The first gig I played after mov­ing to Min­neapo­lis was with a band called 40 Watt Bulb, which at the time had a some­what tem­po­rary line­up that includ­ed Paul Manske on bass gui­tar. The club (which should remain name­less, but it was the 400 Bar) had tried to stiff the band on both our time slot and our pay, and in both cas­es it was Paul who some­how talked some­one into let­ting us play and get paid. So his intro­duc­tion to me was as the man who Made Things Hap­pen, but it was twen­ty min­utes lat­er, onstage with him, that he was rein­tro­duced as Paul the Musician.

Paul had this way of play­ing a bass that made oth­er musi­cians sound good. When you gave him the right kind of music, he played with a pock­et so deep and a groove so wide it was impos­si­ble not to fall right in. More than once, my play­ing has been com­pli­ment­ed and I’ve had to sheep­ish­ly admit that it wasn’t me hold­ing things down, but Paul, whose bass lines telegraphed to me the appro­pri­ate things to play and I just fol­lowed instructions.

I didn’t know Paul as well as oth­ers who have lived here longer, but I’ve known him long enough to say he held music and friends in deep rev­er­ence — his home was con­stant­ly filled with both — he treat­ed each with respect and admi­ra­tion, and I’m going to miss him.