(Richard) John Caspell, aka Dr. Filk, was Brooke Lunderville’s musical other half, my brother-in-common-law, my housemate for 10 years, my musical collaborator for many raucous and joyous evenings, a wonderful uncle to my kids and his other nieces and nephews, a filker, a motorcyclist, and … in short … a man of parts.
This site exists for his friends, family and admirers to share pictures, music, stories and condolences.
Paul and I were talking about John the other night, and we remembered yet another song he used to play, being Artificial Means, by Christine Lavin.
Victoria Police are ready to lay charges, say family sources.
Apparently they did not actually do a breathalyzer test at the scene. How this will impact the investigation is hard to say.
John Caspell at a gig at La Zuppa in North Vancouver six or eight years ago. Many thanks to Paul for having had the foresight to tape it and to Jeff for transferring it from tape to mp3.
That Godforsaken Hellhole I call Home (first bit is of John tuning his guitar)
John was a nice guy. A really nice guy. I know the difference, having been one of the bad boys in the past.
I really loved listening to John play and sing. He had this focus that came over him when he had a guitar in his hand, you could tell that for a moment the rest of the world had gone away, and all that mattered was the song. Then he’d look up and smile at you, with his fingers going a mile a minute, and you’d smile back.
On the Sunday after John’s death, I drove to the cemetary where Lloyd Landa is buried. Lloyd and John used to talk at filks, so I decided I should tell Lloyd. I tool along my guitar, had a chat with Lloyd, and then played for a bit by his grave.
My guess is that Lloyd and John are organising a filk right now, and waiting for the rest of us to arrive.
Wayne aka The Mad Hatter
It’s on CDBaby, and it’s awesome! You can give the tracks a listen before you buy.
Toronto, late 80's
Leaning to the left, as always
John, Jerrett and Keith, London 1990
I wrote what follows a while ago, so many thoughts of what to say and never the right time to post it. I want to have this for myself to remember how I was feeling. But. There is both reluctance and hope that others might know my feelings.
My mind knows the reality, but my heart copes better with fantasy.
The day John left us, the earth shuddered. I shook myself, in shock. I looked around. What? What? There must have been a universe quake, a rift in time and space so enormous that it put us in an alternate universe with no way back. A universe where John does not exist. There are relics. But no John. John always listened carefully in circle and felt the quality of all the persons in the filk room, at that time and in that place. Present. Then he would know what song would make a follower, at that time and in that room. Not necessarily that his was the unique follower that must be sung. Often he was delighted with alternatives that presented themselves. Now, here, am I. In this alternate universe where John does not exist. What follower can there possibly be?
I was recently asked why it was so important for me to attend John’s memorial service when I had not seen him in many years and had communicated only through e-mails in recent years. The answer is that much of the woman that I have become is directly attributable to John.
Our friendship, courtship, marriage, loss of our child, divorce and subsequent reconciliations lasted from 1980 to 1991, a period of more than eleven years. Sadly, it could have lasted longer than that if I had been brave enough to try yet again with him in 1991.
During our extended relationship, I had my first poem accepted by a publisher, won my first literary competition, did my first public reading in an open mike forum, went on my first protest march, signed my first petition, went to my first political rally, lived in my first housing co-operative, and did my first advocacy for others, all with his support and encouragement. John taught me about social justice and that it was sexy to be an intelligent woman. It is thanks to John’s tenacity in gaining his own degree and his black belts, that I was able to emulate him and devote ten years to the gaining of my own two degrees while raising four children.
John described himself as a secular humanist but he taught me that it is possible to be spiritual without being religious. In my estimation, John’s musical gifts, his respect for nature and his care for those in need was nothing less than Divine.
John helped me to heal from sexual trauma by using great patience and respectful sensuality. He taught me that a man can be gentle without being weak, and strong without being aggressive, angry, or controlling. I loved John passionately, carried him in my heart always, and he was, and will remain, the measuring stick for any man in my life.
I was John’s first lover and he repaid me by teaching me how to live, with integrity and with courage. I am thankful for the privilege of being his wife. I want to share with you that I believe we can best celebrate his life by living our own, each day, to the fullest of our abilities, with creativity, with love,with honour, and with dignity as John did. And we had better laugh loudly and dance our asses off every chance we get!
My brother – companion, confidante and counselor; protector, sounding board and shoulder to cry on; partner in adventures and misadventures; slayer of childhood monsters under the bed and later, small rodents in the kitchen (equally scary). John was always ready to debate a point, discuss an idea, offer an opinion. He would gleefully share a new discovery, a good book or a bad pun and I could always count on him to hold up the mirror when I was having trouble seeing my way clearly. John was my compass for navigating life.
Ruth