Singer-songwriters are a dime-a-dozen. I oughta know, I’m one of them. Sometimes you get lucky and come across one whose songs are just exceptional; captivating stories or imagery, engaging melody, clever wordplay, whatever it is that makes a song great. Once in a while it’s more about the voice behind the microphone. Just the right amount of rasp or crack in those high notes, the perfect recipe of pain & angst, or just enough off-pitch in that delivery to let you know it’s real, live music. Every now and then, not very often, you’ll get the complete package. Great songs, great voice. Walter DeBarr was that guy, and more.

I met Walter in Huntington, West Virginia in 2019. I was on a short run south supporting my 1987 EP and walking up to the venue for soundcheck. As I approached the front door, guitar in one hand, suitcase full of CDs and tee-shirts in the other, it slammed open and this dark, wire-thin, gangly and very frantic guy in suspenders with an angular face and a wiry beard came out, looking down, left and right for something. “Oh hey man, you playin’?” he asked as I stepped back to avoid a collision. “Yeah man, I’m Jeremy, I’m in town from Detroit.” He’d barely even looked up, but at that moment he stopped looked me in the eye, gave me a big hug, and said “Welcome brother. I lost my phone and I gotta find it. I’m sorry.” I wished him luck, maybe offered to help, maybe not, and he went out into the street as I went into the bar.

That night I knew he was something special. There was a deep, dark beauty to his songs and his voice that only comes from pain. And Walter knew pain. Addiction, prison, the loss of a father that he’d never met, then the loss of his mother. The challenges of being the only bi-racial person, not only in his family…but in his small town, in very rural West Virginia. Blatant, deep-rooted racism and bullying. His songs poured out of him like the air he breathed and the pain he’d seen. I knew that I was watching someone who wouldn’t be playing rooms like this for long. I wished I didn’t have to follow him.

We kept in touch casually after that, agreed to play some shows together sometime. Not an uncommon thing to say, but not all that common to actually see it happen. He signed to Unchained Management and started hitting the road, embracing recovery, and honing his craft. Other people were noticing what I’d seen in Huntington, and I wasn’t surprised.

In December of 2021 Walter was touring with William Elliot Whitmore and they had a Detroit-area stop. I was on the fence about going, but I hadn’t seen Walt since that night in Huntington and you never know when you might not ever see someone again, so I fought the urge to stay home and went to the show, alone. Walt’s tour manager and friend called him and let him know I was around. A few minutes later it was hugs, shots, reminiscing, and the mutual appreciation society. We recalled each other’s sets from that night in Huntington and his lost cell-phone, and had some laughs.

He sat on that stool with his guitar and completely owned the room. I’ve never seen a more gracious, grateful performer, professing his love to everyone watching between every song, with no chance whatsoever that he didn’t appreciate what was happening. But it was the songs themselves that ruled the moment. It was dead silent while he sang, and there were some wet eyes being dried. I had a lump in my own throat a few times.

We hung out during WEW’s set and made big plans to tour theaters together. We even agreed that they’d stop by for breakfast at my place the next morning, though late-night promises are often ill-conceived when the road calls towards an opposite horizon, and the detour wasn’t possible. I laughed at the prospect of him taking me out on a theater tour, and I knew it was unlikely, but I believe that he believed it at that moment. I knew that the prospect of him playing theaters was absolutely in the cards.

The last I heard from him was a “great to see you last night!” text from Pittsburgh the next day. He returned home to West Virginia after that amazing tour with William Elliot Whitmore to some turmoil in his personal life that left him spinning a bit - but outwardly, at least - he seemed to be keeping it together. He’d recently moved into a new place and started giving guitar lessons to kids, which he seemed to really love. He was 39 years old, he had kids of his own that he loved, and a world of friends and fans who loved him. His future was bright, his talent was immeasurable, but his demons were darker and stronger than his public demeanor lead anyone to believe. I was more convinced than ever that he was destined for big things. I couldn’t wait to see him again.   

Visit Walter DeBarr’s website, listen to his music, watch his videos: https://walterdebarrmusic.com/

Jeremy Porter lives near Detroit and fronts the rock and roll band Jeremy Porter And The Tucos. Follow them on Facebook to read his road blog about their adventures on the dive-bar circuit.
www.thetucos.com
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Twitter: @jeremyportermi | Instagram: @onetogive & @jeremyportermusic