Seeing the final Low show, in Duluth, them in front of the big lake, in their hometown, wind howling and waves crashing, bathed in red light. I turned around a studied the hills behind us and thought about time. About the Native people who occupied that land, those hills before any of us, who taught us how to live here, only to be crushed by extraction and expansion, on whose behalf Alan and Mimi mustered the strength to come and play and raise money for, despite her deteriorating health, for the Natives and the water. To heal others, when they themselves knew she couldn’t heal, in an act of pure and stubborn grace. I then thought about my own ancestors, Duluth Jews, who migrated from Eastern Europe and lived on those hills, taught school, worked in the trades, clawed through the depression and polio and made a life so I could live, play music, travel, have fun, meet my idols. I looked at the hills, then up at the sky. I felt connected to generations past, present and future. Then I turned back again to Low, the best band, realizing it would likely be the last time I’d see them play, and how they had been with me and inspiring me for almost half of my life, since I started making records, so kind and supportive. The band who stopped time, disregarded time, stretched time, forgot time and made space, vast roaring space out of the smallest, most intimate melodies and gestures. No other band has that patience, trust in silence, in breath, in noise, in simplicity and in their own brutal and delicate humanity. Low is the realest and bravest band. They show you time, space and they show you to yourself. Mimi was a gentle warrior, smart, funny, chill, dry, gracious and solid as a rock. She made eternal music, and was mortal like all of us. So grateful to have crossed her path, and so much love to Alan and family and friends.