Prolific and revered Lincoln musician Sean Benjamin passed away last week of natural causes.
The Zoo Bar, where Sean played for years, will host a benefit show to help cover service expenses for his family at 2 p.m. on Sunday.
Sean played in renowned blues bands like Little Jimmy Valentine and the Heart Murmurs. He was a friend and mentor to many figures in Lincoln’s music community. To hear Josh Hoyer (of Josh Hoyer and the Shadowboxers) tell it, he was perennially both a teacher and a student of music.
Stories abound about Sean’s commitment to his craft and his community. There was the 50-plus page notebook filled with names of songs that he knew. He fostered the talent he saw in young players, like Hoyer and Lucas Kellison. People say he was an unfailingly selfless friend.
To help remember his legacy, we’ve compiled memories and anecdotes from people who knew Sean. Maybe they were a fan and met him once at a restaurant, or they lived with him for years, maybe they were lifelong friends. Maybe he taught them how to love the blues, or showed them it was OK not to love the blues as long, as you loved something.
In every case, the story is the same: Sean Benjamin was ever a servant to something greater than himself. He played music for the love of it and shared that love with everyone, for the love of them.
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The first official ‘gig’ I did was at M&N Sandwich Shop. At the time, this fantastic place was located just about caddy-corner to where it is now at 27th and Randolph. It was/is a Chicago-style Deli, and Norm, the owner, is one of the biggest music lovers I know to this day. He, like a lot of blues cats, is a sweet man who is very rough around the edges. I learned the culture of blues from that environment. Also, there was tons of smoking in the small room, which probably made it even more authentic.
Sean was living upstairs, and he had regular acoustic gigs at the restaurant throughout the months. I used to ride my bike down there and watch him. I never introduced myself–I only wanted to try and understand what he was doing. Finally, I got the nerve to ask Norm if I could open sometime–three songs. I was terrified, but my fears quickly subsided when I saw how excited Norm was. The man has an amazing ability to compartmentalize kindness and anger, and display it (usually) at the appropriate times. It’s pretty funny. I always considered M&N to be the acoustic Zoo Bar. For awhile, they used to have a really awesome rotation where the electric players would give these super intimate shows there, and it happened daily.
Sean was a legend to me and my erratic genius best friend at the time, Vince Miller. We spoke of him often, listened to Delta Blue Coffee, talked our way through the chord progressions, etc, so opening for Sean was a big deal–a HUGE deal. It was the stepping stone to the legendary Zoo Bar, where dreams come true. I realize this sounds facetious, but I can assure you for a 14-year-old, it was anything but. My first tangible dream was to play that venue, and the first time I played it (I was 18), I was very emotional. Anyway, I got up there at M&N and played for my friends and family. They were, of course, very into it, but as I occasionally peered up from the nervousness of looking down at my instrument, the person most into it was Sean. He couldn’t stop smiling. He put on an incredible set after mine, and when it was done, he encouraged me greatly. It’s so funny. I asked him if he thought I could play the Zoo Bar yet (I knew five songs). He laughed and said, ‘You gotta go to Duggan’s first.’
How the hell do I get into Duggan’s? Isn’t that the roughest bar in town? So, I was 15 now, and hardly more intelligent. Sean told me to try the Monday open mic. ‘Just come down. I’ll get you in.’ I rode my bike, bass on my shoulder, terrified. When I got to the door, Mole (a similar Norm-like figure) greeted me with a scowl. I’d win him over eventually. When it looked like I wouldn’t get in, Sean, whom I hadn’t seen in months, walked swiftly to the door and pulled me through. The house band was nuts. Magic Slim (guitar), Calvin (bass), Gene Lessman (drums), Sean Benjamin (guitar/keys), and a lot of amazing local players were taking the stage. Here’s the kicker in all this: I was a talented young bass player, but I didn’t know shit about blues other than that these guys were amazing blues players. That said, blues is in the American bloodstream, so we all know the 12 bar format whether we are aware of it or not. Magic and Sean knew this, and they trusted me to sit in. I was mortified, but it worked out great. We played a couple of standards (or whatever-lyrics over a 12-bar format). Magic grabbed a drink, then Sean turned around and asked me what we were playing next. I was mortified to ask to play funk, but I had an ally up there. Geno (drummer) was actually my high school health teacher at the time. I knew he was a true veteran funk player, so I laid something down and he snapped it right to the pocket. I had no idea how Sean would react. He was thrilled! We played a very basic funk jam with blues changes, and it was a blast.
Afterwards, Sean and I had a long talk. He made me confess that blues/roots wasn’t my thing (he obviously knew immediately when others didn’t), and he encouraged me to do something new or “play out.” It’s very hard growing up in a town with so many wonderful players that I dearly love and have learned so much from, but not really being in the same preference as them musically. Sean wasn’t a “purist.” Anyone who claims he was or claims him on some group’s behalf is full of shit. In fact, he was probably the furthest thing from a purist of any musician I’ve ever met. Any art “purist” was a megalomaniac in both of our minds, and that’s why we enjoyed each other’s company so much. Sean could play anything, but he got paid to play the blues. His intellectual curiosity went well beyond himself. He once gave me an 8-hour guitar lesson in my apartment, showing me various tricks from various genres. We listened to Return to Forever’s entire Romatic Warrior album without talking once. When Vince and I became interested in jazz, hip hop, funk and music technology, Sean was always one of the first giddy people to hear what beat we came up with or groove we were working on. When I recorded/produced my very first solo song in Omaha at age 18, Sean was the guy that came with me and played lead. Finally, when I formed my first instrumental funk trio with Vince on keys and Gene Lessman on drums, Sean was there watching my first Zoo Bar gig. That was the first time I saw my dad and Sean talk. It was interesting. Afterwards, my dad would tell me that he actually knew Sean because they were both in AA, and Sean put on a free Christmas show for them every year. It was very touching to find out that Sean had not only been a beacon of light to me, but also one to my father in his darkest time. I knew his light spanned multiple generations, but I didn’t know it had actually comforted and inspired the prior one in my own bloodline. I always wondered why my dad was so cool about me playing in bars as a teenager and constantly coming home after the legal curfew. I honestly think Sean might have been a big reason, and I think I’ll always be curious to know if there was a conversation between them regarding my well-being that I’ll never know about. That’s a very comforting thought.
There is a pattern here, and it’s one of a very profound nature. My story isn’t even remotely unique. In his passing, we are going to see stories of Sean’s mentor-nature pop up all over the place, because that’s the kind of man Sean was. He was a flawed angel, but an angel nonetheless, and his gentle light shined on anyone lucky enough to be near him. All people were his peers, young or old. He really didn’t see the world as a compartmentalized place, nor did he approach it that way. His presence was bigger than that. I love him–I always will, and I’ll always feel his light with me. RIHP.
—Lucas Kellison, Lucas Kellison and the Undisco Kids
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Sean Benjamin used to pronounce his last name, “Been Jammin’.” Certainly I was saddened by his passing.
Sean had that rare combination of great talent and no ego. I think I first heard him at The Zoo in about 1973. I know he was playing there before he was old enough to drink. Two old friends, Fred Schaffert and Jeff Hermanson, and I nicknamed him, “The Kid,” then, since he was so young.
Sean was always eager to please, always wondering if I liked what he played — and of course I always did. He lived the life of a Blues Musician —- he had a right to sing the blues.
I have only a couple of really poor photos of the last time I got to hear him. Even though nobody wanted to join me, I made a point last January of going to hear him and see how he was doing. He was not at his best. Then I requested Jimi Hendrix’s “Little Wing,” and the youngster he was playing with didn’t know it. That turned on some more circuits in his brain, and the teacher was at work, sounding as soulful and good as ever.
I had searched my NYC home to see if I could find some of my favorite photos of him. I shot some black and white film of him playing my piano in my Lincoln home, I would guess around 1980. He was wearing a shiny leather jacket and playing like a demon — but still asking if it sounded good. Those photos are likely in my attic at 2300 A Street, but that is the image I have kept in my mind since hearing the news.
—Russ Dantzler, Hot Jazz Management and Production
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I first met Sean when he moved back to Lincoln in the early 1970s. My friends Doug Rosekrans and Mike Burdic, who were roommates and blues fans, took Sean under their wing. Mike was a harmonica player and welder, and Doug (who I was working with at Henkle & Joyce Hardware in the Haymarket) was playing guitar and trying to get a band together. He and Sean and others were playing blues on Sunday nights at Mama Zoe’s legendary Elms Club on West O Street outside of Lincoln. Other notables playing at the Elms included drummers Dave Trupp and Bill Childs, guitarist Jack Davis and keyboardist Jim “Cid” Cidlik, among others.
Sean and Doug got a few people together to form the “Tubby Chess Blues Band” (a word play on “Fats Domino” and “Chubby Checker”) which included, besides Doug and Sean on guitars, Dave Robel on drums, Gary “Otto” Spalti on bass and Walt Warnsholz and myself on tenor saxes. Robel, Otto and Walt had been playing in Charlie Burton’s band the Megatones (the band which really kept the Zoo going in its early years) which had recently disbanded. I was, and still am, a rank amateur. Walt was my mentor, so I was let into the band.
About this time, Larry Boehmer, who had started the Zoo Bar with Jim Ludwig in 1973, was picking up the bass. Then Charlie Burton started a new band, called Rock Therapy, and Robel and Otto started playing with him again. The Tubby Chess Band reformed with Brad Heiliger on drums and Larry Boehmer on bass in his first band. It was decided that the band drop the horns, and Sean, Doug, Larry and Brad would continue as “Little Jimmy Valentine and the Heart Murmurs.” The rest, as a they say, is history.
Musically speaking, Sean blew me away from the very first time I heard him play. I was an ardent blues fan before the Zoo started, so the advent of that bar, along with all of the great bands and artists that Larry booked there, was a godsend to me. I got to hear many great blues guitarists, and Sean ranked right up there with them in my book. Sometimes, I would literally get the chills hearing him play. It amazed me how he could play in the style of a variety of blues greats, from Freddy King to Albert Collins to Buddy Guy and on and on and on. Sean was also a good singer with a whole lot of soul. He was a natural guitarist and seemed to play so well effortlessly. He was also a good piano player and, if need be, bass player. Also a composer.
About this time, as the Heart Murmurs were starting to hit their stride, my marriage was on the rocks, and I moved into an old eight-plex with Burdic and Rosekrans on 11th St. between H and J Streets here in Lincoln. The Heart Murmurs had their rehearsals at this location, and eventually, Sean moved in with us (a variety of other fringe element types also moved in and out of the place during this period). It was while living at “The Ghetto”, as the building had been dubbed by its previous tenants, that I got to know Sean as a person.
One of the things that impressed me about Sean before and especially while we lived under the same roof, was his sense of humor. Lots of laughs were had at the Ghetto. All of us were big Three Stooges fans, and Sean did a good Curly impression. More than once, I heard Sean and Doug do their little Stooges routine on stage:
DOUG: Let’s go fishing.
SEAN: You got worms?
DOUG: Yeah, but let’s go anyway.
Another element in our lives at the time was copious alcohol consumption. The Murmurs had trash cans in the band room which would fill up pretty darn quick. I am happy to report that all of us subsequently kicked the bottle (or the can). I believe that Doug and Sean were the first of many friends of mine who quit drinking and managed to stay on the wagon, an achievement in and of itself.
Sean was perhaps the most unmaterialistic person I have ever known. He never seemed to care much about possessions. Playing the blues was all that mattered to him, it seems to me. Sean was content to dress in thrift store clothing and was not given to any affectations. I remember one night at the Zoo when some guy who had done well at the races gave Sean a $100 bill because he liked his playing, Sean just gave the money to somebody else. Sean was an expert at “starving artist” food preparations, such as the tomato, onion and mustard sandwich. Sean never had many possessions to move, and he lived at so many different locations here in Lincoln, that I never really knew where he was living at most any time after our days on 11th St. A lot of people appreciated what he brought to our community musically, and many people liked him so much that they didn’t mind “taking him in.”
Speaking of clothing, here’s a funny story about Sean and his wardrobe: One afternoon, while living at the Ghetto, I saw Sean walk across the alley with a basket full of dirty laundry (there was a laundry room in the apartment building across the alley). Soon, I saw him dashing back to our pad stark naked. Later, he rushed through the alley again, still in the nude, and then back home again, still in the baby suit. Finally, after one more naked streak through the alley, Sean came walking back home fully dressed and carrying a basket of clean clothes!
One of the most admirable things about Sean was his humility. He never seemed very boastful about his talent and was content to simply turn out the beautiful music that he was so capable of in a very unassuming manner. He was also very generous and always willing to share his knowledge with younger aspiring musicians. He also played at numerous benefits for people simply out his compassion for other people.
In closing, I can say that Sean was one of a kind. He definitely lived his life on his own terms and was one of the most genuine people that I have ever had the pleasure to know. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that I won’t be seeing him again, at least not on this terrestrial plane. However, like other of my musician friends, like Larry Boehmer, Magic Slim and Nick Holt, Sean will continue to be with us through the legacy of his music, good deeds and the memories that we will continue to have of him.
Love ya, Sean.
—Charlie Johnson, Museum of Oddities, Lincoln musician
* * *
Sean helped me out a lot in ’97. I was newly sober, and hanging out at the Purple Moon coffee shop where he would regularly hold court at the old upright piano they had in there.
We talked a bit — I had no idea who he was at the time, and he never told me beyond that he was a musician.
For a few months I’d go over to his apartment once a week or so to play guitar. He never really ‘gave me a lesson’ as such, but he taught me a lot – mostly about how to relax and just let it happen.
Sean gave me an Alesis MicroVerb unit that he had laying around, I still have it – it still works!
I’ve always been thankful for those times spent with Sean drinking coffee and playing guitar, and am sorry to hear of his passing.
—Steve Urbauer, Lincoln musician
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I had a chance to meet Sean for the first time in 2004. I have a friend in Omaha who owns a small restaurant and he had Sean come up from Lincoln to play a solo gig. I brought along my Little Jimmy Valentine and The Heart Murmurs Live at the Zoo Bar album that I purchased many years ago.
Sean played guitar in the band and I saw them a time or two at the Zoo Bar when I was attending UNL in the mid ‘70s. I was totally impressed by his guitar playing and singing.
He was very gracious when I asked him to sign the album. He joked about his change in appearance from 30 years ago and he gave me an update on the other band members. When he signed the album he wrote, “Keep the blues alive”. He did a great job of doing that during his lifetime.
—Glenn Bauer, Little Jimmy Valentine and the Heart Murmurs fan
* * *
I had the pleasure of performing with Sean maybe 30 times or so at the Duggan’s Pub open stage Monday nights. He was always polite and willing to sit in with others. I asked if he would come to the Academy of Rock and talk to the kids about blues music.
He was happy to of course and when we got there he had his music book. The kids asked if the maybe 50 pages were lyrics and he said no they are lists of songs he knew. Well the kids about fell over seeing he had that much material memorized.
They started to play Metallica’s “Sandman” and he got his guitar and played an amazing blues lead that was a perfect fit. The kids were amazed that this older man could play lead to Metallica. As a humble man he turned the praise back to the kids and I know his visit helped them grow as musicians.
Well it’s just one day and one story out of a lifetime of the same.
—Steve Michalecki, Lincoln musician
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Although I knew him forever and loved the Heart Murmurs, I never really got to play with him until two years ago or so when we started doing the Zoo Bar House Band on Mondays. I was treated every week, with a close up and thorough example, to what playing blues was all about. And how great! To anyone who had heard him over the last several months would say, he was still playing at the top of his game. I would pick him up to go to the gig, and he would tell me what new songs he was working on. I remember being stunned…here was a guy who could have played above all the rest of us in the band without touching a guitar during the week, and yet he is woodshedding at home. Everything written is true: his encouragement of younger musicians who played with us, his humility, his friendliness. I’ll remember and be inspired by these last years of playing with him forever.
—David Boye, Lincoln guitarist/bassist
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Sean Benjamin was a mentor to me in many ways.
As a musician, he was like an encyclopedia of the roots genre. If you wanted to know how to play a song the right way, Sean was your man. He took the time to understand what each artist was doing and paid homage to them by playing the way they intended each song.
From Delta to Chicago to Jump-style and so on, Sean knew how Blues should sound. And his lead playing was out of this world. If you can find a copy of his power trio, Not All There, you can see why he was often thought to be one of the best guitar players around. In addition to being a student of the music, Sean was equally a teacher. He taught countless Lincoln musicians how to play, man. To name a few: Shawn “Lil Slim” Holt, Jeff Boehmer, Kris Lager, Levi William, Lucas Kellison, Brian “Pickle” Gerkensmeyer, “Baby” Jason Davis, Sean Beste, Benny Kushner, and the list goes on and on.
He was always gracious and willing to lend a hand if you had questions about music. That is a rare thing in the music world. Sean wasn’t about hustling or stardom, he wasn’t about ego or showing off, not about getting rich or having his name in lights. He was truly a lover of music and of playing the music that he loved. Many think he should have “made it big” or that it was a shame he wasn’t famous, but I truly think Sean was happy with his life just the way it was.
He left a legacy that lives and breathes today. More often than not I would use Sean as a gauge both musically and socially. He was a great storyteller when he took the time to do so.
I always kept an eye on him when we were at a show. I wanted to do my best — be my best — for him. Like a wise sage or an old football coach, man, I just wanted to make Sean proud of me, like I was one of his kids. I think he was.
Our last show together, man did we play! When I left him that night, he gave a smile and nod of approval that we had really done something special on the bandstand. For a man like that, that meant the world to me. It seems that this music world just doesn’t have the heart that it used to but I think Sean instilled a true nobility to it. Always serve the song. Always be in the band. Don’t try to steal the show. We lost a beautiful soul last week. Luckily he showed a lot of us how to be better musicians and people just by being who he was. Now that is the truth! Blessings to Sean and his family. We will miss you. And THANK YOU for the LOVE.
—Josh Hoyer, Josh Hoyer and the Shadowboxers