R.I.P. David Roach of Junkyard

I always say that 1987 was the most important year for music in my life, but the more I look back, the more I realize 1989 had just as much to say. I was coming of age, past puberty, into rebellion, and already applying for the job of Captain Trouble. Of course, no 13 or 14-year-old could be legit trouble without the right soundtrack, or the right amount of booze and chemical inspiration, but that's a whole different confession.

And 1989… it came armed with the soundtrack I needed, delivered with divine timing, especially that summer. May gave us the self-titled debut from Texas hellraisers Dangerous Toys, and June gave us Junkyard, by way of California but carrying Texas grit in their pockets. Two albums. Just two. But those records came to define me, not just as a music fan, but as a drummer, and frankly, as a human being. I’ve lived those lyrics on purpose, some by accident. I drank too much, took too much, laughed too loud, fought too often, and loved the chaos too dearly to see it happening.

But from those albums came something deeper. A mantra. A war cry. A piece of soul carved into vinyl. Junkyard’s “Simple Man” wasn’t just a song, it was scripture. It still is. The lyrics spoke in a language I hadn’t heard before but somehow always understood. The groove and approach were what I now call Southern Sleaze, a term I live by. To this day, if someone says, “Hey man, this sounds like Southern Sleaze,” I’ll damn near break my neck to give it a listen.

That song, it is me. I’m the guy they sing about, on purpose, with pride. My socials even quote it “Don’t throw your pennies in the wishing well, cause what you get is what you see.” My wife will agree with this sentiment too although it took her several years to come around to accepting it, now she appreciates that about me. That line has followed me since ’89, like a shadow and a shield. I’ve listened to more music than I can count, written my fair share too, but “Simple Man” still stands tall as the one. The gold standard. My personal gospel.

Junkyard never stopped. Not really. They were Rock Warriors, scarred and shining, and I followed them through it all, lineup changes, label switches, indie releases, tour rumors, all of it. The internet helped, and later, so did social media. I got to befriend a few of the band members, and more importantly, I found other lifers, fans who loved this band as deeply as I did. Some of those people are now among the most beautiful souls I’ve ever met.

As for the band, I only ever really chatted with vocalist, David Roach, and even that was minimal. I didn’t want to fanboy too hard or come off like some kid still begging for an autograph. I’ve always been that way - respectful. These people are human. You don’t treat them like trading cards or living statues. I’d drop into his DMs now and then, check in, ask about new music or tours. Quiet admiration. Still, I've never seen Junkyard live. That’s a damn crime in my book.

They were part of the Monsters of Rock Cruise scene for a while, but I never went. Too expensive. Too surreal. Too many fans mistaking proximity for entitlement, hovering around their heroes like flies at a barbecue. That’s not me. I don’t need selfies while they’re eating. They know we love them. You’re on the fucking boat with them, let the man drink his juice in peace. That’s my opinion though, it’s not law, it’s just my 2 pennies.

Then came the news that cut deep. A few years ago, maybe not even that long, David announced he was battling cancer. I backed off immediately. That’s the time for space and dignity, not inbox clutter. I gave what I could to the GoFundMes, I sent strength through silence and followed updates from his wife, who posted daily, even when things got rough. Especially then.

And now… he’s gone.
Yesterday. Maybe the day before.
Time doesn’t matter when grief shows up, it just is.

A wife lost her husband.
A child lost their father.
A band lost its frontman.
And we, the musical misfits, the lifers, the dirtbags with hearts of gold, lost one of the truest voices to ever rise from the Texas heat.

David Roach was a lifer.
And he was that Simple Man.
There’s not a damn thing more admirable than that.

I’m crushed once more. This is another voice of my youth falling silent. Another soul who taught me how to survive, how to feel, and how to keep it real, even when life turns savage. When I can’t find the words, I put on “Simple Man” and let David speak for me. I dive back into Junkyard’s catalog like a lifeboat, looking for comfort, for clarity, for that edge of truth I can’t express alone.

He had the pulse. He had the guts.
And even when the spotlight dimmed and the hairs turned grey, he never strayed.
You don’t live through something like the ‘80s and just walk away from it.
Unless, of course, you never really meant it.
David meant it. Every damn word.

Denim vest, heart on sleeve, middle finger ready.
A man’s man. A poetic bruiser. A straight-shooting, no-bullshit saint in Sleaze.
And now, gone.

But we have the records. We have memories. We have the lines tattooed across our souls.
And we’ll carry him with us until the wheels fall off this motherfucker.

R.I.P. David Roach
Thank you for showing a wild Georgia kid that it’s okay to be simple,
to be raw, to be real.
And to never, ever, take shit from anyone.

~Andy