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Ian Moulding

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Lamia’s Lament
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Lamia’s Lament
Album:
Released: Sep 9, 2008
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General Info

  • Genre: Blues / Folk Rock / Jazz

    Location NEW YORK, New York, US

    Profile Views: 11239

    Last Login: 7/16/2011

    Member Since 12/16/2006

    Record Label Unsigned

  • Bio

    This is the memorial page for my brother Ian Moulding, my life-long best friend, who died unexpectantly on June 23, 2008 (my birthday). Ian died a hero, struggled like most of us can never imagine. Basically, Ian taught me how to love, and he changed New York. I plan to tell the world Ian's story. Here is a preview, and some of his music..... ...... My brother Ian died a hero. Ian was dealt many difficult cards in his life, including his parents' divorce at the age of two; the frustrating combination of a superior IQ, with a learning disability; a far-away dad (though not entirely by anyone's choice), and being in the shadow of a stepfamily; the economic woes of a child of divorce before divorce was "done right;" and being taught, from the advanced age of nine, that the way to be a guy, and be in with guys, was to be high. We went back and forth on the airplane together between parents. Ian was the only one who was always with me, and vica versa. .. Ian struggled with addiction for his entire life. But, even in those years, he was much loved, a truly gentle soul. Ian was born in Iowa City to a mother from New York, whose parents were teachers, and a father from Winnetka, Illinois. Ian's paternal great-grandfather founded the Caterpillar Tractor Company... Ian grew up first in Los Angeles with our mother, where he attended Brentwood Elementary, Paul Revere Elementary, and Windward. We loved our mother, but missed our father. We spent visits frantically snapping pictures of our father and his new family with my instamatic camera, then pouring longingly over the albums when we were back at our mom's. Ian would sometimes call other men, men on the street, a cousin of our mom's he barely knew, "dad." I still remember him gazing longingly at our temporary stepfather, desperate for approval. Ian wanted to belong, wanted to be one of the guys. At around this time, during visits to our dad's, Ian found a way to belong, to be a guy, as well as to appease his life-long anxiety, when we learned how to get high (and I mean high) with our stepbrother and other older guys. Ian was nine then, and weighed 60 pounds... But Ian had good times too. His friends John and Robert, at Windward and Revere, called him "Yan." Our mother played games with us and we went to Disneyland, the beach. She always believed in Ian. He inherited her gift for music. (She had attended Music and Art high school in New York.) And Ian started learning guitar... Our mother had hard times after the divorce from our stepfather, and I left L.A. to go live with my father in Missoula, Montana, when I was fifteen, and I left Ian there, in the midst of those hard times, and the separation was hard for him, and still haunts me. But Ian came to Missoula too a few years later, and went to Hellgate High, where he wrote for The Lance newspaper (as I did too, with the now famous Steve Albini, by the way). The mayor of Missoula, John Egan, remembers Ian's jokes and his fingers calloused, even then, from guitar playing, as he worked on the newspaper. Those few years is Missoula were good times for us, jogging with our dad, learning to drive, making our stepmom laugh when he put ice in his coffee to cool it off, followed by less good times when divorced family drama erupted about who would pay for Ian's college, and Ian, thrust in middle, felt the old message again, that he was worthless and in the way... But Ian was determined, and drama or not he got himself on the airplane and went to Berklee College of Music in Boston. Ian was a gifted guitar and mandolin player, with his own particular sad yet ironic sound. The music on his page is from that era (thanks to Ed Lanthier and Jay McCaffrey for getting me the tapes), during college where he performed his recital with Jay McCaffrey and John Campos, and after, when he played in a band called, "Left of Zero," with Mark Faulkner, Ed Lanthier, the late Saul Goldfarb, and Andres Villamil (who Ian loved to call "Andre'as.") .. I always knew Ian was loved during those years, but I know it more now, from all of the notes and emails and music and support that is pouring in from his amazing friends. You can see some of it on his page, and I will post more. .. But Ian's anxieties and addiction plagued him in Boston. He did a long stint at a rehab in 1994, where he apparently flourished, and where he wrote some amazing poetry, which I am still reading through, and will post some of soon. Then he decided to move to Denver to be with our father, but the stresses of family history and politics, his own terror of being rejected, proved too much for his already low tolerance for anxiety, and he relapsed even before he arrived, and found himself living downtown at the Salvation Army and the YMCA. I went to visit him in 1997, and in 1999 I knew that if I never did anything else in my life, I had to have Ian move to New York and live here as my family. .. Ian had been assaulted by a man he met in a bowling alley there in Denver, who promised to show him his guitar, and so whom he'd followed home in his horrible loneliness. And after that I knew from his voice, every night when I called him on the S.R.O. pay phone, that he was drinking himself to death. I still remember the pride in his voice when he decided to come, "Karen, ok! I'm coming to New York!" So I sent him a plane ticket, and he got himself on that plane, and he could barely walk a straight line to me when he got off, and he had to go immediately to the hospital the next morning. He was almost dead from d.t.s. .. He lived with me in my one bedroom apartment in the west village for a year, and it is still the best year of my life. I was not into the "you're the addict fuck up, I the 'good girl/achiever' thing." I knew we were equals, and that not only Ian's life, but my life, depended on living that way, and shaking off those entrenched, intimacy-killing, roles. I grew to understand how mightily Ian struggled not to drink and use, that it wasn't an act of "will" that made him do it, but only his own anguish. I learned to say, "Yea, you made a day!" when he made it a day without drinking, but let it be his problem if he drank again, just to say, "tomorrow is a new day." (Don't get me wrong. I did this very imperfectly! I screamed and yelled at times. But, hey, we were imperfect together.).. He tried cooking school that year, which made him too anxious (though he was a damn good cook, lucky for me!), and gave some guitar lessons around town. He used to have coffee made for me when I woke up. There would be a little index card with "Karen coffee" written on it, leaning against the pot, and a picture of a mug with steam coming out of it, an arrow pointing up to the mug. .. I would go out dancing, single that year, and not without my own craziness. I frequented a sort of mixed new wave/80s/rock club (Squeezebox) and one day Ian said, "You've come home with a guitar player, a bass player, and now a poser. You should start your own band, 'Guys who f*ed Karen.'" --And it was Ian who taught me about the questionable IQ of drummers. (Just kidding!) .. At the end of that year, I went off to the Virginia Center for Creative Arts for a writing residency, and left Ian to fend for himself for a month, and he spiralled down immediately, and ended up in rehab, then another, then a halfway house for a while, then another relapse, and on and on. But his relapses grew further and further apart. He began to make three months, then six months, then almost a year, and throughout all of it, we remained best friends in New York. He had bad periods. He slept for weeks under the BQE, with the other homeless destitute. He had a girlfriend who died. But he kept working at it. And then, in 2004, Ian began his longest period of sobriety yet. .. Ian went to AA and I went to AlAnon. We'd meet at the Indian store on 1st avenue and 3rd street in the east village (where I moved and still live) for coffee, and then he'd go down to his meeting, I'd go up to mine. He came over twice a week or so, after our meetings, and we watched t.v. (Ian liked Lost and My Name is Earl) and we ate dinner and I nagged him about eating too much ice cream...until he pointed out that it was a lot better for him than vodka. Ian hated having shit jobs, he was just too smart. But he also had that learning problem, and a lot of anxiety, and of course couldn't afford to live in New York without a shit job (or really with one, either). And he finally landed himself a job at Whole Foods. .. Ian was still living in a half way house, this one in Bushwick, and it was uncomfortable there. They let in guys who used, convicts, and Ian was this little guy from West L.A. and Montana. And a guy at Whole Foods started to harass him as well, and in the summer of 2007, after almost three years sober, the anxiety proved too much, and Ian relapsed badly. He still hung out near the meetings, still kept in touch with me and with his sponsor, but he self-medicated up a storm, reeling publicly on my block, sleeping in the ATM (which at least was better than under the BQE, where he'd spent a few weeks before), spending all of his savings, getting kicked out of his house, and losing everything. .. And then, to use AA speak, after almost the whole summer on the street, when I'd almost lost hope, Ian "came back." He called and said, "I'm ready," and I called his sponsor, and he got himself back into a rehab, even though it meant staying up all night in one waiting room, then another, hoping for a bed, and, although he'd been solid and sober for almost three years the last round, this time when Ian came out, he wasn't just watching t.v. and getting by, he was really into living sober, working his AA program at full speed, understanding what was underneath his self-medicating. He went to meetings every day. He turned from the little brother to the big brother, texting me almost every day, "How ya doin' K? Can I get you anything?" He spent his first week of that sobriety homeless, sleeping on couches, or all night in chairs at meetings, and then with his sponsor's help, he got himself into a "Supported Work Program" shelter in Greenpoint. .. He just about to graduate from the shelter program. He'd earned his own room. To his absolute joy, our dad gave him a guitar, and he practiced every day. He had just been elected Chair of Living Now, the coolest AA meeting in all of New York (and, so, hey, in all of the world). He was looking for work, and very anxious about that, but staying sober. .. I can still hear Ian's voice, asking me to go to his AA buddy Ernie's bar-b-que in June. I still curse myself every day that I said no, I had a meeting that day. Because Ian was my life-long rock. I never thought he would be gone... Ian worked his breakfast shift at his shelter on June 23rd, my birthday. He was at meetings that week, telling the guys to stay clean, keep working it, and stay in school. (He never quite finished Berklee, and I know he always regretted that.) He went to his room to nap after his breakfast shift. And never woke up. .. Two hundred people came to Ian's memorial at the La Salle Academy in the East Village. Ian's AA friends, my friends, our neighborhood friends, the guys he inspired at the shelter, packed the room, and raved about Ian, quoting his jokes, his determination, and just his courage, in the face of all odds. In the words of his friend Henry:.. You stood before the group celebrating a deuce.. It wasn't long after that you succumbed to.. The darkness and its abuse.. ..... The uneven medication homeless again.. Even the menial job came to an end.. While carrying a mandolin with your weathered face.. A search for redemption longing for a friend.. Back to day one willing to stay sober.. Relapse is high stakes gambling.. At forty something having to start over .. Ian's phone was full of text messages, encouraging other guys to keep working it, to our dad ("happpy birthday," "happy father's day," "send cigarettes!"), and to me, just checking in ("how r u today, k?" "need anything?" "this guitar is awesome, and so are you."). Nine years before, Ian was almost dead on the streets of Denver. Seven years before, he was sleeping alone under the BQE. But when Ian died, two hundred guys, plus my friends who knew him, knew of his stupendous love just from hearing me, packed that memorial room, and raved about his triumph. And I can't walk down a block in the East Village without someone stopping me with words for my bro. ..I miss you, Ian. I'm lost without you. But remembering your strength, I'm ashamed to even say that. I pray for half of your strength. .. That's how I'll go on without you... Rest in peace, brother. You taught me love. You are in my soul forever. ..Your Sister,.. Karen

  • Members

    IAN MOULDING plays guitar and/or Mandolin on all songs posted. He also wrote many of the songs (Lamia's Lament, Harmony, Berklee Meatloaf...). .. Others playing with Ian at Berklee and in Boston, in the songs posted: Mark Faulkner, John Campos, Jay McCaffrey, Ed Lanthier, Andres Villamil, and the late Saul Goldfarb... Ian Moulding, musician, beloved brother and son, passed away on June 23, 2008 (his sister Karen's birthday). He was a hero and he is missed. .. Ian attended Berklee College of Music, Hellgate High, Windward High and Paul Revere Jr. High. He studied with Ted Greene and other greats. He played guitar and mandolin. .. Ian spent the last ten years of his life in New York City, as the best friend of his sister, Karen. Please stay tuned here for more of his music and for news about a memorial in L.A. in the Fall, and an award in his name at the Supported Work Program shelter (where he lived and flourished before he died). .. Here is an Ian quote. Karen: "Ian, I'm about to take a shower." Ian: "I'll alert the media." .. I miss you Ian. Your music, your love, and your inspiration live on.

  • Influences

    ...... Flyer from Ian's "Strange Spaghetti" recital at Berklee College of Music. (Flyer by Ian's buddy Mark Farfaglia.)

  • Sounds Like

    .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. (scroll over photos for details)

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  • Karen

    I made it through my birthday/day you died yesterday. Remember when you used to say, "one day I'll be older than you!" Now I wish you were right. I'm writing a memoir about you and when my class read an excerpt yesterday they cried...because of how much you gave me. You live on.  I love you always. I miss you everyday.

    2 months ago
  • Karen

    Your birthday was yesterday and I felt you with me all day...as every day. Here in LA with Mom. Missing you but proud of you and forging ahead as I know you want. Love you. So glad you were born. Miss you everyday.

    5 months ago
  • Karen

    I honored you on my birthday/day you left this world. I miss you! I'm so grateful for the time we had, and I know that you are with me now.

    1 year ago
  • Karen

    Ian my bro, missing you on your birthday. In New York and feel you everywhere. Tried to brave a taco at San Locos. No go (just the smell walking in made me miss you too much), but I do plan to eat ice cream tonight, as you would want. Here's what Steven said, "it is very good he (you) had a strong impact --it is hard, esp today, to carry on and live with it." I feel your love and gifts (and hear your sarcastic jabs making fun of me) all the time. That is how I carry on. So be at peace, bro. Know how much you mattered (Mom and Dad missing you, west village, east village, Mark and your meetings, Berklee friends and John and Robert, even some Hellgate), ...how much we all still love because of you.

    1 year ago
  • Karen

    Hi Bro, Missing you. I'm back in New York. Still spells of grief and guilt. Why didn't I buy you the muffin that time? I'm sorry! BUT I have great friends here, and your friends have been great. I know you would want me proud of you, not sad. So I strive to be grateful and proud for how far you went, and the amazing time we had. Death finds everyone; it's life that's the miracle, right? And yeah, I'm writing the movie of you and your music will be in it indeed. (We just have to get Danny to agree!) I'm determined on all fronts. I'm forging ahead to make you proud! Best of all possible brothers. Love you forever.
    p.s. Mom misses you so much but is proud. Dad thinks about you all the time; I can tell. His poetry book is dedicated to you! I wear your necklace every day ...remembering to do you proud!

    1 year ago
  • Karen

    My birthday, and one year without you, today. I miss you. I am trying to make the new life without you, with a lot of love and support. It is not the same as you, and will never be the same. We were in it together, and everyone knows. But I know you went out on a high note, and you were triumphant, and would want me to rejoice in that, and what we had, and feel proud. You would want me to feel the love from others, since you are still with me too. So that's what I'll do. But I wish I could tell you how you were my soul mate, my partner, the only way I could have survived the first half of my life. But I'm proud of you, and us, and I am going on with what you gave me. I miss you everyday. But the day you died is even more my birthday, because your love transformed me. I'm thanking you, Ian. I know you're with me forever.

    2 years ago
  • Karen

    Missing you on your birthday, Ian. Grateful that I had you for as long as I did, best of all possible brothers. But oh how I miss you big time. ("How does my...?" "It looks fine," you say, not looking up. "..hair look?" I finish.)Love you forever, Ian. Thank you.
    your sister forever, Karen

    2 years ago
  • John

    Happy Birthday, Ian. Wherever you are, you remain much loved and much missed.
    :-)

    2 years ago
  • Karen

    I just found the last email you ever wrote me. Here it is:

    "Re: I published another story
    k: i never had any doubt that you would publish work and gain the respect you so greatly deserve- I'm so proud of you-maybe I can write the music when they start to make movies of your work!! Love eekee poo-poo"

    I promise you that movie is coming, eekee poo-poo, if it's the last thing I do. With your music indeed. The movie is going to be all about you... your struggles, your triumph, how you changed me, and how you changed New York.

    You are more my hero everyday. Grief morphs. Every day I still worry I didn't love you enough...which I'm told is "normal" when the person closest to you dies.(An "illusion of grief"...what fun!) So, bizarrely, I comfort myself with that...that I wouldn't be feeling this if not for how much I loved you. But I feel you as a part of me too. And I promise I'm telling our story, your story. I'm working up to it a little more every day.

    I love you, Ian. I wish I could tell you right now. But I promise you, I plan to tell the world instead.

    2 years ago
  • Karen

    It's Christmas. I miss you, Ian. I miss you so much.

    2 years ago
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Bio:

This is the memorial page for my brother Ian Moulding, my life-long best friend, who died unexpectantly on June 23, 2008 (my birthday). Ian died a hero, struggled like most of us can never imagine. Basically, Ian taught me how to love, and he changed New York. I plan to tell the world Ian's story. Here is a preview, and some of his music...

My brother Ian died a hero. Ian was dealt many difficult cards in his life, including his parents' divorce at the age of two; the frustrating combination of a superior IQ, with a learning disability; a far-away dad (though not entirely by anyone's choice), and being in the shadow of a stepfamily; the economic woes of a child of divorce before divorce was "done right;" and being taught, from the advanced age of nine, that the way to be a guy, and be in with guys, was to be high. We went back and forth on the airplane together between parents. Ian was the only one who was always with me, and vica versa.

Ian struggled with addiction for his entire life. But, even in those years, he was much loved, a truly gentle soul. Ian was born in Iowa City to a mother from New York, whose parents were teachers, and a father from Winnetka, Illinois. Ian's paternal great-grandfather founded the Caterpillar Tractor Company.

Ian grew up first in Los Angeles with our mother, where he attended Brentwood Elementary, Paul Revere Elementary, and Windward. We loved our mother, but missed our father. We spent visits frantically snapping pictures of our father and his new family with my instamatic camera, then pouring longingly over the albums when we were back at our mom's. Ian would sometimes call other men, men on the street, a cousin of our mom's he barely knew, "dad." I still remember him gazing longingly at our temporary stepfather, desperate for approval. Ian wanted to belong, wanted to be one of the guys. At around this time, during visits to our dad's, Ian found a way to belong, to be a guy, as well as to appease his life-long anxiety, when we learned how to get high (and I mean high) with our stepbrother and other older guys. Ian was nine then, and weighed 60 pounds.

But Ian had good times too. His friends John and Robert, at Windward and Revere, called him "Yan." Our mother played games with us and we went to Disneyland, the beach. She always believed in Ian. He inherited her gift for music. (She had attended Music and Art high school in New York.) And Ian started learning guitar.

Our mother had hard times after the divorce from our stepfather, and I left L.A. to go live with my father in Missoula, Montana, when I was fifteen, and I left Ian there, in the midst of those hard times, and the separation was hard for him, and still haunts me. But Ian came to Missoula too a few years later, and went to Hellgate High, where he wrote for The Lance newspaper (as I did too, with the now famous Steve Albini, by the way). The mayor of Missoula, John Egan, remembers Ian's jokes and his fingers calloused, even then, from guitar playing, as he worked on the newspaper. Those few years is Missoula were good times for us, jogging with our dad, learning to drive, making our stepmom laugh when he put ice in his coffee to cool it off, followed by less good times when divorced family drama erupted about who would pay for Ian's college, and Ian, thrust in middle, felt the old message again, that he was worthless and in the way.

But Ian was determined, and drama or not he got himself on the airplane and went to Berklee College of Music in Boston. Ian was a gifted guitar and mandolin player, with his own particular sad yet ironic sound. The music on his page is from that era (thanks to Ed Lanthier and Jay McCaffrey for getting me the tapes), during college where he performed his recital with Jay McCaffrey and John Campos, and after, when he played in a band called, "Left of Zero," with Mark Faulkner, Ed Lanthier, the late Saul Goldfarb, and Andres Villamil (who Ian loved to call "Andre'as.")

I always knew Ian was loved during those years, but I know it more now, from all of the notes and emails and music and support that is pouring in from his amazing friends. You can see some of it on his page, and I will post more.

But Ian's anxieties and addiction plagued him in Boston. He did a long stint at a rehab in 1994, where he apparently flourished, and where he wrote some amazing poetry, which I am still reading through, and will post some of soon. Then he decided to move to Denver to be with our father, but the stresses of family history and politics, his own terror of being rejected, proved too much for his already low tolerance for anxiety, and he relapsed even before he arrived, and found himself living downtown at the Salvation Army and the YMCA. I went to visit him in 1997, and in 1999 I knew that if I never did anything else in my life, I had to have Ian move to New York and live here as my family.

Ian had been assaulted by a man he met in a bowling alley there in Denver, who promised to show him his guitar, and so whom he'd followed home in his horrible loneliness. And after that I knew from his voice, every night when I called him on the S.R.O. pay phone, that he was drinking himself to death. I still remember the pride in his voice when he decided to come, "Karen, ok! I'm coming to New York!" So I sent him a plane ticket, and he got himself on that plane, and he could barely walk a straight line to me when he got off, and he had to go immediately to the hospital the next morning. He was almost dead from d.t.s.

He lived with me in my one bedroom apartment in the west village for a year, and it is still the best year of my life. I was not into the "you're the addict fuck up, I the 'good girl/achiever' thing." I knew we were equals, and that not only Ian's life, but my life, depended on living that way, and shaking off those entrenched, intimacy-killing, roles. I grew to understand how mightily Ian struggled not to drink and use, that it wasn't an act of "will" that made him do it, but only his own anguish. I learned to say, "Yea, you made a day!" when he made it a day without drinking, but let it be his problem if he drank again, just to say, "tomorrow is a new day." (Don't get me wrong. I did this very imperfectly! I screamed and yelled at times. But, hey, we were imperfect together.)

He tried cooking school that year, which made him too anxious (though he was a damn good cook, lucky for me!), and gave some guitar lessons around town. He used to have coffee made for me when I woke up. There would be a little index card with "Karen coffee" written on it, leaning against the pot, and a picture of a mug with steam coming out of it, an arrow pointing up to the mug.

I would go out dancing, single that year, and not without my own craziness. I frequented a sort of mixed new wave/80s/rock club (Squeezebox) and one day Ian said, "You've come home with a guitar player, a bass player, and now a poser. You should start your own band, 'Guys who f*ed Karen.'" --And it was Ian who taught me about the questionable IQ of drummers. (Just kidding!)

At the end of that year, I went off to the Virginia Center for Creative Arts for a writing residency, and left Ian to fend for himself for a month, and he spiralled down immediately, and ended up in rehab, then another, then a halfway house for a while, then another relapse, and on and on. But his relapses grew further and further apart. He began to make three months, then six months, then almost a year, and throughout all of it, we remained best friends in New York. He had bad periods. He slept for weeks under the BQE, with the other homeless destitute. He had a girlfriend who died. But he kept working at it. And then, in 2004, Ian began his longest period of sobriety yet.

Ian went to AA and I went to AlAnon. We'd meet at the Indian store on 1st avenue and 3rd street in the east village (where I moved and still live) for coffee, and then he'd go down to his meeting, I'd go up to mine. He came over twice a week or so, after our meetings, and we watched t.v. (Ian liked Lost and My Name is Earl) and we ate dinner and I nagged him about eating too much ice cream...until he pointed out that it was a lot better for him than vodka. Ian hated having shit jobs, he was just too smart. But he also had that learning problem, and a lot of anxiety, and of course couldn't afford to live in New York without a shit job (or really with one, either). And he finally landed himself a job at Whole Foods.

Ian was still living in a half way house, this one in Bushwick, and it was uncomfortable there. They let in guys who used, convicts, and Ian was this little guy from West L.A. and Montana. And a guy at Whole Foods started to harass him as well, and in the summer of 2007, after almost three years sober, the anxiety proved too much, and Ian relapsed badly. He still hung out near the meetings, still kept in touch with me and with his sponsor, but he self-medicated up a storm, reeling publicly on my block, sleeping in the ATM (which at least was better than under the BQE, where he'd spent a few weeks before), spending all of his savings, getting kicked out of his house, and losing everything.

And then, to use AA speak, after almost the whole summer on the street, when I'd almost lost hope, Ian "came back." He called and said, "I'm ready," and I called his sponsor, and he got himself back into a rehab, even though it meant staying up all night in one waiting room, then another, hoping for a bed, and, although he'd been solid and sober for almost three years the last round, this time when Ian came out, he wasn't just watching t.v. and getting by, he was really into living sober, working his AA program at full speed, understanding what was underneath his self-medicating. He went to meetings every day. He turned from the little brother to the big brother, texting me almost every day, "How ya doin' K? Can I get you anything?" He spent his first week of that sobriety homeless, sleeping on couches, or all night in chairs at meetings, and then with his sponsor's help, he got himself into a "Supported Work Program" shelter in Greenpoint.

He just about to graduate from the shelter program. He'd earned his own room. To his absolute joy, our dad gave him a guitar, and he practiced every day. He had just been elected Chair of Living Now, the coolest AA meeting in all of New York (and, so, hey, in all of the world). He was looking for work, and very anxious about that, but staying sober.

I can still hear Ian's voice, asking me to go to his AA buddy Ernie's bar-b-que in June. I still curse myself every day that I said no, I had a meeting that day. Because Ian was my life-long rock. I never thought he would be gone.

Ian worked his breakfast shift at his shelter on June 23rd, my birthday. He was at meetings that week, telling the guys to stay clean, keep working it, and stay in school. (He never quite finished Berklee, and I know he always regretted that.) He went to his room to nap after his breakfast shift. And never woke up.

Two hundred people came to Ian's memorial at the La Salle Academy in the East Village. Ian's AA friends, my friends, our neighborhood friends, the guys he inspired at the shelter, packed the room, and raved about Ian, quoting his jokes, his determination, and just his courage, in the face of all odds. In the words of his friend Henry:

You stood before the group celebrating a deuce
It wasn't long after that you succumbed to
The darkness and its abuse

..... The uneven medication homeless again
Even the menial job came to an end
While carrying a mandolin with your weathered face
A search for redemption longing for a friend
Back to day one willing to stay sober
Relapse is high stakes gambling
At forty something having to start over

Ian's phone was full of text messages, encouraging other guys to keep working it, to our dad ("happpy birthday," "happy father's day," "send cigarettes!"), and to me, just checking in ("how r u today, k?" "need anything?" "this guitar is awesome, and so are you."). Nine years before, Ian was almost dead on the streets of Denver. Seven years before, he was sleeping alone under the BQE. But when Ian died, two hundred guys, plus my friends who knew him, knew of his stupendous love just from hearing me, packed that memorial room, and raved about his triumph. And I can't walk down a block in the East Village without someone stopping me with words for my bro.

I miss you, Ian. I'm lost without you. But remembering your strength, I'm ashamed to even say that. I pray for half of your strength.

That's how I'll go on without you.

Rest in peace, brother. You taught me love. You are in my soul forever.

Your Sister,
Karen

Member Since:

December 16, 2006

Members:

IAN MOULDING plays guitar and/or Mandolin on all songs posted. He also wrote many of the songs (Lamia's Lament, Harmony, Berklee Meatloaf...).

Others playing with Ian at Berklee and in Boston, in the songs posted: Mark Faulkner, John Campos, Jay McCaffrey, Ed Lanthier, Andres Villamil, and the late Saul Goldfarb.

Ian Moulding, musician, beloved brother and son, passed away on June 23, 2008 (his sister Karen's birthday). He was a hero and he is missed.

Ian attended Berklee College of Music, Hellgate High, Windward High and Paul Revere Jr. High. He studied with Ted Greene and other greats. He played guitar and mandolin.

Ian spent the last ten years of his life in New York City, as the best friend of his sister, Karen. Please stay tuned here for more of his music and for news about a memorial in L.A. in the Fall, and an award in his name at the Supported Work Program shelter (where he lived and flourished before he died).

Here is an Ian quote. Karen: "Ian, I'm about to take a shower." Ian: "I'll alert the media."

I miss you Ian. Your music, your love, and your inspiration live on.

Influences:

Flyer from Ians Strange SpaghettI recital in Boston. I was there, and so was our mom. Ian and Jay rocked! Flyer from Ian's "Strange Spaghetti" recital at Berklee College of Music. (Flyer by Ian's buddy Mark Farfaglia.)

Sounds Like:

(scroll over photos for details)

Record Label:

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