Setser


Some 30 years ago, I was drinking at the Uptowner, asking questions about the local music scene. I hadn't been in Milwaukee long, but this guy I was talking to seemed knowedgable. He had to go, but he handed me his card and encourged me to call him if I needed more information. His first name was Paul, but as there were a number of Pauls in the scene, he was referred to by his last name, and even when all the other Pauls scattered about, it pretty much stuck. 

Setser. 

Actually, we were having that conversation because other friends of mine, (Paul Cotter and Dan Mullen) were putting together an Irish rock act called McTavish and Setser's talents were critical to getting if off the ground. His day job was "creative services" -- writing and playing commercial jingles, producing sound and video for various clients. But it was simply his day job at the time. When it came to the Milwaukee music community, he applied his talents as an all-around utility infielder in a band: he could (and often did) pick up any instrument and fill in that final missing note, whether it was the celtic rock of McTavish, the cabaret of Eat the Mystery, or the Americana of the Riverwest Aces. And he was never the focus of the band; instead, he was the member who made the band better just by being in it: he was rock solid behind any frontperson, filling in any blanks, whether they were musical or logistical. And he wasn't afraid to put on a costume and play the part, whether it was a serious band, or a TrashFest tribute. He did his part and got the job done. 

But most people knew him as the godfather of that wonderful tiny dive, the Circle A Cafe, that club we all love for its ecletcic lineup of music coupled with an intimacy not available anywhere else in town. In fact, short of a few house concerts, it would be hard to find a place that could cram so many captivating moments in less than 400 square feet and well before -- due to the early show starts -- any other band playing in town had even loaded in. Setser was in no small way a critical piece of what makes that tiny club the home of so many magical musical moments.  

Because when you went to see a band at the Circle A, he was the guy who took your money at the door, and chances are he knew your name. He was the guy who set up the PA for the band and troubleshot it if anything went wrong. He was the guy who booked the band in the first place, and more than a few times, he was the guy on keyboards/ukelele/accordion/whatever in the band. He was the guy who, without fail, would thank the band and the crowd for coming, and then goad the crowd into cheering the band for just one more before the Circle A's cabaret license forced them to quit. He was the guy who then introduced the DJ, and plugged the upcoming shows before taking down the PA. 

And then the news came on Facebook that suddenly, he was no longer with us. Within an hour, the memories and condolences came pouring in to our news feeds from every corner of the Milwaukee music scene: from the hardcore punks to the high end jazzbos, from the traashy glamourpusses to the sincere jangle-popmeisters, from the worldly ethnic musicians to the stalwart Americana players. Everybody knew Setser. Everybody loved him. And with good reason: on top of all of his talent, he was a really great guy. Honest, funny, thoughtful, caring, downright sweet. What's not to love? 

When we all crawl out of our respective holes and venture out to see live music again, it's not going to be the same. Not because COVID will have changed the way we approach live music or any of that crap. No, it will be because Setser won't be there, letting you in on the honor system because he can't change your $20 bill just yet, asking the band how many vocal mikes they need, or lending his own talents to the show. Yeah, I know, we're all getting old and one by one, we're all having to bury our peers. Already this year we've had to say goodbye to the wonderful Sarah Kozar, the incredible Dave Bolyard. And now this. Beyond our collective sadness, we can't collect ourselves to mourn together except online, virtually. Any other year, we'd all be at the Circle A tonight, raising a glass to the man together, hugging each other, and telling our stories, but it's as fate decided to double kick us by taking this man from us and not even allowing us to grieve properly. 

Rest well, Paul. We don't even know yet how much you'll be missed. 



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