Loss

The most morose example of change being the only constant I can offer is death. Yes, death. And as the features of my mortality become ever-clearer, it's only natural that I take note of those taking their leave. Particularly those who, by virtue of their work as a musician, actor or as a writer, indelibly shaped my life and attitudes.

Musicians seem to have been particularly hard-hit lately, with music-makers known and sadly unknown having passed. Loretta Lynn. Mimi Parker. Jeff Beck. Tom Verlaine. Jerry Lee Lewis. Christine McVie. David Crosby. Hamish Kilgour.

I can't say I was a giant fan of all of them, but as with any good work, their talents survived both fashion and time. Not an easy thing to do.

Take Christine McVie. Amid the 24/7 drama surrounding Fleetwood Mac in the late-seventies, McVie seemed a low-key and fairly grounded personality in the maelstrom that surrounded the band. Yet her singing and keyboard work were essential ingredients in their success.

Next to the vocal histrionics of band-mate Stevie Nicks, her plaintive, erstwhile vocals took on a powerful appeal. She reminded me of the teammate you didn't know you missed until they were gone.

Parker and Kilgour weren't huge stars, but each contributed immeasurably to their band's sound. Imagine “Words” (my favorite Low song) without her. Or “Anything Could Happen” without Hamish. It's difficult.

Tom Verlaine wasn't a star, either. Like Parker and Kilgour, he tended towards the cult artist end of things. While critically renowned, Television wasn't on everyone's lips, even in the musical hot bed of 1977. But those who knew, knew. His knotted, asymmetrical guitar work contrasted brilliantly with band mate Richard Lloyd, and their music was merely unforgettable.

After Television imploded, he went on to a solo career and recorded much that is deserving of your time.

I came to Loretta Lynn late, even having seen Coal Miner's Daughter back in the day. In the nineteen-sixties, she was scoring hits by recording feminist anthems before the vast majority of us even knew what feminism was. Even more miraculously, she was having them on country and western radio.

Yep. To paraphrase an old Panasonic tagline, Lynn was just slightly ahead of her time.

(For a lighthearted counter-weight to that weighty significance, check the duet she sang with Conway Twitty “You're the Reason Our Kids are Ugly”)

I was aware of David Crosby before I knew who he was. The Byrds had a great run of singles in the mid-sixties, and “Eight Miles High” was a ground breaker. And Crosby, just entering the zenith of his career, played a large part in it.

But the first-generation Byrds were splintering, and there didn't seem to be a part for Crosby in the new C&W edition.

Timing is everything goes a popular expression. And Crosby served as proof, encountering two other blokes also in-between-bands. Graham Nash, ex-of the Hollies and Stephen Stills, a former Buffalo Springfield, needed gigs.

Somewhere along the line, the trio realized “Why not create our own gig?” And so Crosby, Stills & Nash were born. Decry their politics, their embrace of the hippie ethos or the epic, ego-driven battles they suffered, some great music came out of those three.

Jeff Beck first excited my hormones way back in the nineteen-sixties via his work in the Yardbirds. I wasn't privy to the internal politics going on within the band, but his work on songs like “Over Under Sideways Down” left an indelible impression.

As I grew and learned more about the music quickly becoming an obsession, I discovered the Clapton-Beck-Page succession that happened within the Yardbirds. Furthermore, the guy who really moved me was a guy named Jeff Beck.

And just as I was learning a re-appreciation of his work, his was embarking on a solo career that would yield the most-definitive work of his career.

Blow By Blow and Wired remain two of my favorite examples of fusion, a genre that has sadly fallen on hard times and even suffered critical dismissal. But I point our that musicians as esteemed as Herbie Hancock and Miles Davis weren't too proud to investigate it, recording some of the best, most invigorating music of their careers.

So there.

What can one say about Jerry Lee Lewis in 2023? He was one of rock and roll's most- dangerous personalities at a time when rock and roll itself was considered a viable societal threat. Yes, the tightly-wound conformity of the nineteen-fifties was deeply afraid.

Not that Jerry Lee couldn't play. Au contraire, my friend. Mr. Lewis could play the ivory out of a piano's keys without breaking a sweat. In that first storm of rock and roll, he was a force of nature.

As were all of them.