There's nothing quite like the thrill of the hunt, the years-long search for something that feels just out of reach, a ghost of a treasure hiding in the dust of forgotten shelves. The internet, for all its convenience, has dulled this magic, making things too easy, too immediate. But for years, in every record store, every bookstore, every antique shop I set foot in while traveling, I carried with me a quiet hope. I was searching for a book I had only heard whispers of, Without You: The Tragic Story of Badfinger.
If you know the story of Badfinger, you know it is among the most heartbreaking in all of rock and roll. In an industry overflowing with tales of brilliant artists being chewed up and spat out, theirs might be the saddest of all. I loved the band, their music, the mystery that surrounded them. And I needed this book. But with only about a thousand copies ever printed, it had become the stuff of myth. Sure, there were listings on eBay, $300, $400, but that was more than I had ever spent on a book in my life. So I kept searching. For years, I scoured every dusty bin, every forgotten corner of every shop, only to hear the same refrain from clerks. Never seen it, but I think there's a copy on eBay for $375.
Then, on an early spring day in 2015, my search took an unexpected turn. My wife and I were house hunting, walking through a 124-year-old Craftsman home that hadn't been touched since the early sixties. It was stunning, mid-century design, rich wood paneling, crazy retro wallpaper, and built-in bookshelves filled with character and history. As we stepped into the living room, a beam of sunlight shot through the window, landing like a divine spotlight on a particular shelf. My heart started pounding. There, nestled among the books, was the book. My book. The one I had been searching for, waiting for, chasing for years.
I gasped, blurting out, Oh my God, there it is. But the surprises did not stop there. Every room in the house held more treasures, Beatles bootlegs I had never seen, first-press vinyl records of rock and roll legends. I felt at home in an instant, like I had just walked into a place built for me. I turned to our realtor, still dazed, and half-joked, Who owns this house and why aren’t they my best friend?
Turns out, the owner had worked in radio in New York City in the late seventies and early eighties. A collector of the good stuff. My realtor, knowing the depth of my search, said, If you make an offer on the house, we can ask them to include the book in the sale.
So, we made an offer. And it was accepted. But the owner, despite agreeing to sell the house, would not part with their copy of the Badfinger book. I understood. Some things are just too precious.
Naturally, I told my mother-in-law this story. And if there was ever a person who embodied the phrase fuck around and find out when it came to gift-giving, it was her.
That Christmas, our first in the new home, I noticed a wrapped gift waiting for me on the bookshelf. When I tore off the paper, I started to shake. It was the book. My book. After years of searching, it had finally found its way to me. But it was not just the book. Inside were all of my mother-in-law’s correspondences with the author, the press release, the back-and-forth emails showing the lengths she had gone to track it down. The author himself had been moved by my story, by my years of searching, and was proud that a true fan would finally have a copy.
It was, without question, the most overwhelming, thoughtful gift I had ever received.
Yesterday, Joey Molland, the last surviving member of Badfinger, passed away and entered the cosmos. And today, I find myself reflecting on how music connects us in the most unexpected ways, artist to fan, family to friends, past to present. Thanks to my ex-mother-in-law, I feel forever tied to the Badfinger story. And just like their music, so full of beauty, sorrow, and longing, there is something comforting in knowing that even in tragedy, there is always love, always hope.
Written By Patrick Tape Fleming