An Open Letter of Gratitute to Dave Matthews

Dear Dave,

As a fairly intelligent, sober representative of teenagers and twentysomethings from every corner of American suburbia, let me say thank you. This is not nearly another fan letter where I'm going to gush and relive how "Lover Lay Down" was sprinkled in the background when I lost my virginity in the backseat of a Chevrolet at the age of 16, or how your live performances inspire me to find the cure for AIDS.

Instead, I express the gratitute of millions of youngsters across this mighty nuclear nation, for crafting a soundtrack to which we can screw. I know, crass it as it may sound, even you cannot deny the impact of your tunes and how you have worked with your fellow bandmates, lifelong chum, and talented producers to refine a sound that is, essentially, fuck rock.

You have filled our childhood bedrooms and our cars, our not-so-nearby arenas, and our headphones with tunes that make us want to get downright freaky; many interpret your lyrics as a call to drugs, that a "Jimi Thing" is not the act of closing one's eyes, laying back, and enveloping one's self in the mystical aura that was Hendrix -- but instead, another reason to toke the reefer.

And yes, I cannot disagree that several of your songs elicit the necessity for legalized marijuana -- or, perhaps, the tight integration of it in our culture, so much so that many of your fans receive the potent herb from their most benevolent of suppliers -- their parents.

But returning to the sex -- I often wonder, how do you do it, Dave? When you and Boyd, Carter, Leroi, and Stefan (and lest we forget Timmy), step inside a studio, does it cross your minds that the product of those 10-12 hands will shortly seep down to the carress of two 14-year olds experiencing one another's bodies for the first time? Did you know that when I finally lost my virginity -- we need not mention an age, for you will only find it laughable -- that the unreleased "Lillywhite Sessions" disc was spinning (and we made it skip)? Yes, Dave, we even get our swerve on to your bootlegs.

And there I go talking about losing my virginity, albeit against my earlier promise. Well, how can I help myself? Do you see what you're doing to us? But again, this is a composition and exercise in thankfulness, and I alone cannot set forth this proclamation and allow it to echo so resonantly as it should.

Dave, I want you to know that you have given all of us just a dash of hope, in Boyd's violin and Leroi's saxophone, Carter's happily bouncing drums (not an innuendo, really), and Stefan's masterful bass lines (particularly, Crush), in your yelps and yeahs, bellows and chants -- it is your voice that intermingles with mine and hers, with all of the he and shes, hopefully older than 13, as we break in the bedsprings and test the capacity and legroom of our vehicles.

Thank you for being a modern-day aphrodisiac. After all, I was likely conceived to K.C. & the Sunshine Band -- or, worse, Barry Manilow.

Truly yours in music and all matters vagetarian,
Novice of Cambridge


  1. The word is gratitude, not gratitute.


Post a Comment