A NOTE OF SADNESS
EX-DALLAS MUSICIAN AIDED OTHERS YET COULDN'T SAVE SELF FROM DRUGS

Will Clay hated being an addict. Hated how the heroin kept seizing
control of him. Hated being defined by it.

After all, his friends and family said, he was much more. A musician
and composer who helped shape Dallas' alternative music scene. An
artist talented with pencil or paintbrush. A sensitive but zany guy,
alternately aloof and serious, always the life of the party with a
wicked streak of humor. And later, a recovery advocate with
soul-gripping honesty and a steady hand for fellow addicts and alcoholics.

All the while, he hated what addiction had done to his
life.

But not enough to save it.

Mr. Clay, 43, who encouraged two kinds of loyalties in two cities with
his musical creativity and his recovery work, was found dead of a drug
overdose in his St. Paul, Minn., apartment Dec. 21. He's believed to
have died six days earlier. Syringes and drugs were nearby.

It wasn't heroin this time - this final time - a parting surprise,
though he'd abused many drugs since the mid-'80s, including yet
another run-in with heroin last year.

Tests by the Ramsey County medical examiner's office showed that
injecting morphine and cocaine killed him. The other finding salvaged
some comfort for Mr. Clay's survivors: His death was ruled accidental.
They'd feared suicide until learning he'd made holiday plans -
reserving a spot in a treatment center's refresher course.

"You're always prepared for the worst, and when it comes, you're never
prepared for it," said his father, Jack Clay, a drama professor and
head of actor training during 20 years at Southern Methodist
University. "A great deal of grieving in families that are looking
hard and clear at this is done before that call finally comes.

"He had an utterly unconventional life but a very rich life. I'm sorry
it was so short. The bad times were really bad, and the good times
were wonderful."

Unlike the recent deaths of several Plano teenagers, who never escaped
their first encounters with heroin, Mr. Clay's death seems to show the
drug's patience and persistence - and makes it clear that addiction
isn't always an escalating spiral, or a lower-class affliction. Like
the well-publicized victims in the suburbs, Mr. Clay was an offspring
of some privilege.

'He was winning'

"Will hated being known as a heroin junkie," said Lucinda Hodgson, Mr.
Clay's girlfriend, who said they split up mutually in September. "But
in seeing it as a battle, he was winning. This is just a perilous,
deadly disease, and when we get complacent, we forget that."

Known for his gregariousness, Mr. Clay died alone - a haunting
finality for some of his friends.

There were other contradictions in his uneven life.

He'd gotten some of the best treatment money can buy - three times. He
knew all the risks and had the expertise to guide others through their
crises but somehow couldn't steer a course for himself.

Besides an older brother, Mr. Clay had a twin sister. Neither sibling
has had drug problems, the family said.

Music was said to have been his greatest love. But despite his
contributions to two bands that represented his best-known success,
erratic behavior got him kicked out of both. He barely touched a
saxophone his last seven years, so strong was its association with
drug use.

His artwork - elaborate geometric designs, most recently - was
striking, friends said, but done informally, not as something lasting.

Friends remembered a man who was well-liked and gifted but who bored
quickly and had a kind of transience that kept him moving from one
project to another and interfered with any sense of purpose.

"He never really had an idea of what he wanted to do with his life; he
had no reason to get up in the morning," said Jeff Limberg, a former
roommate at the renowned Hazelden Clinic in St. Paul. "I just wonder,
what if he'd had something to keep him occupied."

The two met in 1996 at an intensive, nine-month treatment program in
St. Paul, where Mr. Clay lived most of the last seven years. It was
attempt No. 3 at Hazelden for him and finally seemed to take hold.

He became an officer at a halfway house and a trusted leader in the
recovery community, aiding a musicians' assistance group and getting
help for many others.

"But he wasn't talking about any of his own problems," Mr. Limberg
said. He said Mr. Clay fought depression and relented to taking
medication for it late last year.

The last scene of his life fits Mr. Limberg's description of his
friend as "an artist in every respect": lying in bed with his pencils
lined up nearby. "He'd been sketching."

Smoked pot at 12

William Clay's family moved to Dallas when he was 12. His sister,
Cindy, figures that was about when he first smoked pot.

"We always laughed because we were like good twin, bad twin," said Ms.
Clay, a business consultant in Seattle, where she earned a master's
degree in theater direction and where her parents also moved. "William
was always experimenting, diving into anything, fearless risk-taking.
Our folks encouraged us in the direction of our gifts."

For her brother, that meant attending Dallas' arts magnet high school.
Mr. Clay later worked on scores and stage sets for his father's SMU
productions and played in a series of bands. He was 23 with a
reputation for partying when he joined the pop-rock Telefones in 1979,
playing sax and keyboards.

"He knew a lot of people in music and fashion and the theater, and I
suppose he brought them together," said former band mate Steve Dirkx.

A marriage in 1980 didn't last much longer than his stint with the
Telefones. Other music gigs and regular jobs came and went in the
'80s, while his drug use escalated, his sister said.

Ms. Clay said that, while she and her brother shared a disdain for
authority, he was never able to tame that rebellious streak, even at
jobs he liked. "He was never able to make accommodations that other
people make in order to have careers," she said.

In 1987, Mr. Clay signed up with the Potatoes, an eclectic/novelty
band whose musicianship he refined and elevated.

"He was a great musician, he was smart, and he knew everybody around
town, and that increased our visibility immeasurably," said Jack
Turlington, the former group's front man. "Will was a lot more than
his drinking and drug-using."

He fondly remembered Mr. Clay's improvisational skills saving a
performance when the band was backing entertainer Tiny Tim, who
promptly abandoned the playlist.

Choice was his

Mr. Clay surprised band members in 1990 by saying he was going into
treatment in Dallas for heroin use, Mr. Turlington said.

After Mr. Clay's mother died in 1991, the family finally confronted
him and told him he was going to Hazelden. "All you had to do was
ask," they recall him saying drolly.

Mr. Clay met Ms. Hodgson in 1992 when they first went to Hazelden.
They started dating in 1996 after crossing paths during Mr. Clay's
third tour. She had stayed sober. He hadn't - moving to Seattle,
getting pushed back into treatment and, ultimately, returning again on
his own, which friends considered key.

The two made a life together in 1997. Always able to rely on his
family financially, Mr. Clay also got a low six-figure inheritance,
which friends said he spent generously.

In contrast to his days in Dallas, when he didn't own a car and was
considered frugal, Mr. Clay bought an expensive truck.

With trepidation, he returned to Dallas last year to get belongings
stored since he left. His fears of uncovering old habits on the trip
proved well-founded. He went on a three-day heroin binge, friends said.

When he got back to St. Paul, he opted not to check back into
treatment.

Self-reliance issue

The couple later parted - expecting it to be temporary - so that Mr.
Clay could work on his self-reliance, Ms. Hodgson said.

He planned to join a band of recovering addicts, and he'd started
painting faux finishes, including in the lobby of his apartment building.

In the end, friends said, Will Clay gave better than he
got.

"Because of his touching people, they're still alive," said Joe Belde,
a Hazelden staffer. "He had a hard time asking for help. He felt a lot
of shame for his vulnerability."

His family clasps the thought that, in his final two years, Mr. Clay
was happier. His father recalled a conversation about addiction.

"He told me there was literally nothing we could have done to stop
him," Jack Clay said. "Reason has nothing to do with addictive behavior."

Through tears, a sister remembered the parallel life that long ago
swerved into the unpredictable.

"He was a loving, compassionate man with a wacky sense of humor," she
said. "He just couldn't quite find his place in the world."