Page’s affection for Virginia is a matter of record: He composed a plaintive ballad about the state that many — including me — thought would’ve made a very fine state song. It’s Page’s authentic delivery that causes the piece to sit up. Makes me tight in the throat every time I hear it, and I know I’m not the only one. The song's wistful sadness now seems appropriate.
Like many people in these parts, I knew Page from “around." My first connection to him wasn't even with the music that was his life; it was through a monthly arts tabloid he published in the early 1990s called The Out O' the Blue Revue. A mixure of poems, photography and music notes, it was a sort of proto-website before there were such things.
Our paths crossed at varied events through the years. One of the better memories is when I corralled Page and Tim Timberlake into performing for a Firehouse Theatre Project fundraiser, back in 1998. I’d written a scenario in which we could use a number of regional celebrities. The setup was a public radio station on the verge of getting shut down by a corporation. Page and Tim paired together, and I dubbed them the Rambling Wrecks. They were quite funny, and they performed to great applause.
I’ve seen Page with and without his band, Reckless Abandon, at various venues, indoors and out, through the years, from the 43rd Street Festival to Pocahontas Park. I remember being with him at the Richmond Folk Festival a couple years ago — I do not recall who we were listening to — and we were dancing and enjoying ourselves. It was one of those perfect Richmond moments, and one he’d had a hand in making possible. Page was one of those Richmond characters who seemed to be involved in most worthwhile efforts, and we’d gotten as accustomed to seeing or hearing him as the sound of the James River roaring over rocks. That he’s now gone is difficult to believe.
In 2009, the magazine recognized him with a Theresa Pollak Prize for Excellence in the Arts. Page didn’t know quite what to make of it, I think, even while he was at the podium giving his acceptance speech. But his daughter, Virginia Blue Wilson, saw Dad get his award, and they were cute as bugs together.
Terry Rea over at the Slantblog has assembled a number of remembrances, including quite a good appreciation by WTVR's Mark Holmberg.
On another melancholy note, more briefly but only because I just now found out, George Crutchfield, a respected member of Richmond’s journalism community who ran the mass communications department at VCU when I attended, has also passed.
I remember him as a natty dresser with a trimmed beard. Odd things stick in the memory: I do not recall how or why, but at some point we were discussing jazz, and a particular musician. George nodded, “Yes, he was a sax-ah-phonist,” and he chuckled. And I’ve said it that way, in reference to jazz sax players, ever since.
These two men from totally different disciplines made contributions to our community that will endure while they are personally missed — and that's the best that any of us can hope for.
