An Ode To Jim Goad

I was sixteen when Answer Me! came out. I had never seen anything like it before. Not remotely.

“Who is this guy?” I asked myself.

Who could sound like he hated all of humanity with such vigor?

Maybe a guy who’d been kicked in the face through his mother’s womb by a drunken, manic father.

Jim Goad came into this world against a stacked deck, and he didn’t hide it. He was more bare and real in his writing than anyone I have ever known. There’s a case study on the soul of America within Jim’s life, and even though he’d laugh at the idea, it’s true.

Jim is what happens when you have a huge heart and a sharp mind. You see the ugliness of humanity broadly, and treasure the select few who are better than that. He was the epitome of that.

He never forgot my birthday. He always wrote around Christmastime, accompanied by a gift. He called often, and I heard the bitter and the sweet alike. From his many literary triumphs to his personal losses, I heard it all for almost a decade.

We connected when he wrote me randomly on Twitter one day telling me that he liked my music, and that he’d done some singing himself. He also pointed out that we shared a mutual friend in Hank III, and that we’d both toured with him.

“I don’t know how the fuck you did it,” he said in one of our earliest conversations.

I was pleasantly surprised when I heard his music. It was all covers, but choice covers. Jim had a golden baritone voice, and could croon with the best of them.

I remember encouraging him to write some of his own music. I even told him I’d back him if he wrote it.

We became fast friends.

I even got the chance to tell him that The Redneck Manifesto was my favorite nonfiction book of all time—something that is still true tonight.

Soon enough we were talking daily. We’d riff on things. He’d sometimes vent. He’d often ask me why I stayed calm and unbothered. I’d try my best to explain it to him, and fail more often than succeed.

Down the road a bit, he started his podcast, Jim Goad’s Group Hug, and asked me to be a guest on the American Civil War episode. It went over well, and some months later, after losing his then co-host, he asked me to join him regularly.

The podcast had a dedicated and loyal following, and things were good. Soon after I came on board, Gavin McInnes offered Jim a show on Censored TV, and along we rode. I still remember showing the Chuck Berry home movies on one of the early episodes and being told by the boss not to show any more porn without clearance.

The show, being video-based, was hard to do remotely. We had technical glitch after technical glitch (sorry, Ray!), and eventually that became our Rubicon. I had to walk away from a great show to protect a long-standing friendship. It’s that simple.

Some have speculated that things ended badly, but I disagree. I told Jim I was always going to be his friend, and that is why I’ve never spoken ill of him, or discussed the end of Beef Squad publicly. And I won’t.

The show, despite being a great experience, isn’t what’s important.

Jim went through a lot more than I’d wish on my worst enemy. If anyone had an excuse to be wired the way he was, it’s him. Understanding someone isn’t the same thing as excusing everything, but let’s just say that I understand.

There’s plenty I won’t say, but I will tell you this: I have nothing but love for Jim Goad.

His detractors will call him names. His controversial legacy will be debated. People who never knew him are free to draw their own conclusions. I’m simply telling you about the man I knew.

I answered the calls when he needed a friend.

Jim was not only one of the most unquiet men I’ve ever called a friend, but one of the best writers and most honest orators I’ve ever listened to. Did he see the world through the lens of his own life? Of course. Just like all of us. But he was honest, and he was unapologetic.

That’s worth my respect. That’s worth my acknowledgement.

I have had many friends. I’ve known no one like Jimbo.

Jim was my friend, and someone I’ll always be grateful to. Few people have really had my back, and fewer let me have theirs.

I wish we had made that album.

Rest well, Jim. You’ve earned your peace.

I’m still your friend.