Rex Frick's Last Show

Rex Frick, guitarist and lead vocalist

of the band Frick and Frack

was really in his prime before that night.

Their second album, Frickula and Frackenstein,

had just been released and was already

topping the charts, inspiring people

to actually buy music

and read the liner notes again

and listen to the whole album

and really think about what it all meant.

The shows of their fall tour

sold out in seconds,

and although they could have filled

the largest arenas in the largest cities,

they chose mid-size venues

for a more intimate concert experience.

On November 3, 2018,

Frick and Frack

were playing the Aragon Ballroom

in Chicago, Illinois,

their second of three shows

before they moved on to Detroit.

And we all stood and waited in anticipation,

patiently tolerating the opening acts,

pushing through the crowd to reach the bar.

Sweatshirts and coats tied around our waists,

the body heat of 5,000 Frick and Frack fans

had made the room sweltering.

At least 50 years of spilled beer and old gum

adhered the soles of our Converse sneakers

and Doc Martens to the floor.

Cheers rose up when someone walked onto the stage.

False alarm—just a roadie

making imperceptible adjustments

to the drum set.

Then finally,

the room went completely dark,

and the screams of thousands of people

hung above us,

and the intro music played,

and any second now,

any second now,

Rex Flick

and the rest of the band

would saunter onto the stage.

Rex would pick up his guitar,

and for about 90 minutes,

we would all transcend

to a place beyond these worldly cares

and mundane annoyances.

But something was wrong.

After the intro,

there was darkness

and no music.

Just the screams of the crowd,

blissfully unaware

until the moment lasted just a little too long,

and the screams turned to questioning murmurs

and then angry shouts

as the house lights turned back on,

and a middle-aged, terrified man

tiptoed onto the stage.

He was the general manager of the Aragon,

and he had to inform us

that the show was canceled.

The show was canceled.

THE SHOW

The most anticipated show of the year,

if not the decade.

A show we were prepared to remember

for the rest of our lives.

Over before it even began.

The apologetic general manager,

dodging cups of beer

and someone’s shoe,

explained that the band

was just about to walk on stage,

was actually walking right towards the stage,

when Rex Frick vanished,

vanished right into thin air

in front of his stunned bandmates.

There was no warning.

His eyes widened,

and his body faded into nothing,

and he was gone.

And a lot of “Ha, ha, very funny dude,”

and “C’mon bro, let’s go,”

But it was no prank.

Rex Frick was gone,

never to be seen again.

There were a lot of theories as to what happened…

alien abduction,

some kind of interdimensional portal,

a Russian mafia hit,

something with the Illuminati,

or perhaps a really severe OSHA violation.

The other members of Frick and Frack,

traumatized, their faith in God and physics shaken,

never played together again.

Even with the theories and the biographies

and the award-winning documentary,

it’s hard to explain

the enormity of our loss.

We lost Rex that night,

lost all our old favorite songs

and the new songs in his mind

we would never get to hear.

There are some who believe he’s dead, of course,

but others who believe

that he lives still in the shadows,

the eerie moments of déjà vu,

the distant notes of a song that sounds so familiar,

but you can’t remember the words.