2016 continues to cut a brutal swath through music. Man,
when Lemmy died, on Christmas Eve, I had a bad premonition. After all, I was
just recovering from the passing away of New York Philharmonic conductor Kurt
Masur the week before. But how was I to know that four months later, by my unofficial count,
eleven more moderate to well-known musicians would be called home, wherever “home”
may be.
January saw the demise of Pierre Boulez (he was a very
famous conductor – I probably have more CDs of music he produced than any
other), David Bowie, and Glenn Frey. February had Maurice White, founder of
Earth Wind and Fire. I wasn’t too familiar with him (though I knew the songs he
wrote and sung), but the wife was. March claimed George Martin, who, it must be
confessed, led a long, long life to age 90, Keith Emerson (“ooooh, what a lucky
man, he was!”), Frank Sinatra Jr, and Steve “Seven Bridges Road” Young.
Yesterday saw the deaths of Lonnie Mack, a guitarist who influenced all the
guitarists who’ve influenced me, and, of course, Prince.
Now, I never was into Prince. He was more of a chick
thing, I think. Perhaps I heard two or three of his songs start to finish. He
wasn’t really my thing, nor was he the thing of the people I grew up and hung
out with. But I respect him as a musician, writer, and overall promoter, even
if I considered him a little too weirdly effeminate. Despite the whole getting
tons of women thing.
Can we have a moratorium on musician deaths, 2016?
Please? I’m fearing for the surviving members of Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, and Black
Sabbath here, okay?
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