R.I.P Michael Corcoran

In the classic and humorous image of patriarchy, my Dad used to sit cross legged on a sofa chair reading an article by one of his favorite journalists. Traditionally as an adolescent I'd ask him who and what exactly he was reading about. Common answers were Anthony Lane of the New Yorker, Sportswriters from the Austin American Stateman, or even science writers focused on climate change, renewable energy, or the latest upgrade in automobile technology.

As a young and curious musician that frequented Rolling Stone and Spin Mag, I had heard my Dad speak of Michael Corcoran. Furthermore; this curious and debatable imaginary character linked me to other great journalists like Lester Bangs and Robert Chrisgau. I'd later find out that Mr. Corcoran had spurt out participatory live articles that featured reviews to notorious live acts like Nirvana and Butthole Surfers.

For years Mr. Corcoran was a mere token of hip intelligence, until I met his son Jack. I was shocked at the estranged, insightful, and interesting peer from the otherside of the Austin Chronicles nutsack. I was also stoked and flattered that Jack was down to play an empty Carousel Lounge with The Wayfarer Incident.

Sometimes community stories seem scary. Yet it's an infrequent miracle that bolsters the worth and value of our interactions. R.I.P. Mr. Mike, and thank you for your services to my families sofa chair synchronicity.