Last night I joined family and friends in Indianapolis to say farewell to Jason McCash, late of The Gates Of Slumber.
I daresay that anyone reading this is already familiar with Jason’s accomplishments as a musician. We’ve listened to the records; we’ve watched the videos and read the interviews; we’ve attended the gigs. His body of work comprises a tremendous musical legacy. Yet this represents only a portion of the legacy that he leaves as a person – a husband, a father, a friend.
Now, I have to admit that I feel a bit presumptuous in writing this piece. To be honest, I wasn’t close enough to Jason to write about him in intimate detail. Oh, we were definitely friendly, but our relationship would have been best described as “acquaintances” or “casual friends.” I am certainly not the confidant, the brother, that bandmates Karl Simon and Bob Fouts have been. I feel intimidated to extol his qualities as a man, rather than as a musician.
But here’s the thing: Jason possessed a certain personal quality that was obvious to those who’d interacted with him – sincerity. Those who don’t have it can’t fake it (at least not forever). Those who do have it can’t help but be noticed for it.
I first met Jason in 2010 when I made the short trek from my home in Cincinnati to take my 10-year-old son to his first “rock concert” – the release party for Hymns Of Blood And Thunder at Indy’s Emerson Theater. After the show, I approached the stage, my son in tow, and introduced myself, and then him, to the members of the band. I was struck by how gracious they all were, interrupting their work tearing down the stage and coming down to talk with him, sign autographs, and pose for pictures. What stands out in my mind about Jason is how bashful he looked. To my young son, he was a rock star who had just played a killer set and brought down the house. Jason, though, appeared almost embarrassed, wearing a sheepish grin, that a child (or at least someone else’s child), would see him in such a light.
Jason’s stature grew in my eyes after that, and while our face-to-face interaction thereafter remained confined to local gigs, we followed each other on social media, occasionally trading personal messages. He frequently commented about music, but the one theme in his musings that never failed to resonate with me (and elicit a response) began in late 2013 when he posted, “Just finished coaching my son’s basketball team for the first time and I have to say that it was genuinely a great time. I haven’t had this much fun in a long minute. Looking forward to our next practice.” Jason had taken over responsibility for the team when it lost its coach. He stepped up, and in doing so experienced joy from working with young people. A couple of months later it was, “So that basketball thing, me coaching my sons team and me not knowing anything about basketball…Our team has made it to the sweet 16 in our tournament. How funny is that” He was proud of their accomplishments, but yet reluctant to take any of the credit for himself.
In addition to his son, Jason and his wife Bridgette have two daughters, and he never tired of expressing his love and affection for all of them.
And it is in this context that he will be best remembered. It would be trite to say that the world of metal has lost a good man, because Jason’s goodness did not exist as a result of his music, but rather as a result of the people whose lives he touched.
He will be missed, achingly so, by many.
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A fund has been established to assist Jason’s family in the wake of his passing. Those who are so inclined are encouraged to donate to the McCash Family Memorial Fund.
