When Chris Cornell died my social media feed flooded with posts about those lamenting the loss. It reminded me of previous occasions such as the death of David Bowie, Alan Rickman, and the plethora of celebrities who passed last year; online communities posting music, gifs, memes, and video clips as a way of eulogizing the departed. Then as now I scrolled through myriad such signs of mourning wondering why these deaths mean so much.
I usually feel detached from the demise of a celebrity. Even those I admire have never really affected me in any obvious fashion. It's hard for me to be overly distraught over the loss of a person with whom I had no interpersonal relationship. That isn't to say I don't have some type of personal connection, but such threads always struck me as more nebulous and abstract. For instance, throughout high school and college I listened to Pantera a great deal, however, when Dimebag Darrell was murdered I didn't experience any profound melancholy. And yet, I know for a fact that his death still affects the mood of many Pantera fans. Simply putting any of their music on a jukebox eventually elicits the attention of a CFH enthusiast, who invariably nods somberly -- funerary headbanging -- as they turn the conversation, almost immediately, to the death of Dimebag: “This is a kickass song. Sucks that he’s dead, man.” Joy of the song sharply gives way to a reminder of the dead.
Now, that may seem an extreme example, a murder is bound to hold root in anyone's mind, but the same is true for celebrities who have passed less horrifically. Dead musicians draw out the most common instance of this, really listen to the conversations people have about deceased celebrities. Talk starts out mentioning why so and so meant a great deal to an individual, but discussion soon moves towards two statements:
1. There will never be more (films, songs, paintings, etc.) from Blank.
2. What remains will often be less enjoyable; now tainted by death a song, a scene, or a photo becomes a reminder of loss.
What concerns us most is that we've lost those things which gave us happiness. The joy of hearing a song or seeing a film will never be quite as potent now that it serves as a reminder of loss. However, it's never about the person, it's about their product. To this day, people still remark on the suicide of Hunter S. Thompson in regards to wanting his writing, particularly the dagger prose with which he might stab whatever current political madness is rising. Yet, I'm willing to assume, with absolute certainty, Thompson's son, Juan, doesn't want his dad back so he could write another book. Fans can only want back that part of the celebrity they actually knew.
Our connection to famous people is often indirect. We assume a level of relationship potential based on how their works make us feel as opposed to any understanding of the actual individuals -- just because you love Kurt Cobain's music doesn't mean you’d be best friends. (In fact, the more one tends to learn about beloved celebrities the less appealing they actually become. Hunter Thompson could be a wild merry prankster, or a frighteningly explosive volcano. Just ask his ex-wife. Louis Reed may play the music you love, but he never met a woman he wouldn't brutalize. Roman Polanski: rapist. And let's not even start down the horrifying litany of offenses numerous sports icons commit from every conceivable type of cruelty to outright murder.) Because we don't actually know them celebrities can be the people we want most in life: someone who understands us; and a vicarious means to see our dreams come alive.
So it's no wonder those products become tainted. Hearing a beloved song by Bowie is a constant reminder that the man who wrote it, who seemed to speak to your very soul, is gone. Watching Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, depending on your inclination -- Jane Russell or Marilyn Monroe -- means that vicarious sex appeal really is just a dream because the actors are dead and gone. There’s no one living it for you, and though films are always fantasy, they seem less so knowing the performers are alive somewhere in the world. In essence, what’s lost isn't so much the celebrity, but a degree of connectivity to others as well as dreams.
Abstract though it may be art unites at a subconscious level, so do sports. At the minute details our preferences become subjective; however, broadly speaking they involve general themes. I may have turned on "Becoming" because of my own particular reasons, yet it speaks to any other Pantera fan who hears it, in essence giving us proof we aren't alone in life. There used to be someone who created something that connected strangers to one another. It's a profoundly unique accomplishment. So it's no wonder the loss of that focal point leaves us adrift for a while. Such communities orbit the celebrity, and without them a real threat seems to emerge: the lynchpin is gone, so the whole cosmos may fly apart. Yet, now is the beginning of true immortality. The memory sustained by devoted fans, the legends turn into mythical gods, holding the universe together.
#
I get how material is tainted by the loss of a celebrity, but I've always been comforted by the fact those same materials still persist. For instance, Chris Cornell is gone. I can still listen to his music, and though it may stir some darker sentiments than before, his absence doesn't change what it once meant to me, and will mean again. That thing which was significant to me still remains, so in a way is comforting. Still, I find it hard to cry over the loss of a man I didn't know. Loving his music doesn’t mean loving him, and I haven't lost his music. In fact, I haven't lost anymore of Chris Cornell than I ever had, while his friends and family have lost an entire human being from their lives.
Others aren't likely to be as dispassionate as I am. I'm well aware of this. As such I can't help wondering if I'm missing out on something. While no one ever wishes to grieve it seems like those who do, in these instances, who are not his immediate friends and family, have lost something profound. It’s entirely possible I’ve missed out on a depth of feeling of some significance, and I sometimes worry if that means I lack something human not having that. Still, it may simply be that I'm more connected to the moments of my own life: at this movie I got my first kiss; this album acted like the soundtrack to that horrible winter; her book inspired me to be a writer, and his showed me the way to my voice... it probably sounds incredibly narcissistic I'm sure. Unless one considers it like this: any kind of death is mostly a reminder of our own mortality, so although there'll be no more elegant plays, films, songs, or whatever, recognizing the loss should serve as inspiration to spend time with the real people in our lives.
Sure, let Bowie be the soundtrack to your adventure, but make sure to have one. He certainly did, and who's to say you might do any less? Missing the words of Hunter, what's wrong with yours? Alan Rickman can't share that sonorous voice, so I guess it's time you did. There's an absence in the universe that needs to be filled, not because of some selfish desire for fame, but because maybe you can make someone feel less alone carrying the torch a celebrity dropped when they died. It doesn’t even require being a superstar.
Going back to Cornell, there’s someone out there right now who feels a bit of worry. The creeping dread flickers at the edge of their mind-sight threatening the possibility there will never be another Soundgarden, or Audioslave to sing the songs which made their life shiny on dull days, brilliant in blackest night, and endurable when torturous… yet, perhaps, it takes a simple visit to kill such bleakness.
Put on an album. Pour some drinks. Share some memories, while making some more. Because it’s never really the musician, the actors, or the athletes we’re remembering. It’s seeing that film where a first kiss happened, hearing the music that made high school bearable, the bonding chats at the ballpark… escapism in real time, flavoring the days.
The seasoning tastes a bit different, but it’s still there. That’s life.
“Someone tried to tell me something
Don’t let the world bring you down
Nothing will do me in before I do myself
So save it for your own, and the ones you can help.”
Well said Mr. Cornell. Thanks for the tunes. They’re more precious now, though the cost is too high. Yet, unable to change reality, the only thing I can do is what I will do. Keep playing those songs so a rock legend becomes a rock god, and so, in a way, immortal.
I usually feel detached from the demise of a celebrity. Even those I admire have never really affected me in any obvious fashion. It's hard for me to be overly distraught over the loss of a person with whom I had no interpersonal relationship. That isn't to say I don't have some type of personal connection, but such threads always struck me as more nebulous and abstract. For instance, throughout high school and college I listened to Pantera a great deal, however, when Dimebag Darrell was murdered I didn't experience any profound melancholy. And yet, I know for a fact that his death still affects the mood of many Pantera fans. Simply putting any of their music on a jukebox eventually elicits the attention of a CFH enthusiast, who invariably nods somberly -- funerary headbanging -- as they turn the conversation, almost immediately, to the death of Dimebag: “This is a kickass song. Sucks that he’s dead, man.” Joy of the song sharply gives way to a reminder of the dead.
Now, that may seem an extreme example, a murder is bound to hold root in anyone's mind, but the same is true for celebrities who have passed less horrifically. Dead musicians draw out the most common instance of this, really listen to the conversations people have about deceased celebrities. Talk starts out mentioning why so and so meant a great deal to an individual, but discussion soon moves towards two statements:
1. There will never be more (films, songs, paintings, etc.) from Blank.
2. What remains will often be less enjoyable; now tainted by death a song, a scene, or a photo becomes a reminder of loss.
What concerns us most is that we've lost those things which gave us happiness. The joy of hearing a song or seeing a film will never be quite as potent now that it serves as a reminder of loss. However, it's never about the person, it's about their product. To this day, people still remark on the suicide of Hunter S. Thompson in regards to wanting his writing, particularly the dagger prose with which he might stab whatever current political madness is rising. Yet, I'm willing to assume, with absolute certainty, Thompson's son, Juan, doesn't want his dad back so he could write another book. Fans can only want back that part of the celebrity they actually knew.
Our connection to famous people is often indirect. We assume a level of relationship potential based on how their works make us feel as opposed to any understanding of the actual individuals -- just because you love Kurt Cobain's music doesn't mean you’d be best friends. (In fact, the more one tends to learn about beloved celebrities the less appealing they actually become. Hunter Thompson could be a wild merry prankster, or a frighteningly explosive volcano. Just ask his ex-wife. Louis Reed may play the music you love, but he never met a woman he wouldn't brutalize. Roman Polanski: rapist. And let's not even start down the horrifying litany of offenses numerous sports icons commit from every conceivable type of cruelty to outright murder.) Because we don't actually know them celebrities can be the people we want most in life: someone who understands us; and a vicarious means to see our dreams come alive.
So it's no wonder those products become tainted. Hearing a beloved song by Bowie is a constant reminder that the man who wrote it, who seemed to speak to your very soul, is gone. Watching Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, depending on your inclination -- Jane Russell or Marilyn Monroe -- means that vicarious sex appeal really is just a dream because the actors are dead and gone. There’s no one living it for you, and though films are always fantasy, they seem less so knowing the performers are alive somewhere in the world. In essence, what’s lost isn't so much the celebrity, but a degree of connectivity to others as well as dreams.
Abstract though it may be art unites at a subconscious level, so do sports. At the minute details our preferences become subjective; however, broadly speaking they involve general themes. I may have turned on "Becoming" because of my own particular reasons, yet it speaks to any other Pantera fan who hears it, in essence giving us proof we aren't alone in life. There used to be someone who created something that connected strangers to one another. It's a profoundly unique accomplishment. So it's no wonder the loss of that focal point leaves us adrift for a while. Such communities orbit the celebrity, and without them a real threat seems to emerge: the lynchpin is gone, so the whole cosmos may fly apart. Yet, now is the beginning of true immortality. The memory sustained by devoted fans, the legends turn into mythical gods, holding the universe together.
#
I get how material is tainted by the loss of a celebrity, but I've always been comforted by the fact those same materials still persist. For instance, Chris Cornell is gone. I can still listen to his music, and though it may stir some darker sentiments than before, his absence doesn't change what it once meant to me, and will mean again. That thing which was significant to me still remains, so in a way is comforting. Still, I find it hard to cry over the loss of a man I didn't know. Loving his music doesn’t mean loving him, and I haven't lost his music. In fact, I haven't lost anymore of Chris Cornell than I ever had, while his friends and family have lost an entire human being from their lives.
Others aren't likely to be as dispassionate as I am. I'm well aware of this. As such I can't help wondering if I'm missing out on something. While no one ever wishes to grieve it seems like those who do, in these instances, who are not his immediate friends and family, have lost something profound. It’s entirely possible I’ve missed out on a depth of feeling of some significance, and I sometimes worry if that means I lack something human not having that. Still, it may simply be that I'm more connected to the moments of my own life: at this movie I got my first kiss; this album acted like the soundtrack to that horrible winter; her book inspired me to be a writer, and his showed me the way to my voice... it probably sounds incredibly narcissistic I'm sure. Unless one considers it like this: any kind of death is mostly a reminder of our own mortality, so although there'll be no more elegant plays, films, songs, or whatever, recognizing the loss should serve as inspiration to spend time with the real people in our lives.
Sure, let Bowie be the soundtrack to your adventure, but make sure to have one. He certainly did, and who's to say you might do any less? Missing the words of Hunter, what's wrong with yours? Alan Rickman can't share that sonorous voice, so I guess it's time you did. There's an absence in the universe that needs to be filled, not because of some selfish desire for fame, but because maybe you can make someone feel less alone carrying the torch a celebrity dropped when they died. It doesn’t even require being a superstar.
Going back to Cornell, there’s someone out there right now who feels a bit of worry. The creeping dread flickers at the edge of their mind-sight threatening the possibility there will never be another Soundgarden, or Audioslave to sing the songs which made their life shiny on dull days, brilliant in blackest night, and endurable when torturous… yet, perhaps, it takes a simple visit to kill such bleakness.
Put on an album. Pour some drinks. Share some memories, while making some more. Because it’s never really the musician, the actors, or the athletes we’re remembering. It’s seeing that film where a first kiss happened, hearing the music that made high school bearable, the bonding chats at the ballpark… escapism in real time, flavoring the days.
The seasoning tastes a bit different, but it’s still there. That’s life.
“Someone tried to tell me something
Don’t let the world bring you down
Nothing will do me in before I do myself
So save it for your own, and the ones you can help.”
Well said Mr. Cornell. Thanks for the tunes. They’re more precious now, though the cost is too high. Yet, unable to change reality, the only thing I can do is what I will do. Keep playing those songs so a rock legend becomes a rock god, and so, in a way, immortal.
RSS Feed
