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Simon Illa Is Living Large
By Victor Fiorillo
The grandmother took the boys in, which was a mixed blessing: She sheltered and overprotected them, making it clear she felt they would never lead normal lives — that the "Gilbert Boys," as they were known around Paris, would never live on their own. Simon didn't buy it. "I don't really remember my mother," he says. "But I was told that she was stubborn, and I guess I got that from her."
Though Simon's father was generally absent, he was a musician, and he bought Simon his first guitar — a shortened child's version — when he was 13. "I was like the kid in that movie A Christmas Story, with his nose pressed up to the glass, drooling over that BB gun," Simon remembers. "I just had to have it." Next came a drum machine, and then a four-track cassette recorder. Simon spent most of high school in his room, alone, writing and recording pop tunes.
By the time he graduated, Simon had decided he wanted to major in music at Indiana State in Terre Haute. Even though the school is only 30 minutes from Paris, his grandmother didn't think he could handle it. Simon insisted. He was accepted, but not to the music program. "Apparently, you had to actually be able to read music," he says — Simon couldn't decipher a note (and barely can now). No problem: Given that he "had a thing for cumulus clouds," Simon enrolled in Physical Geography & Climatology. He found the kids a bit more evolved at college, and he was able to make friends. He even joined a hip-hop band. But what the hell would a hip-hop band, intent on partying and picking up girls, want with a guy like Simon? "I was the shit," he says. Sure. Here's a better answer, in the form of Kehinde, who was then rapping with another group in Terre Haute. Mini-Me and a black rapper built like an NFL tight end both saw the people beyond the clichés and got tight. That's what they'd want with a guy like Simon.
Then it got worse, again.
Throughout college, Simon attempted to patch things up with his father. He invited him to gigs, but his dad never showed. Just after graduation, Simon called to say that his band would be interviewed live on the radio that night. His dad promised to listen. The next morning, Simon's grandmother got a phone call: His dad had placed a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. No note. No explanation.
And just like that, Simon knew he had to move on. "I went through more by the age of 23 than most people will ever have to in their entire lives," he says. "Both of my parents were dead, but this taught me that you don't live forever, and that's a very empowering thing that most people don't really embrace."
Though Simon's father was generally absent, he was a musician, and he bought Simon his first guitar — a shortened child's version — when he was 13. "I was like the kid in that movie A Christmas Story, with his nose pressed up to the glass, drooling over that BB gun," Simon remembers. "I just had to have it." Next came a drum machine, and then a four-track cassette recorder. Simon spent most of high school in his room, alone, writing and recording pop tunes.
By the time he graduated, Simon had decided he wanted to major in music at Indiana State in Terre Haute. Even though the school is only 30 minutes from Paris, his grandmother didn't think he could handle it. Simon insisted. He was accepted, but not to the music program. "Apparently, you had to actually be able to read music," he says — Simon couldn't decipher a note (and barely can now). No problem: Given that he "had a thing for cumulus clouds," Simon enrolled in Physical Geography & Climatology. He found the kids a bit more evolved at college, and he was able to make friends. He even joined a hip-hop band. But what the hell would a hip-hop band, intent on partying and picking up girls, want with a guy like Simon? "I was the shit," he says. Sure. Here's a better answer, in the form of Kehinde, who was then rapping with another group in Terre Haute. Mini-Me and a black rapper built like an NFL tight end both saw the people beyond the clichés and got tight. That's what they'd want with a guy like Simon.
Then it got worse, again.
Throughout college, Simon attempted to patch things up with his father. He invited him to gigs, but his dad never showed. Just after graduation, Simon called to say that his band would be interviewed live on the radio that night. His dad promised to listen. The next morning, Simon's grandmother got a phone call: His dad had placed a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. No note. No explanation.
And just like that, Simon knew he had to move on. "I went through more by the age of 23 than most people will ever have to in their entire lives," he says. "Both of my parents were dead, but this taught me that you don't live forever, and that's a very empowering thing that most people don't really embrace."
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