
"It hasn't fully sunk in that he won't be playing with us this summer," said Soto, his voice choking with emotion. "But it keeps sinking in; it sinks in like a repeated knife wound."
Strong said that although Goodnow's career began with jam sessions at the Stony Creek Inn just for fun, he's had a quarter century to witness his friend's advancing talent.
"It's remarkable what Chan ended up becoming, he was a natural as far as being a musician," said Strong. "And he was highly regarded in the musical community as a master mandolin player...Chan took Stony Creek Band to another level."
Though many people associate Goodnow's name with the Stony Creek Band, he also played with other groups, including at Bluegrass Festivals throughout the Northeast and as part of the Glens Falls-based duo Chip and Chan with Chip Chevalier.
"This guy could have played anywhere on the planet," said Soto. "I do believe that some of the best musicians in the world are probably driving cabs or riding on tractors...some just don't have the desire to be famous."
Even the musically uninitiated, said Soto, knew they were in the presence of greatness when Goodnow played.
"Audiences were astounded by his ability," said Soto. "Chan played fast, but he played with a clarity. He was articulate and brought great stuff to the music."
Both Strong and Soto know that eventually, the show will have to go on. But last week they canceled a long-standing gig at Sandy's Clam Bar.
"We just couldn't do it," said Strong. "We never booked a high profile performance without Chan, the real band is with Chan."
"I know people will be asking us a lot of questions this summer," said Soto. "Not out of morbid curiosity, but because they care.
"The sorrow that everyone feels is immense -- no one saw this coming.
"I just don't know ... I don't know," said Soto, his voice trailing off in frustration. "Chan was just a real powerhouse and a talent ... and gone way too soon."
A mysterious sickness
It was almost a year ago when Chan began experiencing strange symptoms that sapped his energy. It started with fever, sweats, fatigue and his throat swelling to the point of closure.
His illness escalated to the point where three hospitalizations were required.
Since he had no health insurance, dozens of area bands got together last fall for a "Chanathon," to help with astronomical medical bills.
Last fall at one of the benefits, Chan told The Post-Star he was optimistic about his health.
"I feel good now," he said one November afternoon while strumming his mandolin outside of Rick and Carol's Countryside Inn in West Fort Ann. "I think I've got it licked."
Ann said that though her son was examined by seven area doctors, none were able to identify or treat her son's illness.
"After that last time he was hospitalized he was never really right," said Georgia. "He'd feel it coming on and eat a lot to put on weight because Chan knew he couldn't eat when he got that way. We'd be at a restaurant and he'd whisper that he couldn't really swallow ... he didn't want anyone to know."
"Even when he didn't feel well, Chan wanted to keep performing," said Greene. "His attitude was, the show must go on."
Musical healing
Greene said autopsy results on his cousin won't be revealed for several more weeks.
"I really don't know if his illness caused this," he said. "Friday night he seemed to be feeling great. We rehearsed all night. Chan broke a mandolin string so he switched to a banjo."
Greene said that, despite Chan's initial rustiness with the banjo (in later years he played mandolin the majority of the time), he quickly got into a groove.
"He really got into it. Chan was feeling really good about the banjo ... I'm glad he went to bed feeling that way."
After Saturday morning's tragic turn of events, Greene said he contemplated packing up and heading home.
But instead, he joined Vermont-based musician Fred Lantz, a 30-year friend of Chan's, in an extended jam session on stage.
"We had to play, we could feel Chan's presence," smiled Greene. "It was therapy ... we tore up the stage."
Duct tape
This week, Chan's ashes will be buried in his mandolin case at Pine View Cemetery in Queensbury.
"I told the funeral director that he's going to find duct tape in that mandolin case," said Ann. "And I want that case duct-taped."
"He loved duct tape," laughed Georgia. "When we'd go to festivals he'd create these little villages out of tarps and duct tape. People would walk by and say 'Oh look, it's Chanland.'"
"Chan did stupid things with duct tape, like tape the camper shut so no one could get out," she smiled. "He loved playing pranks, but he was never mean-spirited about it."
Tabitha was back, moving silently around the room for another look.
"She knows something's wrong ... she threw up yesterday" said Georgia, watching as Tabitha left again. "She's been looking for Chan all week."
"She's going back to Chan's room," said Ann. "She wants to smell him."
In front of the couch, a coffee table overflowed with photos of Chan's past.
"He would say to me, 'I love my life,'" said Ann, gazing at a snapshot of her son playing banjo. "So many people do what they think they have to do, not what they love. Chandler lived life on his terms ... that's the only way he could live it."
On the table next to the photographs was a small plastic banjo.
"I gave him this banjo two years ago," Ann smiled, picking it up. "He took it with him everywhere."
To demonstrate why, she pushed a pink plastic button. Instantly, a bluegrass riff broke the room's silence.
All eyes shifted toward the sound of banjo music.
Everyone listened.