Run D.O.N.C.
One problem with getting older is that more things remind you that you’re getting older. When you’re young--- say, on the windward side of
thirty--- the only thing that conveys a sense of mortality is how close to death you feel from a pitcher of margaritas. Fifteen years later,
all kinds of things do that, jumping up and whacking you in the face like a garden rake you stepped on.
The death of family and friends always cracks your bridge. Suddenly, people you thought would accompany you every step of the way just aren’t there anymore to block your view of the abyss. More insidiously, there’s the death of idols--- role models, or maybe just people you didn’t know personally who goosed the status quo and made you feel, vicariously, more powerful.
To some extent, rock stars have been exempt from this kind of melancholy among their fans because of the nature of their profession--- live fast, flame out early. You almost expect them to die young, so when they do, the myth tempers your grief. Oftentimes, your sense of loss is further diluted, if not eclipsed, by the manner of their passing, which can appear the final fruition of attitude. Let’s face it, unless you burn incense to him at night, it’s hard to be blown away with grief when a guitarist is found floating face down in a jacuzzi full of gin, or impaled by an overdose. Though squalid, those almost qualify in the profession, in Native American lingo, as ‘good’ deaths. And when someone accidentally gets electrocuted onstage, you can almost hear cries of stoned approval from the audience.
Lately, though, a number of rock people have rent the veil of illusion surrounding them by dying of natural causes. That is, they violated the covenant with their fans by not only surviving into middle age, but succumbing to the same godawful illness that humped off Aunt Tillie. During the so-called glory days of rock, when someone like Jim Morrison got felled early by a heart attack, it was an understood byproduct of a debauched lifestyle. Shocking, but not necessarily lamented. Possibly even a good death.
But what’s good about cancer, even if it does stem from youthful bad habits never rectified, such as cigarette smoking? Where’s the romance in wasting away from substances that any Rotarian can indulge in?
In recent years the funeral cortege of popular musicians delineating the big C has stretched from here to Brixton: Mick Ronson, Nicky Hopkins, Sterling Morrison, Ben Orr, Laura Nyro, Joey and Johnny Ramone, George Harrison, Warren Zevon, Arthur Kane, Spencer Dryden, Jim Capaldi... sheesh. Does being wired to an amp automatically lower your t-cell count? Is it a question of electromagnetic radiation killing you, as with your cell phone? For good measure, the Great Promoter in the sky threw in a couple of heart failures, with John Entwistle and Joe Strummer. That list alone could comprise a posthumous rap group, Run D(ead) O(f) N(atural) C(auses). Not that they would chart anything, of course.
Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?
Frankly, I never really expected aging rockers to be nineteen forever. But maybe a part of me pretended they were, so another part of me would feel ageless. And if I had to endure the occasional spectacle of them lumbering around the stage like a spavined Percheron, well, at least the spirit was still there, maybe more obvious than ever now shorn of the physical mystique of youth. That much wisdom I’ll grant to age.
Sometimes I get the feeling the Great Promoter is sick of Boomer band reunions and is trying to prevent more of them. A Clash reunion without their frontman? No way. Maybe, ultimately, the common unplugging of our heroes will preserve the illusion of perpetual high decibel youth more than yet another Rolling Stones geriatric tour. For now, it’s hard not to feel swindled when the noise is stilled so mundanely. No matter how good the show was, we want the encore to continue indefinitely.
The death of family and friends always cracks your bridge. Suddenly, people you thought would accompany you every step of the way just aren’t there anymore to block your view of the abyss. More insidiously, there’s the death of idols--- role models, or maybe just people you didn’t know personally who goosed the status quo and made you feel, vicariously, more powerful.
To some extent, rock stars have been exempt from this kind of melancholy among their fans because of the nature of their profession--- live fast, flame out early. You almost expect them to die young, so when they do, the myth tempers your grief. Oftentimes, your sense of loss is further diluted, if not eclipsed, by the manner of their passing, which can appear the final fruition of attitude. Let’s face it, unless you burn incense to him at night, it’s hard to be blown away with grief when a guitarist is found floating face down in a jacuzzi full of gin, or impaled by an overdose. Though squalid, those almost qualify in the profession, in Native American lingo, as ‘good’ deaths. And when someone accidentally gets electrocuted onstage, you can almost hear cries of stoned approval from the audience.
Lately, though, a number of rock people have rent the veil of illusion surrounding them by dying of natural causes. That is, they violated the covenant with their fans by not only surviving into middle age, but succumbing to the same godawful illness that humped off Aunt Tillie. During the so-called glory days of rock, when someone like Jim Morrison got felled early by a heart attack, it was an understood byproduct of a debauched lifestyle. Shocking, but not necessarily lamented. Possibly even a good death.
But what’s good about cancer, even if it does stem from youthful bad habits never rectified, such as cigarette smoking? Where’s the romance in wasting away from substances that any Rotarian can indulge in?
In recent years the funeral cortege of popular musicians delineating the big C has stretched from here to Brixton: Mick Ronson, Nicky Hopkins, Sterling Morrison, Ben Orr, Laura Nyro, Joey and Johnny Ramone, George Harrison, Warren Zevon, Arthur Kane, Spencer Dryden, Jim Capaldi... sheesh. Does being wired to an amp automatically lower your t-cell count? Is it a question of electromagnetic radiation killing you, as with your cell phone? For good measure, the Great Promoter in the sky threw in a couple of heart failures, with John Entwistle and Joe Strummer. That list alone could comprise a posthumous rap group, Run D(ead) O(f) N(atural) C(auses). Not that they would chart anything, of course.
Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?
Frankly, I never really expected aging rockers to be nineteen forever. But maybe a part of me pretended they were, so another part of me would feel ageless. And if I had to endure the occasional spectacle of them lumbering around the stage like a spavined Percheron, well, at least the spirit was still there, maybe more obvious than ever now shorn of the physical mystique of youth. That much wisdom I’ll grant to age.
Sometimes I get the feeling the Great Promoter is sick of Boomer band reunions and is trying to prevent more of them. A Clash reunion without their frontman? No way. Maybe, ultimately, the common unplugging of our heroes will preserve the illusion of perpetual high decibel youth more than yet another Rolling Stones geriatric tour. For now, it’s hard not to feel swindled when the noise is stilled so mundanely. No matter how good the show was, we want the encore to continue indefinitely.