Stamos wrote as part of a nearly 1,200-word message on Facebook Sunday: “(W)hile I always knew there would eventually come a day when things would change, I never really allowed myself to imagine what that day would feel like. I’m not saying tonight is the end. God, I hope it isn’t. But there’s a part of me that wonders if this could be the last time I get to stand behind Mike, play those songs, watch him work an audience, and feel that indescribable magic that happens when those harmonies fill a room.”
When Sunday’s show began about a half-hour past the ticketed time, Stamos and Love’s son, Christian Love, who also performs with the band, appeared in front of the Ryman’s curtain to offer short speeches, setting the stage for what fans were about to see.
At the close of the show, Queen’s “We Are the Champions” came over the loudspeakers. Stamos and Christian Love helped Mike to his feet, and then, on either side of him, held his arms aloft in the air in a triumphant pose, until the curtains closed in front of them.
I’m boarding a plane to Nashville to play with the Beach Boys at the legendary Ryman Auditorium, and I’m struggling to put my feelings into words.
My beloved friend, father figure, musical hero and mentor, Mike Love, is facing serious health challenges. We hope he’ll be doing what he loves for years to come, but we don’t know what the future holds. With that said, we have tonight.
Mike is a fighter. Despite his doctors, family and friends telling him to focus on his health he insists that he must be on stage. Mike tells us that he needs his band, his audience that loves him, his friends and drummer surrounding him to lift him up.
And something about that is hitting me harder than I expected.
I’ve been playing with Mike and the Beach Boys for 41 years. Forty-one years. That’s longer than I’ve done almost anything in my life. And while I always knew there would eventually come a day when things would change, I never really allowed myself to imagine what that day would feel like.
I’m not saying tonight is the end. God, I hope it isn’t. But there’s a part of me that wonders if this could be the last time I get to stand behind Mike, play those songs, watch him work an audience, and feel that indescribable magic that happens when those harmonies fill a room.
The Mike Love we see tonight may not be exactly the Mike Love we’ve known for all these years. But he is still every bit the Mike Love we love. The man is still there. The spirit is still there. The heart is still there. And the music, thank God, is still there.
When you look objectively at Mike’s contributions to popular music, they’re staggering. His lyrics, his hooks, his unmistakable voice, his optimism, his belief in the power of a simple song to make people feel good. He helped create music that has become part of the fabric of people’s lives. Music that has outlived trends, generations, and just about everything else the world has thrown at it.
He’s performed more than 7,000 live concerts. Think about that. Seven thousand nights of walking onto a stage and giving people a reason to smile, dance, remember, fall in love, or maybe just forget their troubles for a couple of hours.
That’s not just a career. That’s a lifetime of showing up for people.
And yet, as enormous as his musical contributions are, what he’s given me personally is somehow even greater.
I can’t be objective about what he’s meant to me. How do you measure a friendship like this? How do you put a value on 41 years of shared stages, hotel rooms, airplanes, dressing rooms, laughter, triumphs, disappointments, and all those little moments nobody else ever sees?
Mike didn’t just give me a place in his band. He gave me a place in his life.
And somewhere along the way, his music became part of my identity, too.
Maybe the word I’ve been looking for is “stewardship.”
A steward: someone lucky enough to help carry this extraordinary music forward, to be a small part of the bridge between the people who grew up with these songs and the generations who haven’t even heard them yet.
Every time I’ve stepped onstage with Mike, I’ve become a better musician. More importantly, I believe I’ve become a better man.
I’ve learned from Mike about dedication, loyalty, endurance, the power of optimism and the importance of showing up even when it’s difficult. I’ve also learned that music isn’t just something you perform, it’s something you give away.
Which brings me to tonight.
The Ryman Auditorium.
The Mother Church of Country Music.
There’s something almost poetic about playing this particular show in that particular room. A place that began as a house of worship and became one of the most sacred stages in American music. A room where generations of musicians have stood, bringing their hopes, their heartbreak, their faith and their songs to an audience.
You’re becoming a small part of a much bigger story.
Maybe that’s exactly where we need to be tonight.
I don’t know what the future holds. My mother always said tomorrow’s never promised. And I don’t want to spend these precious 90 minutes worrying about something I can’t control.
I want to look over at him and really see him. I want to hear every note, every harmony, every familiar joke, every cheer from the audience. I want to remember what it feels like when the first chord hits and suddenly we’re not thinking about age or illness or time. I want to appreciate that we’re just a bunch of guys making music together, like we’ve always done.
I want to be grateful for every single second, without making those seconds feel like they’re slipping away.
Maybe the hardest part of loving someone and sharing so much of your life with them is that you become so accustomed to the miracle of having them there that you forget, occasionally, that it’s a miracle at all.
Tonight, I won’t forget.
And maybe the most important thing I can do for Mike tonight is provide him with what he wants and needs: to be his drummer, to be his friend, to be with his band and to be with an audience that loves him.
That’s what we are going to give him tonight.
For 90 minutes this evening, I’m not going to worry about yesterday or tomorrow. I’m going to be exactly where I’ve been so blessed to be for 41 years. Behind the drums, looking out at a sea of smiling faces, helping my friend send a little more joy into the world
And when the last note rings out at the Ryman tonight, I’m going to think about how lucky I am that after all these years, we’re still making music together.
We don’t know what tomorrow brings. But we have tonight.
And tonight, we get to make some more good vibrations
