By Misha ben-David
Into a day promising serious stressors in my life comes word that one of the true Golden Boys of rock n’ roll has left us. He told us he would, but that didn’t make it any easier when he did. Everyone’s playing “Werewolves Of London” because so few in this generation knew anything else of his. This was hardly his best song; it wasn’t even the best song on EXCITABLE BOY, for Christ sake. I remember a Sunday morning in 1980 when my ex-wife had my seven-year-old daughter listen to the radio station I was working at. I dedicated “Tenderness On The Block” to her and fought back tears when those gentle optimistic words came through my headphones. No song on earth could have expressed my fondest wishes for her that day any better. Unfortunately she’s had, through no misdeed of her own, a tough life that has become a test of my faith these days. I fear she may depart this earth, as she came into it prematurely.
In ensuing years there were drunken jam sessions where we couldn’t stop playing “Lawyers, Guns & Money ” (THAT would be the best song on EXCITABLE BOY) and the evening about a year ago when I lovingly learned “Accidentally Like A Martyr” and managed to mangle it beyond all recognition on stage. So, I suppose it’s fitting that Warren left us as a martyr, and that the accident of birth led to the accident of death. But his gallows humor, his raffish charm, his chemically-fueled early live shows and the persistently subversive tone of all his songs have neither parallel nor equal in the music business. Like John Lennon, Gram Parsons and Jim Morrison, he cannot be replaced and we should not permit it, were it possible.
One of Zevon’s more lightly regarded albums was 1990’s TRANSVERSE CITY. With his bleak but sharp-toothed sense of irony bared, the cover shot featured a hairdo that would have looked in place on a Slaughter, Poison or Winger CD. This was either a bad omen or a reminder that you hadn’t paid your dues to the Dark Humor Club For Men, of which Zevon wasn’t just a member; he was the President. Inside “TC” there were few chuckles and a pitch black, mud-thick swamp of 100 proof nihilism. On the throbbing, hypnotic “Run Straight Down,” chemicals are poisoning not just our water and air, but our thinking and our relationships. Other songs made soulless consumerism the bread and circuses of the 1990’s. News? Hardly. Depressing? Unspeakably. Fun to listen to? Not really. But there he was anyway; telling it like it was with one world-class guitar solo from Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour, another from the late Jerry Garcia and a hair raising sonic blast from Neil Young. Zevon didn’t care if you liked, understood or even bothered to listen. He knew you’d find out sooner or later what a squalid mess we’re making of the planet. In the meantime, he’s just telling morbid bedtime stories to any yuppie with 12 bucks (remember…it’s 1990) to buy the disc. Zevon is so musically twisted that he laughs at you laughing at him laughing at you, and he does it without laughing at all. He just glares from the stern, condemning eyes on the front of “TC,” like Lord Inquisitor a second away from slapping his thigh and howling like a loon. Either that or yanking the Glock semi-automatic 9mm from behind his back and plugging a hole in your forehead. In the end what’s the difference, really? Life’ll kill ya, right? Thanks…try the veal…please drive safely…don’t forget to tip your waitress.
His custom tuned Grim-Reaper-reading-Mad-Magazine sense of humor is hard to find in the shaggy and tired cover photo on his final release THE WIND. But the joke is still on you. Go buy it and see what I mean. TRANSVERSE CITY, indeed. Those “Run Straight Down” chemicals got the messenger after he’d delivered the message and maybe Zevon found that the funniest thing of all. Who knows? The Lord Inquisitor wouldn’t let on, anyway. THE WIND? Endless possibilities for a sick joke right there in the title.
Joni Mitchell wrote, “you don’t know what you’ve got ’till it’s gone.” Now Warren is gone and we will begin to understand in weeks and months to come what we had. I used to hear somebody singin’ sweet and soulful on the radio. Could we still tune Mohammed’s radio to that special frequency on some dreary winter’s night? If so, I hope he does the whole “Stand In The Fire” album one more time. That ragged electric foot up the ass of late 70’s corporate rock and self-important punk rockers is one of the greatest live albums on any planet in any generation and I’ll go hoarse yelling, “A SHOOTER LIKE MEEEE!” right along with Warren if I get the chance.
On THE WIND, Zevon’s wheezing voice wearily asks us to “keep me in your heart.” I know I will. But I think I’ll warm up my John Lennon/George Harrison Memorial Tear Ducts first. And cry lots of mercury, diethylhyraline and TH-2-4-ammonium bromide into my Kleenex. Then, I’m back to a day of dealing with a series of real world anxieties that Zevon would’ve surely lampooned somehow. It’s just a little harder knowing the only Desperado who could do it is waiting under the eaves in a place he probably can’t find much to bitch about. Sounds like heaven to me, but knowing Warren…
Dad! Send Lawyers, Guns and Money…the shit has hit the fan!
