The O
d a o R d o Go
“ h lord, I am lost in a foggy life, and I cannot find my way. Won’t someone help me out of this constant strife,” says Garrick Davis, and then he looks to me and says: “I can’t remember the rest.” Those were the first lyrics ever written by Garrick Davis. I looked to his dog and him sitting leisurely on the couch and asked why he had written those lyrics. His response:
etti s l a F ole I was woken up, fast asleep c i N y B
“Those first songs were a way of relieving my heart. It all came so natural. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be happy in those times, or whatever.” He shakes his hands in the air as if to brush off any negative thoughts. “Maybe I was supposed to feel some pain.” A musician, a mentor, and an artist, Garrick is charismatic and very rarely on time, but on a Saturday morning, I was the one to show up late to one of our guitar lessons.
at a friend’s house, by a text message that read: “Nicole, I rang the doorbell a few times and there was no answer. I will wait in my car for ten more minutes, although hopefully no neighbors will call the cops when they see a big black man sitting in his car outside the Falsetti’s home.” There is always a certain amount of truth to a joke, but to my surprise, I had never heard Garrick speak of himself in such a condescending manner. It launched my investigation in getting to know his real story.