It’s been nearly 10 months since Ryan Peerenboom lost his life.
Beyond his talents for music, astrophotography, computer science, and simply being an exemplary guy, Ryan was also a top-tier skier, and after many trips to ski in Colorado, had moved there the previous year with his then-fiancée Sydney.
By all accounts the fatal accident happened on an otherwise typical Saturday morning on the mountain.
Since it happened, those of us who knew and loved Ryan have congregated to grieve his passing, including small, impromptu meetups with Ryan’s friends and his father Lonnie, and a beautiful memorial service in April. Months later, on what would have been his 35th birthday, we assembled a concert in Ryan’s honor—”PeerenJam”—featuring as many of his bandmates and collaborators as possible from throughout his life.
As much as these highly necessary tributes may have helped, none of us will ever come to terms with the shock of losing Ryan. Even if we no longer cry with the raw pain that seized us with the terrible news of his death, to lose someone so abruptly leaves an imprint of permanent shock. Particularly when there are seemingly no lessons to be learned. After all, Ryan was wearing a helmet, and skiing comfortably within his capabilities; had he been reckless, his death could have served as some kind of safety warning or cautionary tale. But no. At best we’re left with a superfluous reminder of how suddenly someone precious can be taken from us.
Ultimately, nothing will help us “get over” Ryan’s death—because we’ll never get over his life. We’ll never get over him.
Ryan Peerenboom was a uniquely special man. He was special to his family, to his wife, to his life-long friends, to his bandmates, and to his fans. I can only imagine the indelible impression he’s left on co-workers, classmates, and teachers, too. Virtually all who’ve had the pleasure of spending time with Ryan have come away enriched.
His legacy is secured in the hearts of those who knew him—Ryan doesn’t need me to write anything to see to that. Rather, this is my effort at writing about the band we built and the music we made together, which encapsulated the majority of the time he and I shared. I loved Ryan, and my modest tribute to him here is to tell the tale of his/our passion project, The Priggs.
Ryan and I first started hanging out by way of good ol’ Swobey’s Hideout in east Green Bay. Though I look back on it fondly enough now, Swobey’s was not a place I took seriously, what with its hard rock cover bands and vibe of (as one friend described) “misplaced energy.” But I’d go there on occasion, especially when my friends Alex Drossart, Andy Klaus, and Branden Seefeld were playing there with guys like local ace (KISS pun intended) Paul Hanna or Green Bay’s best bass player Chris Hanaway.
My pal Pat Schorr called me one night and asked if I wanted to play bass for a new weekly jam with him, Alex, and Andy on Thursdays. This was somewhere between 2011-2013—I think. (Those glorious years living on Stadium Drive are a tad blurry in my rearview.) Those three were all in Shaker and the Egg; Alex was also in People of the Glass House; Andy was teaching music and playing weekly church gigs; and I was gigging with Muddy Udders, the Gung Hoes, and either Pushing Clovers or Beach Patrol. At any rate, the four of us figured we’d appreciate a weekly goof-off gig. We never really had a name (hence no mention on my Big Band List), never rehearsed once, and hardly promoted it. It was a thoroughly silly endeavor that lasted maybe six months.
While the gig was willfully forgettable, I unexpectedly got to know some great people at (frickin’) Swobey’s(!). Staff like Cal, Nikita, Heath, and Eddie made it fun every week. I met my friend Josh Lanaville through those hangouts, too. And really, in questionably recalled retrospect, I didn’t know my now-great friends Alex or Andy all that well beforehand before those gigs.
One guy who was definitely a stranger pre-Swobey’s was Ryan Peerenboom. I’d seen him around before—kind of hard not to, what with the mohawk he used to rock—but we’d never been introduced. Wonderfully fittingly, I met Ryan Peerenboom onstage. At one of our first Thursday gigs, the four of us finished playing a song (let’s say “She’s Electric” by Oasis) when Pat invited Ryan to sing with us, and he dutifully accepted and stepped up to the mic. Our first interaction was hardly memorable, just a quick “Hey man”/”Sup dude” before I (as was often the case at these gigs) was suddenly drum-clicked into playing some tunes I didn’t know. The two songs I remember Ryan singing with us were Maroon 5’s “Sunday Morning” and Amy Winehouse’s “Valerie”. Clearly this gent could sing incredibly well, and his exceptional talent livened up the night regardless of whether I liked the songs.
Ryan and I chatted a bit afterward, quickly dropping whatever cool demeanor we may have previously affected in favor of dorkily complimenting each other. I learned he played in Unity, the local reggae band, at the time. From that night on we were always excited to see each other, which would happen fairly often due to those Swobey’s gigs, but we’d also see each other’s bands’ gigs and cross paths at Shaker and the Egg shows. Always happenstance, but always increasingly pleasant surprise encounters. Granted, that’s how a lot of music-based friendships go, but Ryan and I got along instantly in a way that’s hardly common, or at least not for me, though it probably wasn’t uncommon for such a friendly guy as Ryan.
Such were the interactions between he and me for a couple years, long after the Swobey’s gigs ended as unceremoniously as they began.
I’d especially hit it off with Alex during that time, and he would sit in on perhaps a dozen shows with Muddy Udders over the years, too. Though he’s a Beatles freak and I’m a Stones fanatic, we had a mutual love for The Beach Boys and The Zombies and a bunch of other psychedelic pop—music that everyone likes, but that very few local musicians would have the desire and/or ability to create. In spite of all our musical goings-on, neither of us had attempted to scratch that itch and have a go at our mutually beloved melodic/baroque pop. The two of us would hang out and listen to music, sort of discussing how we could finally try and pull it off. Oddly enough, though the music Alex and I had been fawning over was almost entirely from the ’60s, it was a then-new-ish of Montreal song that tipped us into action. We were both floored by that tune, and since it was achieved by a contemporary band, our high-minded aspiration seemed possible.
Again, bear with me on the timeline here, but I’m pretty sure that was 2014. That’d mean Muddy Udders was unfortunately in disarray, following a number of intense events. To whit, in order: the last-minute cancellation of our European tour (2012); Augie’s wife Carrie’s horribly shocking diagnosis and, within six months, death from cancer at age 31 (2013); Roelke’s then-girlfriend(/now-wife) going into labor prematurely, leading us to cancel our planned South by Southwest (SXSW) performance; and having our $2,000 cash savings stolen by my roommate’s junkie friend while we were off recording what was supposed to have been our fourth album in Illinois (2014; side note: not looking like that music will ever be released). Man… all that happened in about a year and a half. Not sure if that accrued heaviness fully occurred to me at the time, but it’s easy now to see how the idea of a new project, purely for love of music, would have been appealing.
Meanwhile Shaker and the Egg was set to shutter its doors in late 2014. Alex had mentioned to Shaker guitarist Tony Warpinski the concept he and I’d been dreaming up, and it turned out Tony had been talking with one Ryan Peerenboom about starting an original project together as well. Ryan was somewhere in the process of departing from Unity. And although he was starting to gig heavily with Fox Cities cover band Consult the Briefcase, everyone agreed Andy Klaus would be the perfect drummer for it.
Shortly thereafter, in early 2015 (timeline’s clearer from here), the five of us would meet up in one room for the first time, in Alex’s then-girlfriend’s unfinished basement. The first idea we sized up was my song “Rosie Says”, one which I’d initially brought to Muddy Udders. I’d never attempted to make original music with Alex, Tony, Ryan, or Andy, so I could have been a bit nervous showing them a song, but with the tune being six years old and already having been passed on by one band (admittedly it wasn’t an ideal song for a primarily garage-rockabilly group), I was game to put it out there. Not only did they dig it, but they helped me improve its arrangement.
Being around these four guys was delightfully encouraging from that first meet-up. There was empathy—all of us had played hundreds of four-hour shows of mostly covers, and none of us had tried this type of music. From the get-go we tapped into exciting creativity. I’m not the most natural collaborator, but the vibes were so good, and the ideas were just endless, that I hardly noticed how easy it was to work with these dudes. The muse was absolutely smiling on us.
I had a couple other songs stashed away that would find their home with this new project: “Oh Natalie” and “It Will Be Too Soon”. Tony also brought some largely finished songs with “Patron Saint”, “Cocoon Song”, and “Grand Malaise”. With the latter, like with The Foamers?, it was thrilling for me to get to sing/interpret lyrics my bandmate wrote. Ryan sang the other two of Tony’s and absolutely ruled at them. To clarify, there never really was a moment where we decided we’d have two lead singers; like so much of that period, it just happened that way and it simply felt right. Glorious instincts abound.
I can’t overstate how for those first couple of years were just some the greatest vibes I’ve ever experienced in a band. Initially Ryan and Andy were roommates, living above the Top Hat martini bar (now Crown & Common) on Main, so practicing at their place was pretty perfect. Super loose, but productive enough to justify our weekly sessions. Ryan was the one I’d known the least, but I loved getting to hang with him so much, and getting to know him so well.
All of us were just totally into this new band of ours. We were somehow so focused yet so stupid. I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed harder than at those practices—though we also shared a particularly solemn moment when, mid-rehearsal, the Packers drafted Damarious Randall.
In our idiocy we actually thought it’d be a good idea to call this new band Snax. For a while, even! Fortunately I happened across the word “priggish” in some book.
Beyond Ryan and me getting to sing lyrics we hadn’t personally written (including Ryan singing “Sorry, Sandra”, an unreleased song from Alex’s former band People of the Glass House), the co-writing was constant. I got to write lyrics to Alex’s music for what became “New Calamity”, and to add lyrics and write a bridge to Tony’s song “Cradle of the Sun”, and we all chipped in ideas for song arrangements.
Partly out of backlash to our gig-heavy pasts, our primary goal was to record. But, inevitably, as we rehearsed the songs we couldn’t help but imagine how exciting it’d be to play ’em live. We scrambled to apply to Appleton’s Mile of Music festival that August, and were accepted (presumably on the reputations of our prior acts), which kicked the five of us into a whole new thrilling gear, what with having our first consequential deadline.
We polished up our first eight tunes and rehearsed rather feverishly, until we felt just ready enough for The Priggs’ live debut. Granted, this was on a Friday afternoon at Deja Vu—hardly Shea Stadium, but it might as well have been for how seriously we prepared for it.
And for how uptight we were when we took the stage that day! We started our set uncharacteristically stiff, as if the five of us hadn’t spent that whole year idiotically cracking each other up. At a certain point during our first song I recognized as much, so, as if to shake all of us out of it, I gave Ryan a playful shove on the shoulder, he looked up and started smiling, and it was as if the weight had lifted. Truly a fun set, a miniature triumph for us, and just a total trip to play these songs/this style of music live.
With an encouraging first gig behind us we soon got back to writing. Andy entrusted me to write lyrics for music he’d written, which would become “My Selfish Dream”, which Ryan sang. With Ryan’s “Vanished in the Dark”, each Prigg would have songwriting credit on the forthcoming album—all the cooler since this full representation was natural and easy, not a forced, disingenuous, hey-look-we’re-all-songwriters ploy (like The Who’s “A Quick One”, CCR’s “Mardi Gras”, or Ten Years After’s “Stonedhenge”) for its own sake.
Initially we planned to record the songs on our own, with Tony primarily presiding, and we started to do so at Ryan and Andy’s place. We were well on our way with two songs (which I’ve just now added to The Priggs’ Bandcamp page if you’re interested in hearing these Priggs-in-progress artifacts).
But Alex had a wild idea. He played keys for Cory Chisel, who ran the Appleton art/music studio The Refuge where artistic residencies were granted, including for recording (J-Council, Spencer Tweedy, and I believe Jackson Mankowski were other notable beneficiaries). Alex approached Cory about it, and we had a small meeting as to how it might go, and Cory was game for it.
May the gods bless that man: what a development for our band! Suddenly we had this incredible chance to record, with the only apparent limit being everyone’s availability to meet up in Appleton. It felt totally liberating; with Muddy Udders I was used to the pressures of scheduling sessions at well-out-of-town studios and paying ~$400 a day. So we gleefully started chipping away, with Sam Farrell masterfully engineering.
The lesson we’d eventually learn was that recording does benefit from, and in fact need its share of limitations. To be sure, the sessions were a blast, and deliciously fueled by Tom’s Drive-In. But Sam’s studio prowess is virtually unlimited, and contemporary software allows for endless additions and revisions. We also had no real need to move super quickly or decisively, and therefore we didn’t. In some ways, Sam being an awesome and incredibly patient guy, coupled with our endless hey-what-if-we-tried-this creativity, would work against us.
As we got into 2016 I think we all imagined we’d get the album out that year, but it was a little harder to get everyone together as often as we’d imagined, particularly as many of us had numerous other projects afoot (most notably, Sam, Alex, and I were all gigging and recording with J-Council). We also wanted to try and do a few shows with The Priggs, which meant devoting time to rehearsing rather than recording.
Mile of Music was special that year, too. We’d managed to get some hype and wound up playing three sets.
Also, Alex and I were both playing with Cory Chisel by this time, and Cory invited Ryan onstage at his headlining show, which I think is still the biggest crowd I’ve ever played before.
Another crazy cool show we got to do was playing with The Bodeans, Cory, Adriel Denae, and J-Council at Fox Cities Stadium (where the Timber Rattlers play).
Rolling into 2017, we vowed to finish the album in time for that year’s Mile of Music. It seemed totally doable, but would still cut uncomfortably close. It was a hard one to get across the finish line. Sam, bless his heart, had poured far more of his time and energy into the project than any of us had anticipated. As they say, art is never completed, only abandoned, and at a certain point, with our Mile of Music deadline looming, we had to let this thing fend for itself.
That included getting album photography completed. Justus Poehls would take the tintype photography, with Oliver Anderson and Sydney guiding and stylizing, and Frank Anderson colorizing the photos.
That summer, Alex, Andy, Sam, and our friend Erik Sikich put on a Beatles tribute set at the Titletown Rooftap, which would also be the site of our Green Bay album release show. Ryan and I both did a few songs.
It was nice to have that chance to work on something musical other than the album, which we had on the ropes and finally knocked out. We self-released the 11-song “Mete the Priggs” on CD in August of 2017. (It would ultimately earn a spot on this prestigious list of 2017’s top albums.)
We also got some outstanding local press:
- 5 local bands to see at Mile 5 by Shane Nyman, Appleton Post-Crescent
- Green Bay bassist Matty Day played 6 shows with 4 bands in 1 day by Kendra Meinert, Green Bay Press-Gazette
- Green Bay band The Priggs find fresh sound in ’60s-inspired rock by Kendra Meinert, Green Bay Press-Gazette
Here are some pictures from our shows that year; I should note that throughout this blog, I apologize for not being able to credit photographers, as I’d saved these pictures over the years. (By all means, holler if you’re the photographer or know who was, and/or if you’d like to contribute more Ryan-centric Priggs pictures.)
Here is our absurd promotional video for the Green Bay album release show.
Surely 2017 was the height of our gigging, but by the end of the year, I think we’d all become increasingly aware of how playing these complex songs, with exceedingly difficult vocal parts, in a live setting was not exactly a blast. You talk in music about getting to a point of playing “below the neck,” meaning, where you don’t have to think so hard about the songs once they’re committed to muscle memory. Not that we were this operatic prog-rock orchestra or anything, but I don’t know if that type of enjoyable stage looseness was ever really possible for The Priggs. Don’t get me wrong; we loved doing those shows, but oddly enough, all of our experience as gigging musicians may have ultimately made it tough, by comparison, to have fun reproducing ornate tunes live.
Just the same, we’d managed to build some good momentum at that point, and Tony (especially) and I had new songs ready for the group to try. By the end of the year we were working on this new material, and even started to record, opting to give Sam a break and instead record in Green Bay via Tony, Ryan, and Andy’s dad Kelly. It did feel cool to be working on new stuff, and I remember seeing zero reason why we couldn’t put out our next album in 2018.
By 2018, though, I’m afraid we’d started to spook the magic muse. It’s tough to say exactly why. I suppose there’s always adjustment when you move from pure novelty, enthusiasm, and untapped potential to actual realization and action, going from a state of mind to real-world results, rubber hitting the road and what-not. There were, though, genuine changes going on for us individually—living situations, family situations, and perhaps creative aspirations. Whatever the accumulation of reasons, looking back, where we’d hardly noticed the prior efforts we’d expended, The Priggs started to feel more like work, in an unnatural way. Pure joy had been our only operating state to that point.
The change wasn’t sudden or even conscious, yet we did try to figure out how to evolve. We accepted a friend’s wedding gig as a bit of a challenge; we’d have to learn a bunch of covers together, which seemed like a fun new, possibly inspiring exercise. So we learned songs that would play to our strengths and sound, the likes of The Beach Boys, The Turtles, and ELO. These songs, along with several other new originals, would fill out our setlists throughout the rest of the year.
Here’s our ridiculous promotional video for our 4th of July show.
We especially polished up our new songs for our two sets at Mile of Music that year. Our first set was at Appleton Beer Factory, a totally decent start to the festival.
The next day, our second show was nothing if not memorable—just not pleasantly so. First off, we had the sun beating down on us, making guitar and bass tuning impossible, which really messes with a band that sings so many harmonies.
But the biggest thing was just the weirdest experience I’ve ever had on a stage, with any band. Weirder than the Oshkosh Fish Toss (Cory, J-Council), or the dancing cheese containers at Cheese Fest (J-Council), or up-north fights, the Shawano Boat Sinker, the Alcoholic’s Anonymous party dance contest, or the time in Crivitz when, annoyed with the clientele, I mockingly played the first three chords to “Jesse’s Girl”, which incited a near riot, which was quelled only by my playing the rest of the song solo on guitar while the rest of the bar sang along (Muddy Udders for all those).
No, this was weirder, and even by design. At practice that week, we got the unbelievably, irresistibly stupid idea of offering a giveaway at this second Mile show: a signed copy of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours”… but the gag was that it was “signed” (forged, obviously) by politician Reince Priebus. Zany, ain’t it? Clearly this was of the “you just had to be there” categories of comedy, but we decided to see it through. What was the worst that could happen?
As if the set wasn’t awkward enough with the tuning issues, we took one of the constant between-song tuning sessions to fill the silence with our incredible giveaway. When we announced that the first person to reach the stage would win a signed copy of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours”, two or maybe three excited people from the audience rushed toward the stage, which was at the bottom of an inclined alley. Due to the pummeling sun, everyone had been standing back in the buildings’ shadows, so this race down to the stage would require a good 40-foot dash.
I announced the exciting race as if it were the Kentucky Derby, and a determined, older gentleman took the lead and was was well on his way to winning… when his downhill momentum caused him to lose his footing and tumble to the finish line, falling forward and disappearing undearneath the skirt that hung around the edge of the stage. We all held our breath, hoping it’d be an incredible moment where our champion emerged, lightheartedly, hands held high and victorious as the crowd roared and we all shared a stupid laugh over his stupid “prize.”
But no. No, no, no—not even close. This man—the victim of our idiocy—needed assistance to even stand. Then he absolutely needed help getting up the hill, presumably to head to a hospital. Someone came to collect his hard-earned prize to give to him—consolation for the fact that it was only Friday afternoon and we’d just ruined not only this man’s Mile of Music weekend, but who knew what else. And with dreaded reluctance, I announced to the crowd that the prize disc was in fact fake-signed by Reince freaking Priebus. I absolutely shudder to recall the very-loud grown the crowd emitted.
Yet we had to finish the show. Was he okay? Were we now notorious as the worst humans at the festival? Would we be sued for the injuries? Forgery?! Brutal. Still, here are some cool pics from it:
That was our last show of that Mile of Music, and unknowingly, our last ever at the festival. We played a couple more shows that year, with our last one being on a rainy Monday night at The Draw in Appleton opening for Beat Happening’s Calvin Johnson. Unceremoniously, that would be the last time the five of us shared a stage.
Somehow, the magic had deserted us. Unthinkable years prior.
We never announced we were done. We never even acknowledged it to one another; it was a “break,” though through 2019 there were talks about what-if-anything we’d do next. For the first time since we formed, we forewent Mile of Music that year.
Why? I can’t speak for the others. I was in a rough process of disillusionment with music, which I’ve written about previously. These were not the most optimistic times for me, and by the end of 2019 I considered quitting music altogether. I regret that I couldn’t acknowledge that to myself or to my Priggs bandmates sooner. Maybe it was easier and more fitting to let the band fizzle out, as easily as it fizzled in, so to speak… but I really don’t know.
As often happens with entertainer-types, my social life was largely synonymous with my creative pursuits, meaning that the people I saw the most were my bandmates and collaborators and by extension, I’d rarely see people unless I was working on something with them. That, plus covid, plus Ryan and his then-fiancée moving to Colorado, meant that although for a couple years I’d seen Ryan every week and chatted with him regularly, he and I suddenly only rarely dropped each other a line. Not out of ill will, just out of circumstance.
Whether with The Priggs or not, I truly always thought and hoped Ryan and I would make more music together. When I started working on a solo album last year, full of tons of guest appearances, I’d hoped to have him sing harmonies on what was to be its last song, which was one of several I’d originally intended to be Priggs songs. The idea would have been to have Ryan record his vocals remotely from Colorado—but we didn’t end up recording the song until a few months after he’d died.
No, I guess that last collaboration was not to be. The last time any semblance of The Priggs would play would be at PeerenJam. There was no clearer choice for taking on Ryan’s vocals and harmonies than Sam, with Jon singing one of his favorite Priggs songs well.
The likes of Paul Hanna, Riki Schulz, Jon Wheelock, Paul Becker, Shaker and the Egg, and Cory Chisel joined the show, too.
Sam was incredible for it. Studied up on the parts like a pro. And the fact that he was willing to fill that role for such an event is just endlessly heartwarming.
Rehearsing Priggs songs was shockingly fun; maybe there was muscle memory there after all. Playing them didn’t feel merely nostalgic. It was as cool as it could’ve been.
A side effect of refamiliarizing myself with the songs, was that my kids started listening to The Priggs CD regularly ever since Ryan’s passing. (Andy is also my daughter’s piano teacher, so she was extra interested.) One day in particular I was working from home and came downstairs to see my (then) three youngest kids in their toy room, and the boys were just playing quietly while the music played, and my daughter gazed at the CD case. One of countless ways Ryan’s life has and will continue to brighten people’s lives.
The PeerenJam show itself was very well attended, and full of the desired, celebratory spirit. The performers ruled. I largely emceed, trying to lighten things, describing our set as “worst tribute show ever.” We felt focused; the complexity of the songs almost helped by forcing us to think rather than feel. However, our most straight-forward song, “New Calamity”, was the hardest to perform. I’d braced myself for the song’s line of “For all you know you’re living your last day.” There’s a stripped-down verse after the solo, though, where Ryan and I would sing in harmony with just guitar strums… and among the details we’d rehearsed, we happened to leave out Ryan’s part for the show, rather than have someone else sing it, which I didn’t notice until we were on stage. I choke up thinking about that moment; there’d no harmonies with my cherished friend that time, or ever again.
We got through it, and it felt like we did right by Ryan. So grateful for everyone who participated and who came to celebrate the man.
An easier-said-than-done truth is confirmed in this tragedy: the best way to make the most of your time with people is to enjoy them. Same with fleeting experiences. We all know what it’s like to wait until a moment is a memory before we can fully appreciate it. With The Priggs, we all enjoyed the moments as they happened, and I absolutely appreciated Ryan in real time. What more can we do?
Well, I’ll try and honor Ryan by living in a way he would admire, from the major (using my talents to the utmost for maximal good) and minor (making smoked cauliflower every time I use my smoker; the first time I ever had it was from Ryan, and it’s outstanding).
Meanwhile, I’ll still dream for him to just reappear, unharmed—no explanation needed, just, “Hey man!/Sup dude!”
Right…
I know we’ll never get over losing Ryan Peerenboom. Part of writing this is to not lose some of these memories.
I loved Ryan, I loved The Priggs, and I’m so grateful for our experiences together.
Thanks for reading this tribute; I hope it helped. I wish you all strength in your grieving.
-Matty
Matthew t Day 