Marty Anderson Is (Still) Okay
Actually, we both are.
The thing that comes to mind for some reason is the BART ride. Because the band, Okay, or more specifically its leader, Marty Anderson, lived in Fremont, which is a Bay Area suburb that sits right between Oakland and San Jose. And so I remember taking a long, anxiety-ridden BART ride out there to report what ended up becoming this story, originally published in 2005 in the now-defunct SF Weekly. It’s actually probably one of the better stories (the best story?) I ever wrote, partly because I like how I wrote it, doing some verité crap by directly inserting some email exchanges; partly because there’s a summiting-Everest feeling of accomplishment I associate with writing it, due circumstances we’ll get into; and mostly because there’s this heart-on-sleeve silliness + gravitas to it, the kind of quality that comes from writing something quickly and energetically, from not overthinking it.
And then there’s the fact that Marty and his story and his music lodged themselves deep in my heart twenty years ago, and have stayed there ever since, and this would have been fine on its own but recently I was contacted by Marty’s label and asked to revisit that story, which has evolved and converged with my own, in ways that are borderline spooky (spoiler: Marty and I both had cancer recently), and so of course I said Yes, and so this is that: Me revisiting the story, and also the story revisiting me.
Oh, and also: The Okay box set is officially available for purchase. I’m not getting paid to mention that. I really just want to get the word out.
The story starts—or at least my part of it does—with me throwing my hand up at the Monday editorial meeting, the one where the doomed writing staff of the flailing alt-weekly would gather in our little conference room overlooking the Bay. It emerged that whatever we had planned for next week’s cover story had fallen through, and our tyrannical editor—a short, bearded, balding guy who had both a Napoleon and Hemingway complex (the guy had a framed picture of the latter in his office, next to a picture of him reporting in the original Desert Storm)—this tyrannical editor polled the room to see if anyone had something they could volunteer as a last minute replacement for the story that’d dropped out, and for some reason I raised my hand. There was a guy named Marty, I explained, who I was familiar with from his previous band, Dilute, this really interesting and weird band that played mostly instrumental spazz-rock—nine minute songs, lots of interlocking guitars, big distorted surges, Marty’s creaking voice. I loved Dilute. Better yet: Me and my best friend Anna loved Dilute, and when the two of us both loved the same thing it meant that thing was quite special (I didn’t mention this part to the editor). For example, I promised Anna I was gonna write a Healings post soon about the origins of JD Salinger’s interest in Eastern spiritual traditions, because those were so formative to both of us, and I still haven’t gotten around to doing that, but here, Anna—HERE is the piece about Marty. I hope it is sufficiently squalid.
I’m writing it quickly and energetically, not overthinking it.
And so yeah: I raised my hand that day, almost twenty years ago, and I told the tyrannical editor about Marty. Here was the pitch: Marty had been in Dilute, but he also suffered from a rare, debilitating, and near-fatal form of Crohn’s Disease, and this meant Dilute couldn’t really tour, and so the band broke up, and Marty started making music on his own, and had enough of it to release a double-album on the record label Absolutely Kosher, as a new band that he dubbed Okay. And the release of that double-album was imminent, and would the tyrannical editor be interested in a story about all of this—the short-lived legacy of Dilute, the miracle that was Okay’s High Road and Low Road, and the existential stakes that hung over all of it, given Marty was not infrequently hospitalized around that time, and lived in a state of perpetual dread that his health could worsen at any moment, but who had taken all of this and transformed it into something beyond what mere words could capture (even though I was proposing I do just that)? Would the editor be interested in this story?
The editor was. But of course there was a catch: I’d need to report and write the entire cover story in five days, and given the story was already the backup option, we’d have no other option if I failed. Hence hopping that BART train on a Tuesday evening with a stomach full of nerves, wondering if I could pull this off. I did, obviously, and one thing that set my mind at ease as I settled into a couch in Marty’s parents’ living room that night to observe the band during its rehearsal was a framed, painted sign that said, “You were supposed to read this right now.”
In my limited experience, what happens in journalism is you write about someone and publish the thing you wrote and then for the most part you never, ever hear from them again, and this is mostly normal but can be weird sometimes, because occasionally it feels like you make a real connection, and maybe you do, but then the professional reality sets in that you’re not actually going to become friends with them (sorry, Neil Young). And that didn’t exactly happen here, but something else did.
A few weeks ago I got an email from this guy Cory who runs Absolutely Kosher. The label had gone dormant for many years, but Cory was restarting it and as part of that project was going to release a box set of the first three Okay records. Cory was someone who’d followed my journey through Healings, and so he had some interesting news to share. He’d been in touch with Marty, who, on top of everything he’d gone through back when I first met him, had also recently gone through a harrowing battle with colon cancer. Would I be interested in talking to him again, as a way to help get the word out about the box set?
I’m not sure how to explain this next part. I guess I’ll start by acknowledging that nothing dramatic happens. As much as I wanted to fly up to the Sacramento suburb he lives in now and meet with Marty face to face and catch up, that wasn’t in the cards. And so on the surface this is all pretty mundane. This band’s label knew I liked the band a long time ago, so reached out to see if I’d write something around the release of a box set. And this is that. But also:
Marty and I did finally talk. It wasn’t an interview because I don’t really do those anymore, and I didn’t want our conversation to be On the Record, because that just seemed dumb. But we talked about how Marty had cancer and about how I had cancer. And Marty revealed some things I’m not going to write about here about what that was like (summary: it was bad, and scary), then said something like, Yeah but it was nothing like what you went through… And that hit me very much extremely hard, and still does.
Because let’s be clear about something: Marty’s been sick for basically his entire adult life. I’ll ask you to take my word for this, but it’s my professional opinion that if Marty hadn’t gotten sick he’d at least be as well-known as a lot of other semi-famous indie rock bands from the ‘00s, and possibly even more so. His music has the same joyful, vaguely psychedelic exuberance that led to bands like Grizzly Bear, Vampire Weekend and Cold War Kids headlining festivals, but there’s also a plainspoken campfire-song quality to it that makes it feel intimate and special. (Told you I used to be a music writer.) If he’d had the ability to tour and do press and make more records, I’m certain he would have been someone we talk about when we talk about ‘00s-era indie rock.
But he didn’t. First and primarily because of the Crohn’s, with all the side-effects and obstacles it presented. And then on top of that, later on, cancer. Prior to our chat, Marty sent me a whole accounting of his mental and physical journey these last many years, and again you’ll just have to trust me cuz I’m not going to into specifics, but it sucked. The guy’s been dealing with spirit-crushing health shit for decades. But here’s the thing: his spirit is far from crushed. If anyone has an excuse to start a goddamn email newsletter to complain about their bad luck, health-wise, it's Marty. But he didn’t do that. He read mine, and had nothing but empathy and good vibes to share when we finally talked.
I’ve been trying to figure out what’s so special about all of this even though nothing really happened, and I think it has something to do with this… For the last few months I’ve been asking people about God and death, and one of the questions I ask is if there’s something they’d consider a spiritual text in their life. Could be a book, a movie, a piece of music. As you hear sometimes in AA: Your higher power can be a doorknob. What’s important is your connection to this thing and your willingness to avail yourself to that connection, even if you can’t or don’t feel like articulating it. Well, my connection to Marty’s music has lasted for twenty years now. I wouldn’t call it my higher power but it’s certainly up there in the constellation of things that help me commune with a power greater than myself. And as if that weren’t enough, it simply brings me joy, and comfort. When I found out I had cancer—when a doctor told me the tests had come back and the finding was an “aggressive” cancer that required immediate and correspondingly aggressive treatment—I spent the next several hours on the couch, sitting next to my wife in this devastated fog of existential dread, and one of the songs I listened to on repeat was Okay’s “Give Up.”
And so to think that Marty was out there in the world somewhere, having recently gone through something very similar. To think that Marty had also been dealing with cancer and surgeries and all the associated fears, to think we’d both had the experience of being stuck in a hospital for days on end, in terrible, terrible pain, not knowing how any of it was going to turn out. To think our paths would cross again after not talking to one another for decades…
You were supposed to read this right now.
And hey look guess what: These stories have happy endings. As I write this, I can hear my daughter laughing in the other room. My remission persists. I feel good.
And Marty…well here’s the best part: He’s been making music the whole damn time. For years it was just writing new songs down on paper, but since emerging from his own cancer battle, he’s started to record them in his home studio at his parents’ place, and now there’s enough for several albums. It’s pretty unbelievable. He shared a bunch of it with me, all this music—over a hundred songs, over six hours’ worth. There’s no way I could even begin to describe it. But who needs to? Doesn’t it just make you feel good to know it exists?
This is the Healings Newsletter. We thank you for reading. Healings is free for all, but you can show your appreciation for the work we do with a paid subscription. A portion of all proceeds goes to the Patient Advocate Foundation.
Healings is written by Garrett Kamps and edited by Tommy Craggs. Ayana H. Muwwakkil provides art direction.
Healings is about illness, recovery, spirituality, and related topics, and began in the summer of 2023 as a chronicle of Garrett’s battle with cancer. We make no guarantees that it will hold together, thematically speaking, now or ever.
Thanks a ton for writing this. I occasionally Google for Marty just to see if anything new is out and lo and behold I found this. It's amazing to know that he's still kicking and recording music.
New Okay is keeping me alive.