Richard Hays, Austin musician, member of the Hickoids, the Next, Ideals, Sharon Tate’s Baby, and many other bands, died March 28, 2001. He had heart arrhythmia and passed away in his sleep at only 45 years of age. Dick was a mellow guy who liked simplicity in his endeavors — a great attitude in a musician. Of all the people who got to know him, I never ran across one who didn’t think he was a genuine, nice person. He was truly friendly and generous.
He was also a damn good bass player, but found a way to make music with whatever instrument he picked up: guitar, keyboards, French horn, mandolin, fiddle … Hell, he played orchestral bells on the Ideals LP (“Limitless Possibilities,” indeed!). A great guy to have at your recording session. In addition, he was a clever songwriter (always willing to try unusual stuff), a great entertainer (usually hilarious, but he could put over a ballad that’d break your heart, too), the No. 1 guy you’d want at the wheel of your funky punk rock van on tour, blazing into unknown territory at 5am!
Above all, Richard was a great friend. His incredible patience, talent for taking things slowly, and not getting upset saved my life on numerous occasions, literally. On the road, abuzz, I’d always be mouthing off to the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dick would inevitably intercede, defusing the situation with his calm and humor (usually before I got my ass kicked, too!). Dick was as much my brother as my real brothers; we had the same sort of telepathy me and my brothers have. Only I was even closer to Dick, having spent so much of the last 20 years around him. He was a great brother. When I was homeless, he never turned me away. I endlessly made fun of him and criticized him and he never held it against me. He accepted me at my worst — like no one else. If I was hungry, he fed me. He was simply the ultimate family to me.
Dick always had my back; in life and in music. He was my irreplaceable sideman, and I like to think I was his. It was a sweet deal. When I got complimented in the Chron, dubbed “the human jukebox,” I knew it was as much a testament to Dick as it was to me. We learned thousands of songs — all styles — and wrote more than 100 tunes, all different and most of ’em great fun. There simply will never be another collaborator like him. Richard Hays was the best friend any person could have and I will miss him for the rest of my life. He was totally unique.
By the time this runs, the memorial service in San Antonio will have happened, but we will have an event in Austin to honor Richard soon. Everyone seems to have great Dusty Dick stories and we all will get together. Interested friends can call me at 512/458-1517.
We miss you, Frenchie.
This article appears in April 6 • 2001.