01. First Fridays: Erin Chapin, Final Thoughts, and the Ghost Ship Fire
An interview with singer and songwriter, Erin Chapin, about her song “Final Thoughts” for our monthly installment featuring artists who are using their craft to process big themes around death.
11 months ago I found myself in the back of a friend’s car on an incredibly dark night. It was pouring, the roads were flooded and we were asking ourselves “Why are we doing this again?” We were heading to Bean Night, a once-in-awhile-thing where our friends and band, the Rainbow Girls, gather people together in their dark and cozy cabin for a night of food, cheap beer, music, and togetherness.
I settled into a pile of friends and pillows when my friend Erin, one of three members of the acoustic folk trio Rainbow Girls, took the stage. She said “Does anyone know what today is?” Silence. She went on to share how that night — the night we drove through rain and darkness to be surrounded by some of our closest friends — was the one month mark of a night where thirty-six people lost their lives in Oakland’s Ghost Ship fire.
She then played her new song Final Thoughts in honor of the people that lost their lives that night, leaving us all in tears. The song brought a sacredness to that night and a reminder that we could gather in happy times, and especially sad ones.
“I feel like I knew all of them, because they were in a housing co-op, a safe space, the kind of spaces my friends and I and our communities have created time and time again so that we can be who we want to be and we can act how we want to act and not feel judged”
First Fridays by Death Dialogue is a chance to highlight artists doing work that processes big emotions and themes around death, loss, tragedy, and more through their craft. Erin’s song stayed with me long after that night, and I knew I needed to not only share it, but hear more from her and launch this monthly installment for Death Dialogue with Final Thoughts.
Erin lives in a small cabin outside of Bodega Bay with her two bandmates and some friends. Driving up there has the exact opposite feeling of driving through Oakland. Giant buildings are replaced by giant trees, clogged freeways turn into winding roads, and arriving at their cabin feels like stepping into a space where you can let out that giant breath you’ve been holding while navigating the city. But there’s something about their cabin that is so similar to the photos I’ve seen of the Ghost Ship warehouse, and community houses I’ve visited like it. Art is alive there. People who are committed to the world they want to see thrive there. And it’s a refuge for those people and their community, even — no, especially — amongst their three pianos and scattered instruments, mismatched furniture, twinkle lights, prayer flags, and knick-knacks adorning any and all walls. They’ve warmly welcomed me into their home countless times, and the weekend before this interview, they held a private music festival for all of their friends simply because they believe in the power of music and the community it creates.
We settled on her bed in the back of the house, with a glass door overlooking a porch and open fields, while her cat, Hashbrown joined us. I asked her how the song came about. Erin shared that she went to bed early the night of December 2, 2016 and the next morning she woke up to the news on her phone with the death toll continuing to rise. She got on Facebook and saw people marking themselves “safe”. She started looking up news stories and read a report of a fire victim who texted her mom “I love you. I’m going to die mom” before the fire took her life. Erin shared, “I’m so grateful she was able to do that because that’s what I would want if I had one minute... I would want to text my mom of all people. But I would want her to know that [my message] was for everyone, too. And that’s what this song is…It was raining, I was here, and no one else was in the house and I was just playing the progression and that line just came out of nowhere ‘I’m going to die mom, but I love you, It’s not what I planned on, but it’s happening anyway.’”
The longer you know Erin, the more you realize her music, and all Rainbow Girl music is more than just a diary of their days. It’s about thoughts, struggles, and ideas that are bigger than the simple titles we see in the news and their music challenges us to think beyond headlines (listen to their song Cameron Sterling, a song about Alton Sterling’s son, and you’ll see what I mean). In this same vein, Erin recognizes the Ghost Ship Fire is not just a fire that killed 36 people, it’s about all the people those 36 victim’s lives touched: “You can number those people, but it’s more than that. It’s their mothers. And their fathers and probably lovers. And then outside of that there’s the people they go to the store and buy their cigarettes from or their groceries from, or their massage therapist or their next door neighbors or their aunts and uncles and cousins and this huge network of people. It’s not just the victims. That’s easily 500 victims.”
“The things I’ve been taking away from that — besides always know your exits — is also that we have no guarantee and everything feels so normal until there’s some really striking catalyst that blows normality to pieces. And then you’re just picking up the pieces and trying to hold them all in your hands.”
When explaining how the Ghost Ship Fire changed the way she thinks of death, she shared a story of how a group of friends showed up at the Ghost Ship warehouse, left to get alcohol, and when they came back fifteen minutes later, the warehouse was up in flames. “The things I’ve been taking away from that — besides always know your exits — is also that we have no guarantee and everything feels so normal until there’s some really striking catalyst that blows normality to pieces. And then you’re just picking up the pieces and trying to hold them all in your hands.”
For many, the Ghost Ship fire was the “striking catalyst that blew normality to pieces” around the Bay Area. The Ghost Ship fire brought the socio-economic and political climate of the bay to the forefront of people’s minds, leaving conversations around rent prices, safety, and the future of artist collectives rippling beyond the West Coast. It forced many to look at the broken pieces in their hands reminding people “It could have been me.” I, too, felt it deeply. I distinctly remember going to one space about a year before the fire, wandering around a massive, winding, dusty, and lively building before a moment of panic when I realized I don’t know how to get out of here. I climbed a ladder to a door, thankful to have found a way out, only to emerge on a roof with a giant boat. How that boat got up there, I’ll never know.
“I don’t know what the price to be paid for Oakland to pay attention to all these people being marginalized in their homes, kicked out of their homes, forced to live in warehouses with a bunch of other people — and making the best of it, I would like to hope — but it seems like a pretty heavy price to pay. So many young lives. And it’s a really scary thought, too. I feel like I knew all of them, because they were in a housing co-op, a safe space, the kind of spaces my friends and I and our communities have created time and time again so that we can be who we want to be and we can act how we want to act and not feel judged — or be judged for not doing our dishes and be judged for the things that could befall anyone — not what you look like or where you came from or these things, we’re all a bunch a misfits.” Adding, “I mean everyone in this whole world is a bunch of misfits, but only some of us realize that.”
I asked Erin how she felt after writing Final Thoughts. She said she felt like calling her mom, which she did. She told her mom about the song, the fire, how a lot of her friends lost friends that night, and how you could feel the deep sadness everywhere through the bay. She went on to share about the power of music, about how sometimes, music is able to process big feelings for you in ways you couldn’t by yourself, and provides solace when you would have otherwise felt alone — it doesn’t even have to be your song. That’s why Erin wrote Final Thoughts, as a way for her — and you — to process the tragedy of the Ghost Ship fire. And maybe that’s what we take forward, one year later: that we can continue to create music and spaces of safety for the misfits who know it not because of the fire, but in spite of it. And through that and each other we can find healing.
- To see more from Erin, visit RainbowGirlsMusic.com or find her on Instagram at @RainbowGirlsStomp
- To listen to their recently released album, purchase it here or listen on Spotify here.
- If you’d like to be featured for future First Friday installments, reach out via DeathDialogue.com
