Rock 'n roll saves a soul.
One of my e-friends passed on the other day. It happened shortly before my 55th birthday. I never had the honor of meeting K. in person, but his wit and aptitude at re-writing classic rock songs to satirize contemporary politics earned my respect and a sneaking sensation that we were “soul brothers”.
Had it been one of my long-lost cousins, I don’t think the loss could have been felt more deeply.
Upon learning the news, I slipped into a morose funk. The advent of my birthday was a factor; I have a bit of trouble with this mortality thing. I am accepting of my own eventuality, but when others pre-decease me, I get very bent and twisted. Other people are entitled to long and prosperous lives; between cigarettes, whiskey, and other forms of bad living too depraved and numerous to list here, I should be dead a hundred times over. God must have a purpose for my continued existence; I wish I had a clue.
Survivor’s guilt aside, I got a dumb-slap from the Holy Spirit in a unique way.
It is buried in my will that, when my time comes, in lieu of eulogies, I want to be “seen” in the prelude to a small Christian service by an accompaniment of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” album. I don’t want my few friends to be pressured to stand up and tell lies about what a nice guy I was. I am a thoughtless, ill-tempered, vicious semi-psychopath. The will stipulates that a pub should be rented, and my cremated ashes should be planted on the bar and anyone who cares to may hold forth in such an environment to denounce me as they see fit. Play the album, and then turn me into compost and scatter me across my beloved mountains. Then everyone can go home, or go share a bucket of Col. Sander’s finest.
The important point here isn’t what happens to me. It’s about the dumb-slap from God.
When I picked up from various sources that a wonderfully talented, incredibly decent human being had passed on, I spouted unprintable obscenities as a first response. I shut my computer down, as though that is a legitimate form of denial.
I wheeled into the living room, and flopped into my TV chair. If this is what I get from being online, maybe I don’t need to be there any longer.
I watch channels like VH-1 and MTV maybe once in a blue moon. Since shows featuring Ozzy Osborne and that “Jackass” crew turned into re-runs, there is really no reason for having these channels on my personal list. They are still there, simply taking up space. Serendipity One, and stay tuned.
I am angry at God His Own Self. “How dare you take a decent person before you take me?”
God sends me skimming through my on-screen schedule. As I burn past those channels I never use, like VH-1, something catches my eye. “David Gilmour”. A Pink Floyd founder; an original. Despite a certain aversion to so-called “music video” channels, I pushed the button.
David Gilmour was playing much of “Dark Side of the Moon”. I sat entranced, and he segued into “Comfortably Numb.”
I cried, and then was accepting of my friend’s passing.
When I was young, and they packed me off to school—as Jethro Tull sang—they told me that rock ‘n roll was the Devil’s work. I don’t consider Pink Floyd to be rock ‘n roll in the sense of “bang-wham-sham-a-lam”, but if I can ever offer a tribute to music, it might be what history calls “acid rockers”.
I don’t know about the acid. Been there, done it, got the tee-shirt. The music, however, is immortal.
Kevin, we will miss you.
Had it been one of my long-lost cousins, I don’t think the loss could have been felt more deeply.
Upon learning the news, I slipped into a morose funk. The advent of my birthday was a factor; I have a bit of trouble with this mortality thing. I am accepting of my own eventuality, but when others pre-decease me, I get very bent and twisted. Other people are entitled to long and prosperous lives; between cigarettes, whiskey, and other forms of bad living too depraved and numerous to list here, I should be dead a hundred times over. God must have a purpose for my continued existence; I wish I had a clue.
Survivor’s guilt aside, I got a dumb-slap from the Holy Spirit in a unique way.
It is buried in my will that, when my time comes, in lieu of eulogies, I want to be “seen” in the prelude to a small Christian service by an accompaniment of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” album. I don’t want my few friends to be pressured to stand up and tell lies about what a nice guy I was. I am a thoughtless, ill-tempered, vicious semi-psychopath. The will stipulates that a pub should be rented, and my cremated ashes should be planted on the bar and anyone who cares to may hold forth in such an environment to denounce me as they see fit. Play the album, and then turn me into compost and scatter me across my beloved mountains. Then everyone can go home, or go share a bucket of Col. Sander’s finest.
The important point here isn’t what happens to me. It’s about the dumb-slap from God.
When I picked up from various sources that a wonderfully talented, incredibly decent human being had passed on, I spouted unprintable obscenities as a first response. I shut my computer down, as though that is a legitimate form of denial.
I wheeled into the living room, and flopped into my TV chair. If this is what I get from being online, maybe I don’t need to be there any longer.
I watch channels like VH-1 and MTV maybe once in a blue moon. Since shows featuring Ozzy Osborne and that “Jackass” crew turned into re-runs, there is really no reason for having these channels on my personal list. They are still there, simply taking up space. Serendipity One, and stay tuned.
I am angry at God His Own Self. “How dare you take a decent person before you take me?”
God sends me skimming through my on-screen schedule. As I burn past those channels I never use, like VH-1, something catches my eye. “David Gilmour”. A Pink Floyd founder; an original. Despite a certain aversion to so-called “music video” channels, I pushed the button.
David Gilmour was playing much of “Dark Side of the Moon”. I sat entranced, and he segued into “Comfortably Numb.”
I cried, and then was accepting of my friend’s passing.
When I was young, and they packed me off to school—as Jethro Tull sang—they told me that rock ‘n roll was the Devil’s work. I don’t consider Pink Floyd to be rock ‘n roll in the sense of “bang-wham-sham-a-lam”, but if I can ever offer a tribute to music, it might be what history calls “acid rockers”.
I don’t know about the acid. Been there, done it, got the tee-shirt. The music, however, is immortal.
Kevin, we will miss you.
posted by Robert at 10:54 AM
3 Comments:
The news hit me like a ton of bricks, too. We live in the same county and never met, but I feel like we did.
Sigh.
I, too, felt uncomfortably numbed over K's passing. Thanks for putting that chaotic group of sensations into words...
I met him when he passed through my State a few years ago. I'm glad to have had the opportunity.
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