Dick Clark died at 82 years of age this morning of a “massive heart attack.” Although Clark probably resonates deeply with our demographic’s collective pre-rock nerd childhood, he probably doesn’t inspire the hipster love that the recently departed Don Cornelius did. Nevertheless, it goes without saying that he was a great man.
That said, can any Townsperson cite a more cherished American Bandstand moment than the following? He and his audience had it coming to them, no?
A friend passed along this sad note on Levon Helm‘s Web site. I knew Helm had been battling cancer, and he didn’t look like the picture of health over the last few years, but it saddens me to think that yet another member of a band that has meant so much to me since childhood, The Band, is about to cross maybe the greatest of divides.
The Band’s second, self-titled album is one of the first albums my uncle gave me when I was a little boy. I played it to death and wore out the textured gatefold album cover with all the time I spent gazing at those beards, almost groping at the pictures of them recording such magical music in regular-looking surroundings. Robbie Robertson was The Genius, but Levon had the best beard—and he sang “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” like his life depended on it. No, that’s not right: like the South’s legacy depended on it. I still get chills every time I hear that song. As a little kid the gave me a “living” sense of a significant piece of our nation’s history. A young Yankee felt a kinship with those ancient Southerners. I still do, despite the fact that I’ve hardly spent any time in the South excluding trips to tourist traps in Florida.
When The Last Waltz was released my childhood love of rock ‘n roll was rekindled in a big way. I started learning all sorts of nerdy things about The Band that I wasn’t aware of at the age of 6, including the band members’ Canadian roots, all but Helm’s, that is. He was the real-deal Confederate of my boyhood Civil War fantasies. Watching him sing with his head cocked, his shoulders hunched, and that half-smile was a revelation. I was used to seeing Ringo happily bashing away and singing “Boys” or whatever crowd pleaser he was assigned, but Levon was something else. He brought funk and fire to The Band that never came off hokey, the way the performances of a then-peaking Southern rock hero like Ronnie Van Zandt could to a private school-educated kid from the Northeast.
Reports are circulating that one of the 2 surviving Bee Gees, Robin Gibb—he of the most vibrato-laden voice in that trio—doesn’t have long to live. If, as expected, 3 of the 4 Gibb brothers will be dead at a young age, this puts the Bee Gees in contention with Lynyrd Skynyrd for rock’s equivalent of “Curse of the California Angels” status. Considering that the Gibb-related deaths are all in one family, this may put them “ahead” of Skynyrd. However, Andy Gibb was not a member of the singing group, so his inclusion in the Rock Band Tragedy count might not qualify, as would be expected if the Van Zandt brother from .38 Special had died young. Tell that to Momma Gibb, right? All horrible joking aside, Robin Gibb did some remarkable work in all phases of the band’s history, perhaps no better than kicking off the following song.
Few Townspeople beside shawnkilroy are likely to support me on the following, but I also feel this awkward disco track also showcased Robin’s unique talents.
Jim Marshall, creator of the famed Marshall amp (Marshall stack!), has died at 88. Fans of former Minnesota Vikings great Jim Marshall, the defensive lineman whose sterling career is only marked by the time he picked up a fumble and returned it the wrong way—to his own team’s endzone (ie, resulting in a 2-point “safety,” the closest thing in American football to an “own goal,” as our ex-US, soccer-loving readers call it)—need not worry. As of this writing the former “Purple People Eater” is alive and well.
May your recollections of the legendary Marshall amp creator and his creation commence!
Last night while sitting on the can I pulled out my smartphone and checked the Web, only to learn that singer Whitney Houston was dead, finally, at 48 years of age. Remember when Elvis Presley died on the can? Reading about Houston’s death on my smartphone from such a perch will go down as nowhere near as legendary a moment in rock obituaries.
I only have a few minutes to share my initial thoughts on this, but I just read the really sad news that Soul Train creator/host Don Cornelius is dead of an apparent suicide. With this morning’s Little Richard piece I wanted to kick off Black History Month with some positive pieces on what black artists in the music world have meant to me. I wasn’t expecting to have to touch on Cornelius in this fashion. You may know that I’m usually a bit of a wiseass when it comes to the whole “RIP” ritual (“Danny Bonaduce, man…RIP.”), but Cornelius and the scene he presented meant a lot to me. To me, he was truly a great…man.
