November 11, 2025 • 17 mins
He was a genius with a guitar in his hands—raw, fearless, untamed.
His band changed the sound of American rock, blending beauty and power in a way no one had ever heard.
He should have had a lifetime of music ahead of him. But one night, in a haze of laughter and whiskey, brilliance met tragedy. And the silence that followed still echoes decades later.
This is the story of the man some called “better than Hendrix.”
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
His band changed the sound of American rock, blending beauty and power in a way no one had ever heard.
He should have had a lifetime of music ahead of him. But one night, in a haze of laughter and whiskey, brilliance met tragedy. And the silence that followed still echoes decades later.
This is the story of the man some called “better than Hendrix.”
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. And here we
go again, telling another story of music's dark side. Some
stories don't fade away. They end with a gunshot and
a body on the floor, in silence where music should be.
(00:21):
This is a man born with electricity in his hands.
Every note raw and feral and alive, every performance like
lightning breaking open the sky. He should have had decades ahead,
more albums, more stages. Instead, his story became a warning,
a moment frozen in time, a moment so senseless no
one could believe it actually happened. This is not about music.
(00:44):
It's about brilliance running out of control, about danger hiding
in plain sight, and how one pull of a trigger
can silence it all. Does anybody really know what time
it is? It's time for Script seventeen better than Hendrix
Act one beginnings. The late nineteen sixties. America is in chaos.
(01:07):
The streets are filled with protests, The headline scream about
war and assassinations in cities burning. But in the haze
of all that mayhem, music is reinventing itself. Every garage
trembles with amplifiers. Every bar has a stage, and every
kid with a guitar thinks, maybe, just maybe, this is
the ticket out. Most don't make it, Most never even
(01:31):
leave the basement. But in one city, a group of
musicians are chasing a different sound. Not just guitars and drums,
not just another copy of the British invasion. They want
something bigger, something more sonic, something no one else has
dared to try. Picture yourself in a cramped rehearsal space.
A weak light bleeds across the walls. The tiles from
(01:53):
the drop ceiling vibrate from the sound from the amps.
A trumpet blares from the corner. A trombone cuts in, sharp, deliberate,
and over it all, a guitar snarls, raw, untamed, pushing
against the brass like an animal testing its cage. It's
a bit disorganized, but it's thrilling. You can feel it
(02:13):
in your chest, the walls rattling with a sound that
just shouldn't work, but somehow, somehow, it does. On stage,
they're nobody's kids, in cheap suits meaning for beer money,
crammed into tiny rises barely big enough to hold their instruments.
But off stage they're sonic designers drawing blueprints for something
(02:34):
the world has never heard. Imagine the club, sticky floors,
the stink of stale beer, and a crowd apathetic at best.
The horn players blast like sirens, the rhythm section pounds
like a heartbeat, and then that guitar. That guitar cuts
through the noise like a blade. Heads turn and for
(02:55):
the first time you feel it, something electric, something dangerous,
something that might actually change everything. And this is where
it begins, in the noise, in the smoke, in the
hunger of a band that doesn't know it yet, just
how big they're about to become. Act too, make me smile.
(03:15):
They didn't look like revolutionaries. Too many players, too many instruments,
too much happening at once, and yet when they hit
the stage, something just clicked, jelled. The horns roared like
church bells announcing the end of the world. The rhythm
section punches like a heavyweight boxer. And then there's that guitar, howling, growling,
(03:37):
something singing like it had its own soul. It was loud, yes,
deafening sometimes, but there was a precision in that mess,
a kind of order no one else could summon. They
weren't copying London. They weren't chasing San Francisco. They were
inventing their own city of sound. Imagine stepping into a club,
the kind with sticky floors and no windows. Without warning,
(04:01):
the stage explodes, horns blasting, drums, pounding, voices soaring, and
just when you think you can't take any more, the
guitarist steps forward. He hits one note, a vortex of sound.
He makes the guitar scream, then drops into a run
so fast your brain can't keep up. People around you
(04:21):
are shouting, grabbing each other's shoulders in amazement. This guitarist
is different. He isn't flashy. He didn't strut or pose,
he didn't need to. He'd play with his head cocked
to one side, almost like he was listening to a
private conversation between his fingers and the strings. And when
he sang, it wasn't polished, it wasn't pretty, It was raw, gravelly,
(04:45):
the kind of voice that sounded like it had lived
a hundred lives already. He gave the machine a human heart.
They hit the road, long nights, in cramped vans, sleeping
on floors, driving across endless highways. But when they got
to the sta. It was magic. Every time the crowds grew.
(05:05):
By the end of a show, people weren't just fans,
they were converts. In the studio, it was the guitarist
who kept things alive. If it didn't groove, if it
didn't move, he'd say, what's the point. He had a
way of pushing his bandmates. Not cruel, not controlling, just confident.
And sometimes when the night went late, when the tapes
were rolling and everyone was too tired to think, he'd
(05:27):
strap on a guitar, pour out a solo so heavy,
so emotional, that the engineers just sat there in awe.
You were there. It's a festival. The summer sun is
beating down, the grass trampled into mud by tens of
thousands of feet. The stage is massive, the speakers stacked
like skyscrapers. You're in the middle of the crowd, sweat
(05:48):
dripping down your back when the first horn blast cuts
the sky in half. And then there he is again,
that guitarist, hair hanging, wild body, swaying with the notes.
He digs into the strings. The sound shoots out like fire.
The entire hillside rrupts. People scream, dance, and cry. This
wasn't just a rise. It was a rocket straight into
(06:11):
the stratosphere. And the guitarist, he was the fuel that
made it all possible. Act three, I'm a Man. Next,
Act three, I'm a Man. By the dawn of the seventies,
(06:32):
they were no longer just another band. They were a force,
an empire of sound. The name was everywhere. At first
they called themselves Chicago Transit Authority, then simply Chicago. And
at the heart of it all the guitarist with the
wild grin and the battered telecaster, the man whose voice
could rasp through ballads one night and rip through a
(06:53):
jam the next, Terry Cath. Their success was staggering albums
packed with ears, singles blasting out of car radio, songs
that became a soundtrack of a generation. Imagine yourself in
an arena that lights drop, the roar goes up, and
then bam, the horns cut through like sirens. Drums pound
(07:14):
light thunder, the bass rumbles beneath your feet, and then
Terry steps forward, striking a single note that screams through
the rafters. The whole building erupts. Terry wasn't the pop
star crooner, he wasn't the showman. He was just the
soul of the band. Even Jimmy Hendrix himself, after hearing
(07:34):
Terry Kath, said you're better than me. Think about that.
The man who redefined the guitar saw Terry Cath as
an equal. It's the summer of seventy two. You pass
a record store, hear there are songs spilling onto the street.
You flip on the radio and there they are again.
You're at a party. Someone drops the needle and the
(07:55):
room sings along. Everywhere you turn, it's Terry's guitar, his voice,
his fire. Chicago sold millions, They played to seas of people.
They became the soundtrack to America itself, and Terry he
played every note like it was his last act, for
feeling stronger every day. But success carries weight, and the
(08:20):
weight takes its toll. The band was enormous, egos, arguments,
and pressure. The machine was grinding backstage after a show,
one storm's passed, another collapses in silence and Terry he laughs,
lights another cigarette, cracks another drink, and on the surface fine,
but look closer, the cracks are there. Fame brought money,
(08:44):
money brought temptation, and Terry never turned away. The line
between fun and danger blurred, the drinking got heavier, the
drug slipped in, and while others worried about image, about careers,
about protecting what they built, Terry seemed und touched by fear. Two,
untouched in the studio. Three in the morning, ashtrays full coffee, cold,
(09:09):
Terry still going, voice ragged, guitar bleeding through the speakers.
Just one more take, he grins. The engineer shakes his
head and mutters, Terry, you gotta slow down, But Terry
just laughs and plays harder. On stage, the illusion held,
crowd screamed, records sold, but offstage, the storm was coming,
(09:29):
and Terry Cath was living faster, wilder, and closer to
the edge than anyone realized. At five, if you leave
me now, Next at five, if you leave me Now,
(09:51):
January twenty third, nineteen seventy eight, Woodland Hills, California, a
quiet house tucked away in the hills. Terry Cath is
on edge. He's been restless for a while now, the
endless touring, the drinking, the tension in the band. He
jokes that the fame's too loud to sleep through. Tonight's
supposed to be easy, though a few friends, some drinks, music,
(10:13):
in the background. Laughter in the air, but the laughter
never lasts as long as it used to. The stereo
plays empty bottles, glint on the table. Someone's rolling a joint.
Someone else is strumming a guitar half in tune. The
smell of smoke and bourbon clings to everything. You lean
against the wall watching Terry pace the room. His energy
(10:34):
it's hard to describe. At best, it's unpredictable. He can't
sit still. His laugh fills the space, too big for
the room. Hey, you know what, Terry says, Suddenly, eyes wide,
he sets down his bear and reaches for the guitar
on the couch. Listen to this lick I've been working on.
He strums a few chords, slow, heavy, soulful. It sounds
(10:55):
like church and heartbreak all at once. Someone murmurs, that's
beautiful man. Terry grin shrugs, Yeah, just fooling around. He
plays another line, faster this time it laughs. Yeah, maybe
I'll call it drunk blues and e flat. Everyone chuckles,
and for a moment it feels light again. But then
Terry's attention shifts to something on the table, A glint
(11:16):
of chrome beneath the lamplight. It's a nine millimeter semi
automatic pistol. He picks it up, twirling it in his
hand like a toy. Don't worry, it's not loaded, he says.
Come on, man, put that thing down. One friend says,
half laughing, half scared. You gonna freak everybody up. Man.
Terry waves them off for relax. Ah, no guns, I'm
careful it's empty. See. He pops open the magazine, tips
(11:37):
it towards the light, nothing in it, not noticing the
lone bullets still in the chamber. Then he clicks it back,
still smiling. His friend shakes his head. You're crazy, man, crazy, yeah,
Terry says, grinnin buzzed. That's what makes me so good.
The room feels smaller now, the air thicker. The laughter
doesn't sound like laughter anymore. It sounds like fear pretending
(11:58):
to be brave. Terry's pacing again, gun dangling loosely at
his side. He's talking about the band, about the fights,
and how the suits keep telling him to tone it down.
They don't get it, he says. They don't get what
it's supposed to feel like. Man, you can't plan soul.
It takes a big swig from the bottle, wipes his
mouth with the back of his hand. I'm tired of
(12:20):
everyone telling me what to do, he mutters, Then silence.
Someone coughs, someone else stares at the floor. Then he
smirks again, puts the gun to the temple of his head.
Don't worry, it's not loaded, and before anyone can stop him,
click bang, time stops. The sound isn't just loud, it's final,
(12:48):
it's absolute. The bottle drops from his hand, shattering onto
the floor. The gun clatters beside it, and Terry Cath
the man who made guitar scream, who made stadium roar,
falls backwards, eyes wide gone. Before he hits the carpet,
everything slows down. You can't move, you can't breathe. The
(13:10):
smell of smoke and metal blood, It blurs into something unreal.
They say, your life passes before you before you die,
like a dream. He sees his first guitar. He strums
the strings. The sound is his life's ambition. He's standing
on stage again, spotlight, soft and golden. No crowd this time,
(13:36):
just empty seats stretching into forever. He looks down at
his hands, the same hands that played with fire, that
held too tight that let go too soon. A voice
whispers in the dark. What happens now, Terry? He strums
a chord. It echoes like wind through a canyon. Somewhere
(13:58):
miles away, His wife Camilla is tucking their little girl, Michelle,
into bed. The phone hasn't rung yet. It will soon,
though when it does, she'll drop to her knees, unable
to breathe. She'll never forget that sound, not the silence
that followed back to the dream. The lights on the
(14:21):
stage are dim. Terry looks out into the darkness at
all the songs still unwritten, all the solo still waiting
for him. He smiles, tired, almost peaceful. The music swells,
horns rise like angels. The guitar hums softly, gently, fading
into the distance. You see the headlines. You hear the
(14:44):
voices on the radio, the reporters, the fans, the disbelief.
You see the band, his brothers, staring into space without rehearsals,
unsure whether to go on. You see the empty chair
in the studio, the silent guitar in the corner, and
you realize the band won't ever sound the same again.
(15:04):
How could it in that slow, impossible moment after the
gun goes off, a life flashes before your eyes. A
kid from Chicago with a big grin the wild guitarist
that made the world listen, the husband, the father of
the friend. Then slowly the world moves on, but not really,
(15:25):
because when the lights go down and when the first
chord rings out, He's still there in every echo, every solo,
every note that climbs towards the sky and never quite
comes back down. Terry Cath didn't just die. He became
part of the silence, the silence that music fights to fill.
(15:49):
Act six, Color My World, The Terry Cath epilogue. Next
Act six, Color My World, The morning after. Fans didn't
believe it couldn't. How could someone so alive be gone?
The band carried on, Yes, but without him they weren't
(16:11):
the same. Instead of the combination of hard edged, horn
driven prod rocking guitar led jazz, fusion, rock and blues,
the band becomes known as leaders of soft rock ballads.
Terry left behind only thirty one years, but inside those
years songs that change rock forever, songs that blended brass
and guitar, grit and beauty. Even now, musicians whisper his name.
(16:37):
They shake their heads at Hendrick's words. They wonder what
he might have done if he had just had more time.
He dropped a needle on the vinyl. The crackle fills
the room, and then there he is, that unmistakable guitar,
that voice alive again, just for a moment. But when
(16:57):
the song ends, the silence is louder than ever. Terry
Cass should have had decades, more more songs, more stages,
more nights of brilliance. But instead we're just left with
an echo, an unfinished story, a life cut short by
a single mistake. And maybe that's why it hurts so much,
(17:18):
because in that instant, we didn't just lose a man.
We lost all the music he had yet to make.
We lost what might have been. So tonight we remember
Terry Cath. I hope you enjoyed Script seventeen better than Hendrix.
(17:38):
I'm Johnny heart Well and this has been Johnny's Dead
Air podcast. Thank you so much for listening.
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. And here we
go again, telling another story of music's dark side. Some
stories don't fade away. They end with a gunshot and
a body on the floor, in silence where music should be.
(00:21):
This is a man born with electricity in his hands.
Every note raw and feral and alive, every performance like
lightning breaking open the sky. He should have had decades ahead,
more albums, more stages. Instead, his story became a warning,
a moment frozen in time, a moment so senseless no
one could believe it actually happened. This is not about music.
(00:44):
It's about brilliance running out of control, about danger hiding
in plain sight, and how one pull of a trigger
can silence it all. Does anybody really know what time
it is? It's time for Script seventeen better than Hendrix
Act one beginnings. The late nineteen sixties. America is in chaos.
(01:07):
The streets are filled with protests, The headline scream about
war and assassinations in cities burning. But in the haze
of all that mayhem, music is reinventing itself. Every garage
trembles with amplifiers. Every bar has a stage, and every
kid with a guitar thinks, maybe, just maybe, this is
the ticket out. Most don't make it, Most never even
(01:31):
leave the basement. But in one city, a group of
musicians are chasing a different sound. Not just guitars and drums,
not just another copy of the British invasion. They want
something bigger, something more sonic, something no one else has
dared to try. Picture yourself in a cramped rehearsal space.
A weak light bleeds across the walls. The tiles from
(01:53):
the drop ceiling vibrate from the sound from the amps.
A trumpet blares from the corner. A trombone cuts in, sharp, deliberate,
and over it all, a guitar snarls, raw, untamed, pushing
against the brass like an animal testing its cage. It's
a bit disorganized, but it's thrilling. You can feel it
(02:13):
in your chest, the walls rattling with a sound that
just shouldn't work, but somehow, somehow, it does. On stage,
they're nobody's kids, in cheap suits meaning for beer money,
crammed into tiny rises barely big enough to hold their instruments.
But off stage they're sonic designers drawing blueprints for something
(02:34):
the world has never heard. Imagine the club, sticky floors,
the stink of stale beer, and a crowd apathetic at best.
The horn players blast like sirens, the rhythm section pounds
like a heartbeat, and then that guitar. That guitar cuts
through the noise like a blade. Heads turn and for
(02:55):
the first time you feel it, something electric, something dangerous,
something that might actually change everything. And this is where
it begins, in the noise, in the smoke, in the
hunger of a band that doesn't know it yet, just
how big they're about to become. Act too, make me smile.
(03:15):
They didn't look like revolutionaries. Too many players, too many instruments,
too much happening at once, and yet when they hit
the stage, something just clicked, jelled. The horns roared like
church bells announcing the end of the world. The rhythm
section punches like a heavyweight boxer. And then there's that guitar, howling, growling,
(03:37):
something singing like it had its own soul. It was loud, yes,
deafening sometimes, but there was a precision in that mess,
a kind of order no one else could summon. They
weren't copying London. They weren't chasing San Francisco. They were
inventing their own city of sound. Imagine stepping into a club,
the kind with sticky floors and no windows. Without warning,
(04:01):
the stage explodes, horns blasting, drums, pounding, voices soaring, and
just when you think you can't take any more, the
guitarist steps forward. He hits one note, a vortex of sound.
He makes the guitar scream, then drops into a run
so fast your brain can't keep up. People around you
(04:21):
are shouting, grabbing each other's shoulders in amazement. This guitarist
is different. He isn't flashy. He didn't strut or pose,
he didn't need to. He'd play with his head cocked
to one side, almost like he was listening to a
private conversation between his fingers and the strings. And when
he sang, it wasn't polished, it wasn't pretty, It was raw, gravelly,
(04:45):
the kind of voice that sounded like it had lived
a hundred lives already. He gave the machine a human heart.
They hit the road, long nights, in cramped vans, sleeping
on floors, driving across endless highways. But when they got
to the sta. It was magic. Every time the crowds grew.
(05:05):
By the end of a show, people weren't just fans,
they were converts. In the studio, it was the guitarist
who kept things alive. If it didn't groove, if it
didn't move, he'd say, what's the point. He had a
way of pushing his bandmates. Not cruel, not controlling, just confident.
And sometimes when the night went late, when the tapes
were rolling and everyone was too tired to think, he'd
(05:27):
strap on a guitar, pour out a solo so heavy,
so emotional, that the engineers just sat there in awe.
You were there. It's a festival. The summer sun is
beating down, the grass trampled into mud by tens of
thousands of feet. The stage is massive, the speakers stacked
like skyscrapers. You're in the middle of the crowd, sweat
(05:48):
dripping down your back when the first horn blast cuts
the sky in half. And then there he is again,
that guitarist, hair hanging, wild body, swaying with the notes.
He digs into the strings. The sound shoots out like fire.
The entire hillside rrupts. People scream, dance, and cry. This
wasn't just a rise. It was a rocket straight into
(06:11):
the stratosphere. And the guitarist, he was the fuel that
made it all possible. Act three, I'm a Man. Next,
Act three, I'm a Man. By the dawn of the seventies,
(06:32):
they were no longer just another band. They were a force,
an empire of sound. The name was everywhere. At first
they called themselves Chicago Transit Authority, then simply Chicago. And
at the heart of it all the guitarist with the
wild grin and the battered telecaster, the man whose voice
could rasp through ballads one night and rip through a
(06:53):
jam the next, Terry Cath. Their success was staggering albums
packed with ears, singles blasting out of car radio, songs
that became a soundtrack of a generation. Imagine yourself in
an arena that lights drop, the roar goes up, and
then bam, the horns cut through like sirens. Drums pound
(07:14):
light thunder, the bass rumbles beneath your feet, and then
Terry steps forward, striking a single note that screams through
the rafters. The whole building erupts. Terry wasn't the pop
star crooner, he wasn't the showman. He was just the
soul of the band. Even Jimmy Hendrix himself, after hearing
(07:34):
Terry Kath, said you're better than me. Think about that.
The man who redefined the guitar saw Terry Cath as
an equal. It's the summer of seventy two. You pass
a record store, hear there are songs spilling onto the street.
You flip on the radio and there they are again.
You're at a party. Someone drops the needle and the
(07:55):
room sings along. Everywhere you turn, it's Terry's guitar, his voice,
his fire. Chicago sold millions, They played to seas of people.
They became the soundtrack to America itself, and Terry he
played every note like it was his last act, for
feeling stronger every day. But success carries weight, and the
(08:20):
weight takes its toll. The band was enormous, egos, arguments,
and pressure. The machine was grinding backstage after a show,
one storm's passed, another collapses in silence and Terry he laughs,
lights another cigarette, cracks another drink, and on the surface fine,
but look closer, the cracks are there. Fame brought money,
(08:44):
money brought temptation, and Terry never turned away. The line
between fun and danger blurred, the drinking got heavier, the
drug slipped in, and while others worried about image, about careers,
about protecting what they built, Terry seemed und touched by fear. Two,
untouched in the studio. Three in the morning, ashtrays full coffee, cold,
(09:09):
Terry still going, voice ragged, guitar bleeding through the speakers.
Just one more take, he grins. The engineer shakes his
head and mutters, Terry, you gotta slow down, But Terry
just laughs and plays harder. On stage, the illusion held,
crowd screamed, records sold, but offstage, the storm was coming,
(09:29):
and Terry Cath was living faster, wilder, and closer to
the edge than anyone realized. At five, if you leave
me now, Next at five, if you leave me Now,
(09:51):
January twenty third, nineteen seventy eight, Woodland Hills, California, a
quiet house tucked away in the hills. Terry Cath is
on edge. He's been restless for a while now, the
endless touring, the drinking, the tension in the band. He
jokes that the fame's too loud to sleep through. Tonight's
supposed to be easy, though a few friends, some drinks, music,
(10:13):
in the background. Laughter in the air, but the laughter
never lasts as long as it used to. The stereo
plays empty bottles, glint on the table. Someone's rolling a joint.
Someone else is strumming a guitar half in tune. The
smell of smoke and bourbon clings to everything. You lean
against the wall watching Terry pace the room. His energy
(10:34):
it's hard to describe. At best, it's unpredictable. He can't
sit still. His laugh fills the space, too big for
the room. Hey, you know what, Terry says, Suddenly, eyes wide,
he sets down his bear and reaches for the guitar
on the couch. Listen to this lick I've been working on.
He strums a few chords, slow, heavy, soulful. It sounds
(10:55):
like church and heartbreak all at once. Someone murmurs, that's
beautiful man. Terry grin shrugs, Yeah, just fooling around. He
plays another line, faster this time it laughs. Yeah, maybe
I'll call it drunk blues and e flat. Everyone chuckles,
and for a moment it feels light again. But then
Terry's attention shifts to something on the table, A glint
(11:16):
of chrome beneath the lamplight. It's a nine millimeter semi
automatic pistol. He picks it up, twirling it in his
hand like a toy. Don't worry, it's not loaded, he says.
Come on, man, put that thing down. One friend says,
half laughing, half scared. You gonna freak everybody up. Man.
Terry waves them off for relax. Ah, no guns, I'm
careful it's empty. See. He pops open the magazine, tips
(11:37):
it towards the light, nothing in it, not noticing the
lone bullets still in the chamber. Then he clicks it back,
still smiling. His friend shakes his head. You're crazy, man, crazy, yeah,
Terry says, grinnin buzzed. That's what makes me so good.
The room feels smaller now, the air thicker. The laughter
doesn't sound like laughter anymore. It sounds like fear pretending
(11:58):
to be brave. Terry's pacing again, gun dangling loosely at
his side. He's talking about the band, about the fights,
and how the suits keep telling him to tone it down.
They don't get it, he says. They don't get what
it's supposed to feel like. Man, you can't plan soul.
It takes a big swig from the bottle, wipes his
mouth with the back of his hand. I'm tired of
(12:20):
everyone telling me what to do, he mutters, Then silence.
Someone coughs, someone else stares at the floor. Then he
smirks again, puts the gun to the temple of his head.
Don't worry, it's not loaded, and before anyone can stop him,
click bang, time stops. The sound isn't just loud, it's final,
(12:48):
it's absolute. The bottle drops from his hand, shattering onto
the floor. The gun clatters beside it, and Terry Cath
the man who made guitar scream, who made stadium roar,
falls backwards, eyes wide gone. Before he hits the carpet,
everything slows down. You can't move, you can't breathe. The
(13:10):
smell of smoke and metal blood, It blurs into something unreal.
They say, your life passes before you before you die,
like a dream. He sees his first guitar. He strums
the strings. The sound is his life's ambition. He's standing
on stage again, spotlight, soft and golden. No crowd this time,
(13:36):
just empty seats stretching into forever. He looks down at
his hands, the same hands that played with fire, that
held too tight that let go too soon. A voice
whispers in the dark. What happens now, Terry? He strums
a chord. It echoes like wind through a canyon. Somewhere
(13:58):
miles away, His wife Camilla is tucking their little girl, Michelle,
into bed. The phone hasn't rung yet. It will soon,
though when it does, she'll drop to her knees, unable
to breathe. She'll never forget that sound, not the silence
that followed back to the dream. The lights on the
(14:21):
stage are dim. Terry looks out into the darkness at
all the songs still unwritten, all the solo still waiting
for him. He smiles, tired, almost peaceful. The music swells,
horns rise like angels. The guitar hums softly, gently, fading
into the distance. You see the headlines. You hear the
(14:44):
voices on the radio, the reporters, the fans, the disbelief.
You see the band, his brothers, staring into space without rehearsals,
unsure whether to go on. You see the empty chair
in the studio, the silent guitar in the corner, and
you realize the band won't ever sound the same again.
(15:04):
How could it in that slow, impossible moment after the
gun goes off, a life flashes before your eyes. A
kid from Chicago with a big grin the wild guitarist
that made the world listen, the husband, the father of
the friend. Then slowly the world moves on, but not really,
(15:25):
because when the lights go down and when the first
chord rings out, He's still there in every echo, every solo,
every note that climbs towards the sky and never quite
comes back down. Terry Cath didn't just die. He became
part of the silence, the silence that music fights to fill.
(15:49):
Act six, Color My World, The Terry Cath epilogue. Next
Act six, Color My World, The morning after. Fans didn't
believe it couldn't. How could someone so alive be gone?
The band carried on, Yes, but without him they weren't
(16:11):
the same. Instead of the combination of hard edged, horn
driven prod rocking guitar led jazz, fusion, rock and blues,
the band becomes known as leaders of soft rock ballads.
Terry left behind only thirty one years, but inside those
years songs that change rock forever, songs that blended brass
and guitar, grit and beauty. Even now, musicians whisper his name.
(16:37):
They shake their heads at Hendrick's words. They wonder what
he might have done if he had just had more time.
He dropped a needle on the vinyl. The crackle fills
the room, and then there he is, that unmistakable guitar,
that voice alive again, just for a moment. But when
(16:57):
the song ends, the silence is louder than ever. Terry
Cass should have had decades, more more songs, more stages,
more nights of brilliance. But instead we're just left with
an echo, an unfinished story, a life cut short by
a single mistake. And maybe that's why it hurts so much,
(17:18):
because in that instant, we didn't just lose a man.
We lost all the music he had yet to make.
We lost what might have been. So tonight we remember
Terry Cath. I hope you enjoyed Script seventeen better than Hendrix.
(17:38):
I'm Johnny heart Well and this has been Johnny's Dead
Air podcast. Thank you so much for listening.
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