Category Archives: R.I.P.

Encomium 9/11: George Merkouris

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I wrote this in 2003 in tribute to the one friend I knew (at the time) who was murdered on that most heinous of days. I’ll post it annually, for as long as this blog remains active…

…and a big thank you, again, to my dear, beautiful friend Donna Falcone – in my counltess moves in my life, I’ve lost hundreds of photos – and when I reached out to her, she was kind enough to send me the two pictures of George that are in this post. Thank you again, Donna…for allowing me to display George’s timelessness…

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Encomium 9/11: George Merkouris

The loss was staggering, and so much has been saturating our lives since that day 2 years ago. So, I wanted to pay tribute to the only FDR graduate I personally knew [or know of] who perished on that diabolical day. If you, too, know someone who was ripped from our lives, or knew who George Merkouris was, please, join me in our sojourn back…

I hadn’t seen George in almost 20 years. He graduated in 1983, I, in 1985, but what I learned from him resounds within the storehouse of my soul even today. He held me as a friend at a time I felt socially awkward. He was the most popular person in his class, “Mr. FDR”. As popular and well known as I was, it was still hard being a gay teenager, especially in the early 80s. Some knew and loved me anyway, and I felt protected by those forces. George was one of those friends who told me he did not care – and that I should not care – his exact words were “one day the world will catch up…” How profound. We performed in 3 Sings together, and the International Festival of the Arts, where his enchanting twin sister, Anna, was one of the choreographers. One of the wonders of my high-school life was being a part of Senior Sing even though I was a Junior. George was one of those who argued on my behalf, stating since I was an “Honorary Senior” [actually being voted that later that year by the Senior powers-that-be] I deserved to be part of their Sing.

I still think of one of the funniest experiences we shared together. George and I did a mutual friend of ours (the magical Lenore Pavlakos) a favor and performed, outside FDR, a dance routine from “Cats” for the late Marie Haney’s dance studio. During one of our countless, strenuous rehearsals, we had to simulate a ‘cat fight’ and one of the moves required George to flip me over his shoulder and I had to land in a Russian split behind him. Well, needless to say the first time wasn’t a success, and I smashed my head on the floor. What could one do? Well, George laughed his proverbial ass off! So, with his infectious laugh so damned addictive, I had no choice but to stay on the floor, writhing in pain, stars swirling around the outside of my head, laughing my proverbial ass off as well. Of course he was concerned, but it was a sight to behold! How can one NOT laugh?

Once he graduated in 1983, I saw him a few times until I graduated in 1985. Every so often I would see him in the streets and he’d give me one of those enormous George bear hugs, letting me know that his life was good – he would never let us part until I let him know that, yes, my life was good too.

Naturally my infatuation with George lasted for all the years in high school. Gay or straight, I would say that most people had some sort of crush on this luminous, wacky, intelligent, hilarious, reflective, insanely funny, beautiful, wise man…a man whose smile would spill a cascade of dancing quivers down one’s spine. And, oh, what a dancer!I used to call him a ‘Greek Guido’, because of his dancing and overpowering proclivity toward that crowd of young men. He’d laugh at my remark, because he knew that I knew he was a chameleon and that it didn’t matter what class of people, or what race of students, or what gender – he glowed! Everyone called him “Friend”. And he liked that. It was effortless for one to love him.

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It was Jimmy Falcone who called me up months later to tell me that he found out that George was one of the victims. And sadness permeated so prodigiously within that I wept again. I spelunked my closets and re-discovered photos from all those years ago…look at George dancing next to me in Junior Sing [yes, I was Junior at the time, too – another long story], in Lenore’s great dance number…and there we all are, in an ensemble (everyone agreed that that year, the Junior Sing DESERVED to win! We didn’t…). I wish I could find photos from Senior Sing. And of our International Festival of the Arts.

I’ve wept for the strangers, I’ve grieved for the thousands and their families, I’ve been tormented by the horror of that day…but, now, there was a thread…an inherent connection that further changes time, and I had to mourn, again, this time for my old friend George. Years and years pass, but admiration and love always linger.

The stories are endless; the tales too scopic to scroll here…the flux of emotions run the gamut from joy to tears to fury to bittersweet memories. So, here’s to you, George Merkouris – stolen from us by evil, you’re dancing on the other side…your goodness resonates through so many lives even today and I know, that I never forgot you, and I never will…

*****

About a year after I wrote this, I learned another friend from High School, George Llanes, had too perished, two days before his birthday. George and I would bump into each other all the time in the years, post-High School. He was a wonderful soul, a fine poet, and “father” to Mae Mae, his pug. Another good soul, lost from Earth. Here’s his NY Times obituary:

*****

Music Box: R.I.P. Amy Winehouse…Another Dead Rock And Roll Cliché

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Amy Winehouse died this past week and the real grief is in the knowledge that no one was surprised at all. As of this writing the cause of death was still undetermined, but lest we fool ourselves, is there really any wonder?

Winehouse – whose breakthrough (2006′s fine, if overrated BACK TO BLACK) cemented the route for other Brit-soul contemporaries like Duffy and Adele to conquer intercontinental shores – didn’t “struggle” with addiction – she flaunted and reveled in it. She was a talented singer/songwriter who lived a stupid, foolish life and now she’s another stupid, foolish dead Rock star. She squandered her intrinsic gifts for years for pure hedonism, permeating her whole existence in drug-induced stupors, coked-up public performances, heroin-induced soporifics and a lifestyle that prodigiously overshadowed her musicality. Her brief skimps at rehab only solidified her lack of seriousness of getting any help. And because of that profligacy, she was the inadvertent queen of the tabloids, those subhuman succubi who lick their scabbed lips in deviant, debased glee at every fucked-up antic that befall any caliber celebrity. (Though we can scorn the tabloids for their evil, we can only blame ourselves for their successes.)

I’ll not belittle addiction. I understand the colossal power of control it has over the core of the mind and body and soul. And I also know that there are enablers and sycophants who are willing participants in someone’s destructive behavior (Winehouse associated with plenty, and even married one). But at what point does one’s self – the captain of that soul – take responsibility for the sinking ship? Millions battle addiction. Millions have beaten addiction. Millions will continue to do both.

Addiction is often touted as a disease, and perhaps it is – I can’t claim to be erudite in the science of medicine. But if it is indeed a disease, it’s the only one that is curable by the afflicted. Those who cannot – or who do not – overcome this malady are not wholly to blame, but do bear the crux of responsibility. Those who cannot are merely prisoners of the encumbrance of the albatross. Those who continue on their suicidal sojourn (which is what addiction is) understand the ultimate price payable. And they accept it. Those who do not wish to accept the obvious sober up. If it’s too late, then it’s merely another sad cautionary tale. And a cliché.

Or, in Winehouse’s case (or Jim Morrison’s case, or Janis Joplin’s case or Jimi Hendrix’s or Judy Garland’s, or John Bohnam’s, or Billie Holiday’s or any other icon who played one final game of Russian Roulette that cost them their lives) a dead Rock N Roll cliché. By joining a list of dead musicians, she has solidified her place in the annals of music history (that the tragedy of Winehouse is greater than her genius is foretelling – with a mediocre-at-best debut and a strong follow-up, many – post-mortem, of course – have histrionically declared BACK TO BLACK a classic).

On a website earlier this week, I drew ire when discussing my innate beliefs about Winehouse and addiction. One response I received after voicing these sentiments read:

“It’s disrespectful, whether you know Amy Winehouse or not, to simply pass her off at the end of her life as a “stupid, foolish dead RnR cliche”. I hope that you don’t have the misfortune of someone saying these horrible things about one of your loved ones one day.

My reply was simple and true: if someone in my family or one of my friends dies as a result of addiction, I would say exactly what I said about Winehouse. If accusations of cold-heartedness are hurled my way, so be it. If that mendacity makes you feel better, I’m glad for you. Only, it’s not. It’s the polar opposite. It’s a truism, and anger often deflects truth.

My empathy is miniscule for life-wasters. My sympathies are limited to the devastation of the loved ones and family members and friends that addicts inconsiderately leave behind.

This week, they buried the woman who possessed such promise but cared so little in nurturing it. Family and friends gathered in somber reflection, serene sadness and devout mourning.

Another daughter. Another sister. Another friend. Another artist. Suicide by selfishness. Another addict.

Music Box: R.I.P. Big Man ~ Clarence Clemons January 11 1942 – June 18 2011

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“I looked over at C and it looked like his head reached into the clouds. And I felt like a mere mortal scurrying upon the earth, you know. But he always lifted me up. Way, way, way up. Together we told a story of the possibilities of friendship, a story older than the ones that I was writing and a story I could never have told without him at my side.” ~ Bruce Springsteen pays  tribute to Clarence during 1999 Rock N Roll Hall Of Fame speech

Here’s his obit from ROLLING STONE

Music Box RIP: Three Women

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Their names might not have been of the household kind, but lest you foolhardily believe otherwise, it’s been a terrible few weeks for music lovers, as we lost three gifted ladies of varying genres.

 I first heard about Marianne Joan Elliott-Said AKA Poly Styrene when I started working at Greenwich Village’s long gone, but no-less legendary Tower Records in the 1980s. The sprawling “record store” was, atmospherically, a fantastic place to work – where variations of society’s children gathered, where the punks mingled with the straight-edged mixed with the preppy juxtaposed with the hip-hoppers gelled with the jazz purists jumbled with the blues men all jumbled, of course, with the rock and rollers. As a Brooklyn boy, I’ve traveled so often to Tower for any and all my musical needs for years that I jumped at the chance to work there when I got in through a trick I picked up. It was a corporate entity, sure, but with a punk rock aesthetic.

Alan (not that aforementioned trick, BTW) was a coworker who introduced me to a lot of that ‘punk rock aesthetic’ that I wasn’t totally familiar with.  One of those artists was X-Ray Spex. Styrene was the lead singer of this brash, messy, discombobulated English Punk band that made beautiful noise, and whose “Oh Bondage! Up Yours!” is seminal punk rock. Their classic punk album, Germ Free Adolescents was released on CD while I worked at Tower, and I fell in love with their awesome cacophony.

Sadly – or ironically, if you will – Styrene’s solo album, GENERATION INDIGO, was released a day after her death (April 25th), and nearly three decades after her only other solo debut TRANSLUCENCE.

Read Robert Christgau’s Poly obit from NPR HERE. And here is a great live performance of “Oh Bondage…”, taken from the 1977 documentary PUNK IN LONDON

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As a pre-teen gay boy, I was entrenched in my own world. At 10 or 11 years old, I had one of those little portable transistor radios (the ones with the plastic strap to hang from your wrist or bicycle bars) that I slept with under my pillow, where I can escape a confused, but exciting, new realization. Even at that young age, I would always listen to talk radio or all news stations (as I rarely could sleep to music). But one evening, for whatever reason I can’t even fathom to remember (perhaps musical divine intervention?), I listened to WABC (AM radio ruled in the 1970s) while in my bed on the floor, and “Poetry Man” came wafting through my dreamscape in the middle of the night. I was immediately transfixed at the sound of this woman’s voice which had awoken me from my deep slumber…and it’s otherworldly hold on me.  Both the PHOEBE SNOW album and “Poetry Man” are entities that have haunted me since, by a singer, woman and mother I’ve grown to admire even more as the years progressed (including a deeper appreciation for her as a comedic entity with her many appearances in the 1980s and 1990s on Howard Stern’s radio show. Such a good friend – and fan – was Stern that he asked Snow to sing at his wedding to his wife, Beth, in 2008.)

Snow sorta “quit” music only a few years following her immediate success after the birth of her daughter, Valerie (who was born in 1975 severely brain damaged) knowing a full-fledged career as pop star would mean abandoning a child with hardcore special needs. She continued to make albums, but since Snow refused to institutionalize her daughter and cared for Valerie at home, she became one of the most sought after commercial jingle singers, which paid well, and helped the financial woes that come when caring for a handicapped youngster, and allowed her never to be away from her precious child. Valerie passed away in March of 2007 at the age of 31.

Back in the late 1990s, I worked the weekend overnight reception desk of the now-defunct Sony Music Studios on West 54th st. I was listening to Phoebe Snow’s self-titled 1974 debut CD when I glanced down at the schedule for the weekend and  saw that she had a session that evening (I believe it was a mastering session). I was thrilled to finally be able to tell her, however succinctly, what her music and voice has meant to me now, and as that scared 10 year old gay boy from Brooklyn.  She was honored and moved at my story, and we spoke briefly every time she came into the studio. I’m not one of those silly fans who ask for autographs, but now – over a decade later – I wish I had her sign the CD that I was listening to. Snow passed away on April 26th. (You can read her obituary HERE)

R.I.P Phoebe…your miraculous voice will be forever missed.

Here’s Phoebe singing Mahalia Jackson’s “Moving Up A Little Higher” during a televised Earth Day Weekend back in April of 1990…

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The ‘high lonesome’ sound rarely sounded so simultaneously earthly and ethereal than when sung by bluegrass pioneer Hazel Dickens, who passed away on April 21st. I’ve not been overtly familiar with Dickens full catalogue, but a few years ago, I actually did some further research of her music after seeing the documentary HARLAN COUNTY, USA, in which she appeared and contributed a few songs to the soundtrack (she also appeared in John Sayles’ MATEWAN).  The two albums I own (besides that soundtrack) are a great 1990s Rounder compilation A FEW OLD MEMORIES, and the great duet album with Alice Gerrard called, appropriately enough, HAZEL AND ALICE (they actually recorded a few collaborative albums in the 1970s which have since been issued on CD and that I really must own).

Here’s a 2-part PBS OUTLOOK (from West Virginia) on Hazel, followed by a great duet with Gerrard from HAZEL AND ALICE called “The Sweetest Gift, A Mother’s Smile (Coats)”

National Violet

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RIP Dame Elizabeth

It was imminent, forthcoming really (too often, her near death experiences and hospital visits were the fodder for tabloid headlines and sickening TMZ-style sleazeball journalism all but proclaiming her demise) but it’s still a sad day in Hollywood and the world of cinema.

I can say nothing that a thousand far superior writers can, have and will about Dame Elizabeth – who has left us today at the age of 79.  She was one of the last of the great Hollywood icons, a true “movie star”, something that’s been lacking in the movies these last few decades. She certainly was and remains a revered actress (the too-often tossed around lapel “legend” actually applies to her), winning two Oscars for Best Actress (still an elite club) for 1960s BUTTERFIELD 8 and 1966s WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF.

She was also a great and peerless humanitarian….

After helping initiate amfAR, in 1991 Taylor founded the The Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation (ETAF), which has raised countless millions of dollars for research. Her impetus was due to the death of her longtime friend, Rock Hudson, who succumbed to the disease in 1985. Her work for equality and understanding during the tumultuous beginnings of AIDS was profoundly tireless. Besides her two aforementioned Oscar wins and three other nominees (for 1957s RAINTREE COUNTY, 1958s CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF, 1959s SUDDENLY LAST SUMMER) she was awarded the Jean Herscholt Humanitarian Academy Award in 1992 for her prodigious charitable work. It wasn’t enough to merely raise funds – she embraced her role fearlessly, understanding that  while money was an absolute necessity, education and knowledge were the missing ingredients, and knowing it takes power to educate the uneducated mass.

Also one of the most beautiful women the movies (and world, really) has ever seen, Taylor’s natural, gorgeous violet eyes stunned the world into submission upon first arrival, and her magnificent beauty captivated fans for decades. They grew with Taylor, and every generation has succumbed to her charms and iconicity.

Rest In Peace, Dame Elizabeth. Will there ever be another like you?

Music Box: RIP Gerry Rafferty

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Gerry Rafferty – the Scottish singer/songwriter of such 70s soft-rock staples “Baker Street” and “Right Down The Line” died of liver failure today – apparently after years of battling alcoholism. He was 61.

“Baker Street”, with its masterful, glistening saxophone intro and refrain, was a monster single – reaching #2 on Billboard’s Hot 100 in 1978 and still plays Adult Contemporary radio today. “Right Down The Line” reached #12 – both are from Rafferty’s #1 CITY TO CITY LP, which knocked the soundtrack to SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER off the top of Billboard’s Top 200, where it was securely perched for months.

The single version of “Baker Street” (shortened by 2+ minutes):

“Right Down The Line”:

Rafferty was also a  founding member of Steelers Wheel, whose classic “Stuck In The Middle” was immortalized during a torture scene in Quentin Tarantino’s 1992 cult classic RESERVOIR DOGS.

The original video:

The graphic RESERVOIR DOGS scene:

R.I.P.: Pete Postlethwaite

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Postlethwaite displaying his OBE honor

Sad news for movie lovers: the great Pete Postlethwaite – who Steven Spielberg (who directed him in AMISTAD) once proclaimed as “the best actor in the world” – passed away yesterday at 64 years old.  He was battling cancer.

He started acting in TV and film later in life, beginning his career on stages and as director. Notable roles came in the 1996 Leonardo DiCaprio vehicle WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S ROMEO + JULIET (he was the only actor in the film to actually speak his dialogue in iambic pentameter, the language of Shakespeare’s play), THE LOST WORLD: JURASSIC PARK, the wonderful BRASSED OFF, and more recently in INCEPTION and the Ben Affleck-directed THE TOWN. He’s probably most remembered by film goers for a movie I detested – the 1996 cult classic THE USUAL SUSPECTS, where he played Kobayashi. In 2004, he was honored by Queen Elizabeth with England’s OBE,

Always a force of nature, he was nominated for an Oscar for the 1993 film IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.

2011’s “In Memoriam” is 12 months away, but the greats are already leaving us.