"Our original songs are very marketable. The problem is, we just keep getting older. The best thing, though, is that the band was always and IS always family."

That's Village Jammers guitarist/vocalist Geoff Corkhill talking about the random elements of fate, the pursuit of stardom and, most importantly, the belief that, no matter what happens, the bonds of brotherhood in the Jammers is transcendent.

That quote is from a band-wide interview with The Day for an article about the excellent Americana act that was published in 2002. Over the years, they've written gobs of great songs and brushed with big success — among other things, they contributed soundtrack music to the internationally distributed rodeo documentary "Cowboy Up," and traveled to Havana and Miami to absorb tropical nuances and play and record with elite Latin musicians. And while the cruel realities of the music business mean a major record deal never materialized, the band has never stopped performing or writing superb roots songs. 

Flash forward 17 years to the present. Tonight, the Village Jammers — founding members Corkhill, vocalist/mandolinist Curtiss Thompson, lead guitarist Dan Ravenelle, bassist Mike Palazzolo and recent drummer Tido Holdkamp — play the Social Bar + Kitchen. Though the musicians will tell you each of the hundreds of gigs they've played over their three-plus decade career is special, this one has a particularly poignant significance.

It takes place on the one-year anniversary of a long-awaited double-lung transplant Corkhill underwent at Cleveland Clinic.

"We never really thought he would die," says Thompson last week, "because that's not how we think. You can't think like that. But the truth is Geoff was very, very sick. Our mind set was, OK, Geoff's got a problem, so we do whatever we have to fix it or help someone fix it."

Corkhill, who lives in Stonington with his wife Kim Ballantine and their daughter Sabine, suffers from interstitial lung disease, which results in scarring that eventually affects the patient's ability to breathe or get enough oxygen into the bloodstream. Often, the cause of the disease is unknown, although it is frequently associated with long term exposure to hazardous materials. Corkhill has never smoked.

Though there are no known cures, a transplant — or the double transplant in Corkhill's case — can prolong and improve the quality of life. It's also true the requisite regimen of drugs the patient must take after successful surgery takes a tremendous toll on other organs such as the kidney and liver.

subhead: Agonizing wait

After diagnosis — when it was clear the double transplant was Corkhill's only hope for longer life — the agonizing process began to see if Corkhill qualified for the operation at any of the clinics that offer the procedure. Numerous factors come into play, the patient's age and how far the disease has advanced among them, and Corkhill, now 62, was turned down by many facilities.

"Geoff was finally on a (likely prospect) list at a hospital in Boston," Thompson says, "and then he didn't make the next cut. Geoff told me, 'Man, I'm screwed.' He was a little down, and that's understandable. But we were already looking for the next option."

"After Boston, that's the only time in my life I've ever seen Geoff completely devastated," Ravenelle says. "But even that didn't last long. What you have to understand about this is, Geoff is the leader. He's a world traveler, and he's always in charge. He's the biggest humorist there is. And of course, he bounced back."

Corkhill was finally accepted for a transplant at the elite Cleveland Clinic and went onto a waiting list. The entire process, not just the tests to qualify but also, on acceptance, to prepare for eventual surgery, were exhaustive. There was the added knowledge that 40 percent of the people on double lung transplant lists die waiting to get the call.

Corkhill spent months going back and forth to Cleveland, setting up a home-away-from-home in a hotel that, through an arrangement with the clinic, serves as "transplant housing." Ballantine and Sabine were there as often as possible, given the respective realities of job and school. Ravenelle and Thompson traded off Cleveland residencies to help the weakening Corkhill, as well as musician/friend, Jay Dempsey, Corkill's oldest pal and a bandmate in the pre-Jammers group Franklin Limestone. Corkhill's brother and sister, Steve and Jane, were often in Cleveland, as well as Bobby Fletcher, another childhood friend now living in Pittsburgh, who would meet Corkhill in Pennsylvania and drive with the patient the rest of the way.

"I can't tell you how special that is. My bandmates and friends, my brother and sister, and Kim and Sabine, of course. They alternated taking care of me. And all of these people work, you know. They have lives," Corkhill says. "It was humbling to see their friendship in this context, on a day-to-day basis. It only confirmed what we'd said all along about family."

It's funny now, but one of the things about Corkhill's role as band leader had its negative aspects in Cleveland. "I felt like, you know, these people came all the way out here. I felt like I should entertain them or at least take them to dinner. And I'm on oxygen and can barely walk. They kept saying, 'Hey, you're supposed to be in bed.'"

But as the wait grew longer, Corkhill's condition worsened.

"I was feeling very sick last November, and I was back home in Stonington," Corkhill says. "And I was scared. I told Kim, 'I don't think I have long left. In my gut, I've got a really bad feeling.' So I went back to Cleveland so they could check me out. My brother Steve was there and, later, he told me he didn't think I'd last two days. But a day after I got there, the hospital called the apartment where we stayed. They had a set of lungs, but they were at risk. The donor had had Huntington's Disease, and the drugs she'd taken over the course of her treatment could come into play. Did I want them? I said, 'I'll be there in 20 minutes.'"

Thompson was in Nashville, where he lives part-time pitching songs, and says, "The phone rang. It was Geoff, and he was in Cleveland. He said, 'I got the call!' He was so emotional he couldn't get the words out. I drove straight to Cleveland, and by the time I got there, he was in surgery."

Subhead: A long road

The operation was successful, but Corkhill was on life support with numerous post-op complications. Most double lung transplant patients go home a few weeks after surgery; Corkhill was in the ICU for 44 days before he was discharged and then had to stay in Cleveland till March.

During the months waiting for the operation, sitting in his Cleveland hotel room, Corkhill says he had so much time to practice guitar that he was playing better than he ever had.

"I knew going in that, after the operation — IF I was lucky enough to have it — I'd lose a lot on the guitar. But I also knew that guitar was THERE for me. Dan brought it to the hospital after the surgery. I was shaking so much, which is a side effect, that I couldn't play it at first. But I could hold it."

subhead: Back onstage

Tonight's Social performance isn't Corkhill's first with the Jammers since the operation. The band has carried on in his absence and recovery and performed sporadic gigs. And, after Corkhill finally returned home, he's slowly integrated himself back into the lineup.

Corkhill's immune system is and will always be significantly compromised. He takes pills four times a day — 25-40 daily — and knows that their longterm effect will be damaging to other parts of his body even as they help keep him alive. Because his new lungs are in a fragile state, he has to be extremely careful about breathing in situations the rest of us consider normal but which, for him, might be dangerous. Corkhill jokes, "I've gone through a lot just so I don't have to mow any more lawns."

Palazzolo gleefully remembers the first time Corkhill returned to the stage. The Jammers were playing an outdoor party last summer. Suddenly, Palazzolo saw Corkhill, wearing a blue surgical mask and carrying a huge jug of hand sanitizer.

"I was happy and surprised to see him," Palazzola says. "He comes up and says, 'Hold out your hand,' then squeezes sanitizer in my palms. After I rubbed it in, we could shake. It was vintage Geoff. He got onstage for a few songs, and he had the shakes because of the rejection meds, but then he was singing and playing like nothing had ever changed and he'd never lost a beat."

SUBHEAD: Got to keep moving

When Corkhill finally made it home last March, he and Ballantine and Sabine had a belated Christmas. His daughter gave him a walking stick because, as Corkhill says, "If you're a transplant, you're moving." To keep his muscles from atrophying and to strengthen his lungs and heart, Corkhill walks several miles a day.

Though the donors in transplant cases are anonymous, Ballantine is a librarian and did a bit of sleuthing. They think they know the identity of the unfortunate person whose death enabled Geoff to live. The walking stick has the donor's initials and the date of the transplant carved on the handle.

"Her name was Lisa," Corkhill says, his voice somber and thoughtful. "Every day, I get out my cane, and I say, 'C'mon, Lisa, let's go for a walk.' I don't care if it's raining or snowing. We might go for six or eight miles. Every day is magic. I don't think about yesterday. I think about my family and the band and my friends. I keep moving. I say, 'Come on, Lisa, I love you. Thanks.'

If you go

Who: The Village Jammers

What: Perform on the first anniversary of guitarist Geoff Corkhill's successful double lung transplant surgery

When: 7 tonight

Where: The Social Bar + Kitchen, 208 Bank St., New London

How much: Free

For more information: (860) 442-6900