9.12.03 10:04am R.I.P. -Morgan Young Warren Zevon died Sunday. Johnny Cash died today. Thousands of songs and countless emotions have been conveyed through these two brains, two hearts and four hands. As I turned on the radio in my Honda, driving north on Washington Street this morning, I found myself in the middle of NPR's piece on Johnny Cash. I heard his feeble words from a recent interview and his strong vocal presence from "Live at Folsom Prison." As I got closer to the North End of town, the piece ended with Johnny and Co. singing, "May the Circle Be Unbroken." It hit me hard in the chest; it forced leaky eyes. He was a lot of things and one of them was a born-again believer; so I knew that "May the Circle" wasn't just another song to him. He seemed like a man never looking for a soap box, but yet always had one because of who he was. I've regretted in recent years not being more open to him and his music. As a younger man my arrogance dismissed country music as being void of substance or musical integrity; a mark of my ignorance. I purchased my first and only Cash CD on vacation this summer at Target in Florida; "Johnny Cash American Recordings IV, The Man Comes Around." It had me on the first listen. I could hear his character in the recording. I heard his years on the road. I heard his struggles. I heard a man doing his best to be who he was destined to be; an American troubadour, a voice of our people, a ring in the tree that is the history of these States. I will listen to this CD again as soon as I'm done typing on these keys. And I'm sure it will mean more to me knowing that the man will come around no more. I love the mark that artists like these leave on my soul. I love the way life can be back-lit and framed by artists the way it cannot be done by statesmen and bankers. A banker can put a price on a life--can put a figure into a file drawer in your brain. But it takes an artist to sear the true value of that same life into your heart. In the eternal perspective, I don't give a lot of regard for facts and figures. I lean into emotion and put my stock in the connectedness of souls. I guess to me, facts and figures are devices to describe and quantify life; while emotional connectedness is life. And so the American troubadour, the American songwriter, breathes connection into my life, and so breathes life. I've never met Warren Zevon or Johnny Cash. But through their art they have connected with my soul in ways many people I've known for years never will. The years during my separation and divorce I leaned into the cynicism and sarcasm of Warren Zevon. He doesn't write "fluffy bunny" songs and at that time in my life that was fine with me. But Zevon, the tough anti-hero, gun-lyricing songwriter also got around to life's tender underbelly. "Don't you feel like desperados under the eaves, heaven help the one who leaves." "And I'm trying to find a girl who understands me." The prickly writer surprised my more tender emotions during the divorce. With a lyric like, "Accidentally like a martyr, the hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder," I realized the danger of harboring certain emotions that would circle around to harden my heart if I wasn't careful. As much as he could write a tune that would rock with powerful angst, he could sing a tender melody with poignant lyrics that touched the side of a man that most of us deny. And I suppose therein is my attraction to Zevon; he could make me laugh hard, fuel my mood if I was feeling fiery and remind me of the deep emotional side of a man, that I need help facing. Here's to the American songwriter; the troubadour who reminds me why I live and to live. My ramblings on Mr. Cash and Mr. Zevon are but sloppy scribbles to the legacy of song they've left me. |
9.12.03 10:04am R.I.P. -Morgan Young Warren Zevon died Sunday. Johnny Cash died today. Thousands of songs and countless emotions have been conveyed through these two brains, two hearts and four hands. As I turned on the radio in my Honda, driving north on Washington Street this morning, I found myself in the middle of NPR's piece on Johnny Cash. I heard his feeble words from a recent interview and his strong vocal presence from "Live at Folsom Prison." As I got closer to the North End of town, the piece ended with Johnny and Co. singing, "May the Circle Be Unbroken." It hit me hard in the chest; it forced leaky eyes. He was a lot of things and one of them was a born-again believer; so I knew that "May the Circle" wasn't just another song to him. He seemed like a man never looking for a soap box, but yet always had one because of who he was. I've regretted in recent years not being more open to him and his music. As a younger man my arrogance dismissed country music as being void of substance or musical integrity; a mark of my ignorance. I purchased my first and only Cash CD on vacation this summer at Target in Florida; "Johnny Cash American Recordings IV, The Man Comes Around." It had me on the first listen. I could hear his character in the recording. I heard his years on the road. I heard his struggles. I heard a man doing his best to be who he was destined to be; an American troubadour, a voice of our people, a ring in the tree that is the history of these States. I will listen to this CD again as soon as I'm done typing on these keys. And I'm sure it will mean more to me knowing that the man will come around no more. I love the mark that artists like these leave on my soul. I love the way life can be back-lit and framed by artists the way it cannot be done by statesmen and bankers. A banker can put a price on a life--can put a figure into a file drawer in your brain. But it takes an artist to sear the true value of that same life into your heart. In the eternal perspective, I don't give a lot of regard for facts and figures. I lean into emotion and put my stock in the connectedness of souls. I guess to me, facts and figures are devices to describe and quantify life; while emotional connectedness is life. And so the American troubadour, the American songwriter, breathes connection into my life, and so breathes life. I've never met Warren Zevon or Johnny Cash. But through their art they have connected with my soul in ways many people I've known for years never will. The years during my separation and divorce I leaned into the cynicism and sarcasm of Warren Zevon. He doesn't write "fluffy bunny" songs and at that time in my life that was fine with me. But Zevon, the tough anti-hero, gun-lyricing songwriter also got around to life's tender underbelly. "Don't you feel like desperados under the eaves, heaven help the one who leaves." "And I'm trying to find a girl who understands me." The prickly writer surprised my more tender emotions during the divorce. With a lyric like, "Accidentally like a martyr, the hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder," I realized the danger of harboring certain emotions that would circle around to harden my heart if I wasn't careful. As much as he could write a tune that would rock with powerful angst, he could sing a tender melody with poignant lyrics that touched the side of a man that most of us deny. And I suppose therein is my attraction to Zevon; he could make me laugh hard, fuel my mood if I was feeling fiery and remind me of the deep emotional side of a man, that I need help facing. Here's to the American songwriter; the troubadour who reminds me why I live and to live. My ramblings on Mr. Cash and Mr. Zevon are but sloppy scribbles to the legacy of song they've left me. |
Jan. 24, 1947 to Sept. 7, 2003 |
Feb. 26, 1932 to Sept. 12, 2003 |
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