 |
October 18, 2024
Inger Lorre has finally found her place where nothing hurts and no one knows. Where does that leave the rest of us? Standing agape, pondering this female fireball who crashed to Earth (in this case, Matawan, NJ), blasted her way to Los Angeles, whipped up tremendous music and art, blew our frigging minds, and bid us adieu before we could even fathom what in the hell had hit us.
I already miss her terribly. She blew into my inbox — and my life — last December, shortly after I published a review of her album Gloryland. That album found me when I needed it most. The promo arrived just days after I found myself single (again), leaving me with plenty of free time to feel sorry for myself. If you’ve ever given that damn record a spin, you know what it did to me. My words on it caught Inger’s attention, and before long, we started chatting … and chatting.
The timing of the arrival of Inger’s … Ingerness … was impeccable, as it was Christmas Eve and, for the first time in years, I had nowhere to go. That evening marked the first of many conversations that were among the deepest and most intense I’ve ever had with anyone (the details of which shall remain private).
There we were, two Jersey crazies who flew the coop to out-chase our traumas and find a way out. At some point, I asked if she’d be interested in receiving a copy of my most recent book, “The 3 AM Girls and More.” Despite the book’s unabashed male gazeyness, I knew in my gut that she’d “get” it. She did — and even asked me to mail a copy to her mom! Fucking brilliant.
Our talks were surreal. Family, music, love, and loss — nothing was off-limits with her, and her words hit me like freight trains. She often sprinkled our conversations with references to the book, letting me know she had indeed read it and enjoyed it. She also offered to do the artwork for my next book cover. (She was such an amazing artist — on par with her musical output, for sure.) The last time I heard from her, she sent me a few more samples of her work to keep the idea fresh in my mind.
And then … silence.
I couldn’t sleep for shit this morning. At around 3 a.m. – naturally – I went on Facebook and saw Paul Roessler’s post with a photo of Inger and Schnitzel with a simple heart emoji. In that instant, I knew.
Inger was, shall we say, endearingly erratic. Hearing from her was always an adventure. Sometimes, her naked honesty and vulnerability shook my heart; other times, I could only strap in and hold on for dear life as her scattered words, random audio clips, and all-important (and always welcomed) Schnitzel updates flooded my senses and melted my brain. As individuals go, she was a fascinating bunch of people. And I loved them all.
My God, what a beautifully broken, fierce, fearless, frazzled, and fragile fucking nutjob. That kind of light is never destined to last long, but hers shone exquisitely.
I’ve often likened a creative endeavor to a solitary scream in the dark. Do we really want anyone to hear it? If we do, does it matter to us if they understand? Here’s the truth: It fucking does. I’ve been listening to Inger’s "screams" on record for more than 30 years. More importantly, I’ve always heard them.
Before I mailed her the book, I sent her this pic of the inscription. She replied:
“Awe…. So sweet (at least SOMEONE was listening!)”
A lot of us were listening, dear. I wish you were here to read the many heartfelt and heartbroken words about you online today. You were heard, you were understood, and you were loved.
Goddamn, I hope you knew that.
EMAIL JOEL at gaustenbooks@gmail.com
