I’ve been listening to Sweet Jane on repeat, and then breaking it up with various solo Lou Reed stuff. I’m currently listening to Dirty Blvd.
Lou Reed died yesterday, and I don’t know that I’m capable of communicating exactly how that makes me feel, other than to say that it made me cry. He was 71, and for a guy who lived a hard rock and roll life like he did, that seems like an accomplishment. But the fact that he was 71 only serves to remind me that all of my musical heroes are…. well… let’s face it — getting old. How long until Bob Dylan goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up again? Have we heard the very last David Bowie album (The Next Day — it’s fantastic)? Will Annie Lennox just go quietly into the night, and one day be listed as “the late singer/songwriter”? Hell, even Keith Richards can’t live forever. What about those who aren’t particularly present? Those we take for granted, like Bruce Cockburn, or Leonard Cohen, or Joni Mitchell? Will we wish we’d listened more while we had the chance?
You’ll have to forgive me my lack of eloquence. I’m sure others will be writing better tributes than I. I’m feeling down and out of sorts. Sentimental but lacking in words.
I get sentimental about these people, darlings, because they’ve spoken to me — oh, not personally, of course. They spoke through their music, and the great thing about music is that it never dies. I can turn on my radio and hang out with old friends any time I like. Lou Reed isn’t dead — he’s only a few swipes and taps away on my iPhone. Music was his ticket to immortality — the beginning of a great adventure.