Part of rock and roll died on July 1, 2000, when Cub Koda passed away from complications arising from kidney dialysis. Cub was one of the true believers, one of the few whose lives were suddenly, irrevocably changed by rock & roll. Cub never stopped believing and he never stopped spreading the word, whether it was through his own music, as a journalist, or just as a friend.

Most people knew Cub as the author and singer of "Smokin' in the Boys Room," but he was the farthest thing from a one-hit wonder. Yes, "Smokin' in the Boys Room" brought him a huge rush of success, but he never let his life be defined by that massive hit. That's not the same thing as disowning it, since he never denied that it was a tremendous thrill to have written and recorded a song everybody knows, a song that made people happy. But, almost from the moment that scaled the charts, he was ready to do something else. He was ready to build upon the music that meant the most to him, the music he loved when he was a teenager, banging out tunes with his high school band, the Del-Tinos. He loved rock & roll and the blues, so much so that he would devote precious space to his favorite songs and idols on his albums when he could have just as easily devoted it to originals.

That's why, for me, Cub was rock & roll. No question about it. He cared deeply and passionately about American music and all of its variations, whether it was some weird, Dixie-fried rockabilly single, a greasy Chicago blues side, smooth street-corner doo wop, pining honky tonk, or frenetic rock & roll bashed out by a group of teenagers. He brought all of that together in his own music, and he knew everything about everything recorded before 1965. He wasn't out of touch, but that was the music that fired his passion and it was the music that still excited him. You see, rock & roll never died for Cub; it just went into hiding according to the general public. To him, it was always vibrant and alive, and when you heard him talk or read his work, it was impossible to disagree with him.

If reading his reviews was exciting, there was nothing like having Cub play you a record, illustrating all the little details that made the music work. This was not a passive thing, listening to music with Cub. It was an wild, intense, unpredictable experience, as Cub flipped through discs, tapes, and records, finding that song that you HAD to HEAR this VERY moment. Once it started spinning, Cub wouldn't sit back, he'd start playing along -- accurate chords and all -- on an imaginary instrument, locking onto your eyes as he sang and mimed along. He'd point out wrong notes, missed cues, a burst of fury from the drummer, or a blinding lick from the guitarist. He wasn't making fun of the record, he was exhilarated by how alive it sounded, how it breathed and how each little element, from mistakes to perfection, made the music great. It was a breathtaking experience, since it not only was great to watch Cub, but he was either revealing new layers to a song you'd heard dozens of times or playing you something completely, utterly new, something that you couldn't believe you hadn't heard before. And it was all the more intoxicating because at that moment, YOU were the one HE wanted to understand.

Cub, bless his heart, wanted everyone to understand. He didn't want anybody to miss the boat, he never believed that music only belonged to the record collectors and true believers. He had the passion and zeal of a missionary, and he was willing to convert anyone that would listen. If you didn't want to hear "Great Balls of Fire" another time, he'd show you why you should, and he'd just as easily present an obscurity in a way that made it essential. He loved this stuff, and he wanted you to love it to. I'm convinced that's one of the main reasons why he started to play music (other than that he just wanted to make glorious noise and meet girls, of course), and that's why he was a DJ and why he began writing about music.

He would have been reluctant to admit it, but there were many fans who knew Cub Koda as a writer, not a musician (he was happier to admit that there were listeners who knew him as a solo act, not a former member of Brownsville Station). He always seemed to be a little uneasy with his status as a music journalist, even when he spoke kindly about it, because he wanted to spread the word through his music. But he was so gifted, as a wordsmith and a musician, that criticism came easy to him. He knew what made a good record, and he loved preaching about why a record was good. If he hated something, he stayed away from writing about it, since he knew it was all too easy for eager young musicians to get misdirected in the studio. Instead, he'd rather tell you why "Surfin' Bird" was the greatest piece of American art, or why Jerry Lee was the greatest stylist of his age, than why he hated the pabulum that cluttered the charts. And it was intoxicating, whether it was in conversation or in print. It really was.

Of course, in conversation, he wouldn't hesitate to tell you what was wrong with music, in general or in specific. The last conversation I had with Cub, he was explaining how rock & roll was never all that popular, that even back in the heyday of Elvis, Buddy, Chuck, and Jerry Lee there was still a lot of whitewashed pop on the airwaves and charts. Everybody shouldn't get all up in arms about the Britneys and Backstreets of the world, they should just wait it out, since rock & roll always rises again. What an appropriate farewell! This is the way I want to remember him, preaching about the real stuff -- whether it was rock & roll, blues, country, rockabilly, R&B, big-band jazz, doo wop, you name it -- since that was the music that he cherished. He knew that it would always come back into favor, eventually. Thanks to Cub, it always would.

Cub may have passed away, but he's not gone. Personally, he'll never be far from my heart, and his ideas and passion about music weren't just one of my main inspirations, they were one of the core foundations of AMG's philosophy. It wasn't that sentences he tossed off the top of his head became office catchphrases (although they certainly did). It was that Cub was always ready to discover music, whether it was new or old, that excited him, and that he wanted to share that music with the world. That could mean blaring it out of your speakers, trading 45s, passing cassette tapes, playing an instrument, writing songs, talking about it, or writing about it. It was all the same. What mattered was getting people to hear the music, to get them excited.

Reading Cub was like talking to Cub: fresh, exciting, funny, passionate. He had so much love for music -- and life as well -- that he couldn't hold it back, and he infected everybody he met, whether it was in person or on record or in print, with that spirit. Cub was larger than life. He was warm, generous, smart, funny, and truly wonderful. My life has been richer for knowing him, and just by reading his words or hearing his music, yours has been too.

He was irreplaceable.

I miss him already. -- Stephen Thomas Erlewine, All Music Guide