One of the biggest compliments anyone ever paid my three brothers and I would also become one of the saddest and most surreal moments we would experience as a band.

Back in the early eighties, my three brothers and I were beginning to enjoy some local notoriety in our hometown of Trenton, Michigan, as a band called "The Caruso Brothers."  By now we had developed a healthy home-town following.  This story is about Keith Frost, the son of one particular family who followed the Caruso band.  His parents were friends with our mom and dad.  He and his siblings bought our records and came to our concerts whenever they could.  They had attended the same high school as my brothers and me.

One day in 1984, we received a somber phone call from the mother of the family.  Keith, the now 18-year-old son, had been diagnosed some time before with a malignant cancer.  He had been a big fan of the band, and although we had seen Keith at some of our shows, we never knew just how much he admired us.  Keith had known about his illness long enough that he had planned his funeral arrangements in advance with his family.  Now his mom was calling to tell us that Keith had passed away.  And it had been Keith's wish to have some of our music played at his funeral.  And "it would really mean a lot if you could come."

Like most people, I'm a little uncomfortable at funeral homes, but this felt very different.  Just a few years earlier, at nearly the same age as Keith, my brother Joe had undergone numerous operations and chemotherapy to fight testicular cancer, which had spread throughout his body and threatened to take his life.  So far, he was winning his fight against the cancer, but he had to return to the hospital for regular checkups for some time after that, because the doctors said it could return.  The thought of seeing young Keith in a casket was very sobering for us all.  I don't remember now if we responded to Keith's mom immediately, or if we needed to discuss it and call her back, but it didn't take us long for us to say, "yes."

Of all of the times I've walked into a funeral home to pay respects to a friend, never before or since have I experienced the emotions I felt when I entered Keith's funeral.  My brothers and I arrived together.  The familiar sounds of our records were drifting in softly from the other room.  Keith's family had made a cassette from their records which looped, and included three of our songs.  I thought about turning around and walking out the front door.  My brothers and I silently supported each other and we pushed forward.  As we turned the corner into the viewing room, we saw that young Keith had an open casket.  We walked through the room, being greeted by Keith's family and other Trenton families and friends, against the quiet backdrop of "Someday," "Rainy Day Lullaby," and "What Time is It Now?"  It was very strange and sad to hear our own voices singing while a teenage boy lay in a casket in the same room.  Keith's mom approached us, and thanked us for coming.  She told us that our music had been very important to Keith.

The lyrics took on new meaning under these sad circumstances.  "Someday" was a song I wrote about being separated from a loved one.  In this room the separation was final.  Now the words seemed to be about someone waiting to be delivered from illness, with lines like "Another week of waiting starts another month of pain," and "I can't help wondering just how long this whole thing's gonna last."  "Rainy Day Lullaby" was a ballad intended to calm a person about the difficult times in life.  Now it was a lullaby for the boy who lay "sleeping" in front of us.  It sang: "Yesterday the sun shined, tomorrow it will shine again," and "Let me drain from you all your sorrow."  "What Time is It Now?" spoke of loneliness and regret, but today it was about overcoming a more particular loss, with: "It only makes us sadder to remember the years," and "Time will heal the past, so don't be sad."

I don't remember much else about that day, but I do remember gaining an overwhelming feeling of responsibility.  That day I realized that I had written some songs that had made a real difference in one person's life.  What a powerful thing music can be.  At the same time, having made such an impact, I was relieved that I hadn't written anything (intentionally or otherwise) that had had a negative influence on anyone.  And I vowed that I never would.

--Dave Caruso