Bloodless On The Dance Floor

Now that everyone and their grandmother has chimed in on Michael Jackson’s passing, my turn.

First, I’ll make it clear from the start I was and am not a fan of the man’s music.

Granted, it was often brilliantly executed, each note and beat polished to pop perfection.

Which to me was the problem.

Jackson released an album a few years back consisting of some new songs and some dance remixes entitled “Blood On The Dance Floor.” An ironic name, given the bloodless nature of his music.

Every element of Jackson’s music and moves was a calculated affair. There was never any spontaneity, any surprise or improvisation. It was cash register product. As noted, often presented at the highest level possible. But product nonetheless, designed to sell the maximum amount of units and concert tickets. It didn’t move me. I wonder if it ever moved him.

As to Jackson’s offstage persona, suffice it to say he didn’t handle fame very well.

Jackson is the latest entry in the pantheon of rockers (I use the term rather loosely in his case) who left prematurely, usually by being a victim of their own vices masquerading as devices. He is the first major artist thought of as a child of the ’80s, although his career started in the ’70s with the Jackson 5, to so excuse himself from the proceedings. This, and having the biggest selling record of all time, goes a long way toward explaining the present level of grief not seen since Elvis Presley died. The children of the ’80s have never had to deal with this before. Not to this degree.

All I can say is welcome to the club.

Given how my musical memories started in the mid ’60s (I was five when the Beatles appeared on the Ed Sullivan show, and before anyone asks I have no memory of whether I saw it), rock stars checking out ahead of schedule seemed almost routine as the next decade began: Jimi Hendrix, Janice Joplin and Jim Morrison died within ten months of each other starting in September of 1970.

They were the biggest names, but hardly alone. Alan “Blind Owl” Wilson from Canned Heat also passed away in 1970.

Brian Jones from the Rolling Stones and Otis Redding died during the ’60s, preceded by Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper in 1959.

Back to the ’70s, a decade that was most unkind to musicians. Jim Croce’s death in a plane crash during 1973 hit me hard; he was and is a favorite. Gram Parsons, who pretty much invented the country rock genre, also died that year from drugs.

Cass Elliott from the Mamas and the Papas suffered a fatal heart attack away in 1974.

Pete Ham from Badfinger committed suicide in 1975, followed by bandmate Tom Evans in 1983.

Lead singer Ronnie van Zant, guitarist Steve Gaines and his sister Cassie who sang background vocals were killed when Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane crashed in 1977.

Sandy Denny, Fairport Convention’s lead singer during its glory years, died in 1978 when she fell down a flight of stairs. Keith Moon, the Who’s manic drummer, overdosed in the same year.

Sid Vicious, bass player for the Sex Pistols, closed out the decade along with punk rock as a sign of genuine rebellion with a heroin overdose in 1979.

The ’80s started in the most jarring fashion possible with John Lennon’s murder in 1980. Earlier that year, AC/DC’s lead singer Bon Scott choked to death on his own vomit when drunk. John Bonham, Led Zeppelin’s drummer, died in a similar fashion later that same year.

Harry Chapin, who gave us “Taxi” and “Cats In The Cradle” among other modern folk classics, died in 1981 from a heart attack.

Randy Rhoades, the flash-fingered wonder guitarist for Ozzy Osbourne, was killed in a 1982 plane crash. James Honeyman Scott, guitarist for the Pretenders, overdosed later that year.

Karen Carpenter, the silky voiced pop singer who was half of the Carpenters, died as a result of anorexia in 1983. Pete Farndon, bass player for the Pretenders, emulated his bandmate Scott’s cause of death. Felix Pappalardi, bass player for Mountain, was shot to death by his wife. Dennis Wilson, drummer for the Beach Boys, drowned.

1985 saw Ricky Wilson, guitarist for the B-52′s, become one of the many rock’n'rollers during the decade to die from AIDS.

Jane Dornacker, beloved San Francisco Bay area comedienne and occasional rock singer, was killed in a 1986 helicopter crash.

The ’90s started in a morose fashion. Blues giant Stevie Ray Vaughn died in a helicopter crash in August of that year.

1991 saw Steve Clark, guitarist for Def Leppard, die from an overdose. Later that year Freddie Mercury, the flamboyant showman and lead singer for Queen, died as a result of AIDS.

In 1992 Christian rock lost one of its brightest lights when Mark Heard died from a heart attack following a stroke.

In April of 1994 Kurt Cobain, leader of Nirvana, killed grunge by committing suicide.

Kevin Gilbert, half of Toy Matinee which recorded one of the greatest rock records of all time, accidentally strangled himself in May of 1996 during an auto-erotic asphyxiation session.

John Denver died in a plane crash in 1997. Michael Hutchence, lead singer of INXS, hung himself later that year.

The next year saw Falco of “Rock Me Amadeus” fame die in a car crash. Cozy Powell, who played drums with an assortment of bands including Rainbow and Emerson Lake & Powell, also died in a car crash. Unrelated, Wendy O. Williams, lead singer of the Plasmatics, committed suicide the following day.

In 2000, Gene Eugene, leader of Adam Again and founding member of the Lost Dogs, lost his life to a brain aneurysm.

There are dozens more names that could be included. But you get the idea.

These artists all had one thing in common: they didn’t die of old age. Many, far too many, died in one fashion or another at their own hand, killing themselves directly or indirectly with drugs and/or alcohol. Bono, the lead singer of U2 who fortunately has avoided all of the self-destructive traits seemingly inherent in musicians, once wrote the lyric “every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief; all kill their inspiration and sing about the grief.”

Far too often, the inspiration they kill is themselves.

Literally.

Looking back at the list, I purposely left out a couple of names. Names you may or may not know.

Names I know.

Names to this day I say with melancholy.

1976 was a difficult time musically for a confirmed disco hater such as myself. Although the world was still a year away from the abomination of desolation that was Saturday Night Fever, disco as a genre was riding high and wide if not handsome, squeezing most everything else off the pop charts. Rock’n'roll was decidedly on the defensive, with a few exceptions. One of them was “The Boys Are Back In Town” by Thin Lizzy, a rockin’ single if ever there was one with exquisite twin lead guitars taking it far above the standard sludgy chunked out chords. And controlling it all was songwriter, lead singer and bass player – bass player! – Phil Lynott.

Lynott was manna from heaven to this occasional guitarist but most of the time bass player, frustrated beyond words at being superglued next to the drum set, seldom hearing anything other than turn it down and don’t mess with the guitar players hogging the stage.

Lynott was coolness personified. He had a unique vocal style I quickly adopted as my own on those rare occasions I could get anywhere near a microphone. Live And Dangerous, a double LP Thin Lizzy released in 1978, seldom left my record player. I played along, sang along. I knew every note by heart, yet could never listen to them enough.

There was the minor detail of his being raised Irish by his white mother after his Afro-Brazilian father left her almost immediately after his son’s birth that was rather impossible to replicate. But in terms of music? Everyone else at the time wanted to be Jimmy Page, guitarist for Led Zeppelin. Me? I wanted to be Phil Lynott.

Phil Lynott died in early January of 1986, a victim of liver and heart failure brought on by years of drug abuse.

He was thirty-six years old.

One Friday night during the ’70s, I stayed up late, sitting by myself in my parent’s living room next to the console television, lights out and the sound turned down low so they wouldn’t know I was up as they were less than enthralled by my nocturnal habits. I was watching Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, a weekly pastiche of live appearances by assorted artists. Some good, some… not.

On that particular night, in his trademark monotone Kirshner introduced a young Irish guitarist whose name I had seen before on inner sleeves back when same were often used by record labels to list other artists under their wing in hope doing so would spur the record buyer into checking them out. I had no idea what this one sounded like, but as best I could with the television turned down to a whisper, my ear pressed as close as possible to the grill cloth covering the speaker while still being able to see the picture tube – and fighting sleepiness to boot – I watched and listened so I could find out.

Have you ever had an encounter with an artist in any given realm – music, literature, acting on stage or screen, painting, sculpture, dance – that transfixed you, yet you never followed up on? Someone for whom you always carry the intense memory of that first encounter, but failed to go to for a second?

That’s what happened to me that night.

I was in jaw-dropping awe. This was the best blues and blues-based guitar I had ever heard. Ever. It was utterly amazing. The skill. The intense emotion pouring out of every note. You knew this man lived through and for his music. I couldn’t get enough. Absolutely couldn’t get enough.

And I never bought a single record of his. Ever.

Weird in the extreme, yet that was the case. I often thought about what I had heard that night. Yet not once did I pursue the matter. Not once.

Until a few years back, when my main man mentioned the guitarist’s name as his favorite.

Rory Gallagher.

“Oh, yeah! Him!” I went through the entire story. “What’s he doing these days?”

Rory Gallagher died in June of 1995 from complications following a liver transplant necessitated by years of alcohol abuse.

I’ve slowly built up a catalog of Gallagher’s music. His Irish Tour album recorded in 1974 is a masterpiece that cannot be described, only experienced. I’ve dusted off my guitar, which had been sitting next to my bass doing nothing for years, and occasionally run through blues riffs as best I can, inspired by Gallagher’s pure music albeit at my absolute best I’m 1/1000th of one percent the player Gallagher was when he was simply tuning his battered Fender Stratocaster and had yet to play an intentional note. I’m fond of the saying that music is God’s language. Gallagher was the cry of God’s heart.

It’s one of the great paradoxes of music how so many who’ve created it over the centuries have been absolute trainwrecks as human beings, yet were the voice of God’s creation. It testifies to the awesome power of an almighty God. It also testifies to the great and terrible consequences of opening your heart and soul to His creative gift.

Very few walk in His presence by being His voice in such a direct manner and emerge unscathed. Yet the musician embraces this willingly for the taste of life available in no other fashion. It is the salt with the sweet.

Ofttimes the salt comes not from sweat and tears alone.

It is in the blood coursing through the music.

Sometimes it is spilled, leaving nothing behind but the memories and if we’re lucky the moments of sound hopefully forever captured, moments reminding us of the ones who brought us God’s language and then left.

May the God who gave them the ability to speak His language have mercy on their souls.

Back here on earth, to those mourning Michael Jackson all I can say is this.

Yeah.

I know.

More than you will probably ever know.

If you’re lucky.

P.S. A sample of Rory Gallagher’s gift:

[video http://www.diecast-dude.com/gac/rory_gallagher_a_million_miles_away.flv nolink]