Ric Ocasek has passed away and another legend has left this realm to jam in Rock N Roll heaven. He was 75.
I once had a brief conversation with Ocasek back in the early-1990s, about a decade or so after the video for “Drive” was an MTV ubiquity, and after the song itself had become (and remains) one of the greatest rock ballads of all time.
Ocasek and his then-wife, Paulina Porizkova, were frequent shoppers at Tower Records, on 4th and Broadway, and one evening, while supervising the Rock floor for one of the other supervisors who called out sick, the couple were perusing the the racks and I saw my chance to chat with him. After the obligatory small talk of me telling him how much I loved The Cars, and what his music meant to me, I said to him “…and I appreciate that you were smart enough to know that Ben was a better singer, so you gave him “Drive.” You composed one of the greats, and giving it to his mellifluous voice, rather than yours, solidified its eternal classic status!”
Instantly, I realized that what I said could have been misconstrued as an insult, and I immediately started stammering, “Oh, no, no, no, I didn’t mean…I mean, you’re great too, but…you know…”, blubbering some gobbledygook I don’t even remember. When I finally shut up, he looked at me with a raised eyebrow. It lasted a second, but felt like 5 minutes. I thought I pissed him off, but he said, “You’re right.” And then he and Paulina smiled and walked away.
I don’t know if he just wanted to shut me up, if he actually agreed with me, if he thought I was a fool, or if he was being nice to the stuttering idiot trying to explain himself, but at that moment I knew that Ocasek was one of the coolest “rock stars” I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
Also, as displayed in the below video – where he performed an acoustic version for a select audience in 2005 – his voice suited “Drive,” if not definitively, just lovely still.
Ocasek’s written (and yes, sang) some of the greatest songs of my youth, and he’s been a prolific producer, painter, and even a poet. The Ben I spoke of was, of course, bassist Benjamin Orr, who sadly died back in October of 2000, and who, again of course, also sang lead on other Cars classics.
Whenever I hear “Drive” – or watch its haunting video – it brings me back to my beloved Tower Records days, a moment in time frozen in my memory. And it always reminds me of how much I loved – and will always love – The Cars.
(I wrote this in 2012 for Adam’s 34th birthday, upon discovering that he had died a few years prior, never having the chance to say goodbye. I’ve removed older post when reconfiguring MyNewBoyfriend, but decided to continue with these, for Adam…)
Adam Forgetta and I met 18 years ago during a brisk and stinging winter morning. It sounds like a cliché, I know, but it’s actually true. I was standing on a near-empty underground subway platform at Church Avenue waiting for the F train, when, from the corner of my eye I noticed a young man (who vaguely resembled a young, handsome male version of Sandra Bernhard) bopping and sing-whispering aloud to Guns N Roses, with a pair of drumsticks protruding out of his back pocket. I don’t recall who initiated the conversation, or what our first words were, but I remember, after giving him the thumbs up for his pseudo-public performance, he smiled, took his headphones off and we started speaking. Soon subsequently, he and I were at my apartment – Guns N Roses was his favorite band, Axl Rose his favorite singer, and he was in awe of my massive CD collection that I “acquired” while at my recent past tenure at Tower Records. As a fellow music lover he was enthralled spelunking the thousands of titles (especially those G ‘n R imports) packed in my small one room apartment.
The above photo was taken on March 9, 1994 in that Bensonhurst, Brooklyn apartment on Bay Ridge Parkway and 17th avenue not too many months after we met. Unemployed at the time, living off my “savings” from Tower, we spent limitless days lounging about. We kept each other company through that cold winter, lunching on microwavable hamburgers and diet Coke from the corner deli up the block on 18th avenue, traipsing through the snow to Manhattan to check out new CD releases from the copious import stores that saturated the East Village. We strolled to Bay Ridge in the springtime and sat along the water, people watching, dreaming. We excitedly talked of buying bikes so we could pedal to the Verrazano Bridge to enjoy the exercise and the view. I told him about my friend, Kenny Joseph, who took his life many years ago by leaping, and how the bridge has become, for me, a sort of sanctuary for contemplation, even amidst the clamor of the traffic above. The holidays swiftly came and went, and we enjoyed visiting the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, with the hopes that the imminent New Year would bring forth happiness. I loved teaching him everything I knew about music, movies, life, politics, and I loved him, soul deep.
Through this all, and right after his birthday the following year, the eventual had happened.
Age never really mattered to me, up to some point (his actual age was definitely something I never pursued – my range was always a +10/-5 year circumference). But the age he told me he was upon our meeting (20) – and appeared to be, in all his emotional and personable fortitude – was not what the truth was; there was more than a decade difference between us, I knew, and though he was younger, I did not think he was a teenager still. I was confused after I found out the truth – and angry (for a little while) – but I was thankful, too, that, when the eventual actually occurred, he was of legal age in New York. But it didn’t distill my uncomfortability with it, and that part of our friendship was instantly halted. It didn’t matter to either of us – after all, we weren’t “a couple” – we were friends who, after spending a year as such, extended the boundaries; out of love, out of brotherhood, out of boredom too. And…if it was beautiful, then how could it have been wrong? (It really wasn’t.)
I never thought Adam was gay, despite our relationship – I knew he had been with other men, usually older, but he spoke so often about girls that I figured any same-sex dalliances were merely that of the heightened hormones of a horny teenager. Before I knew his real age, he told me he was bisexual, and I accepted that, knowing even then that ours was a temporary sexuality – and one that was merely that extension of friendship rather than a torrid romance. I loved him, but I was never in love with him. And vice versa.
I started working shortly thereafter at Merlite Industries, a costume jewelry catalog company based in Chelsea, and our times together grew more fleeting, though we made our efforts to see each other whenever able. Over the next year or two, we saw each other as often as we could – even after I moved in with a roommate to a larger apartment not too far away from my previous one and sporadically beyond that.
Sadly, as time progressed, Adam had virtually disappeared. Our visits were more and more infrequent, our phone calls halted completely (it didn’t help that he no longer had one). The last time I had spoken to him, he was living with an older woman and her two children. He sounded happy, despite their age difference (funny, huh?), and I was happy for him. He was 18 at that time, I surmise. As I hugged him goodbye, I kissed his cheek and said, “I miss you, man!” He replied, almost bittersweetly, “I know. Me too.” We paused a little longer mid-embrace, and then he walked out the door, heading home.
If I had only known…
Despite the years-long hiatus, I’ve often searched for Adam. I had no phone number for he had no phone; his previous address left no forwarding one. When I finally purchased a computer in 2000-2001, I began, in vain, my quest. I spelunked Yahoo and AOL chat rooms, on Guns N Roses fan message boards. With the advent of “social media,” I would peruse Friendster and MySpace then later Facebook and Google, all grasping onto the hope that Adam took to this new form of technology.
But the reason he was intangible breaks my heart, still.
In May of 2011, like an epiphany, I remembered Adam had an older sister – he talked of her fondly years before and I loved that her name was “Starr”. So I looked up Starr on Facebook on a hopeful whim and there she was! I eagerly wrote:
Hi Starr – forgive my intrusion but I was wondering if you were related to Adam Forgetta. He’s an old friend of mine from back in the 1990s and we’ve lost contact over the years. I know “Adam” is a common name, so let me describe my friend Adam – he was about 5’9 – reddish curly hair, a HUGE Guns N Roses fan (big music fan in general). He’d be in his early 30s now, as I knew him when he was a teenager. If Adam is indeed a relative of yours, can you please let him know that his old friend from Bensonhurst Jeffrey (the music man with 8,000 CDs) has been looking for him for a few years…and if he is indeed a relative, please let me know and I will give you my number so you can give it to Adam. If Adam is not related to you, please let me know as well. Thanx for your time…I hope to hear back from you soon. ~jeffrey
She replied with the worst words I never wanted to – or expected to – hear:
I’m his sister and he passed away in 2004. U can call me at xxxxxx
I momentarily froze. My hands quivered and I sobbed uncontrollably. Through the tremors, I responded:
I can’t talk…I’m in tears…I will call, but I can’t now…too emotional…how did he pass…?
Ur going make me cry! I loved my brother very much. He died from HIV and cancer and he left a set of twins behind, a boy and girl. They’re 9 years old now…
Oh my…I am so sorry for your loss…I didn’t mean to make you cry. I loved your brother…he was special to me and when we lost contact a piece of my heart left…I still have photos of him from a few parties I threw…Oh, Adam!!! I am weeping so hard… I’ve looked for him for years…I wish I never lost touch…oh, sweet, sweet Adam!
I called Starr after I composed myself and we spoke – and through our tears she told me the tale of her brother’s later life, of the woman who had given him HIV, his twins he loved so much, the AIDS-related cancer he had finally succumbed to. How it was 7 years since he died and how she misses her brother beyond comprehensive words and how she longs to embrace her twin niece and nephew, Adam’s children. She told me of the tattoo she had made in her brother’s honor so he would forever be with her. She told me if I Googled his name, I would find his death notice. I have Googled his name in the past, and always came up with nothing. After we hung up, I did so again. And there, like a serrated blade, it was. So I wept again.
I know it’s a cliché to say it, but there really aren’t words to convey the prodigious size of the hole in my heart. I had prayed to a god I don’t believe in that the aforementioned hiatus would be just that…that I would find my long-ago lost, itinerant child…that I would embrace him and feel that breathtaking hug of his, and to again smell his hair while doing so (which he always thought was weird, and we’d laugh); that, speaking of laughs, we would have a few good ones at the expense of his favorite singer’s eccentricity (though there’s no doubt Adam’s love for Axl would not have waned). I had always expected that I would see him, rocking down the street, air-drumming with those drumsticks he was rarely – if ever – without (they were his security blanket, his constant thread to his reality. And you wouldn’t recognize it instantly, but he’s twirling those beaters in the photo above). I anticipated the ensuing day I would hear the tales of his happy life, perhaps of a wife and kids, or a partner or husband. I fervently awaited the tales of how he had filled the missing years that separated our tangibility, but not our brotherhood or bond.
I just assumed that, given time…he would just…be here.
But, these are now evaporated aspirations, jolting evanescences, discarded dreams. Oh, if only I had tried much harder…used any resources at my disposal, extended my searches. I never should have allowed those expanses that life jettisons at us to allow him to slip away. If I tried more powerfully, perchance he would still…be here.
Maybe, if we remained tangible, I could have, at the very least, held his hand when he left us.
I recently dreamed of Adam, almost a year after receiving the news, and one of a myriad of dreams he’s haunted for years and years. These dreams were always surreal, unexplainable, but commonly; they very rarely altered – they were of Adam and I doing what we’ve always done as friends, as if time were not merely a ghost. This time was different, though. I remember reaching out, imploring to him, “Don’t go…stay, Adam…” And he smiled that goofy, glorious grin, enveloped me in his arms and said, “I love you man. Always have, always will…”
Drenched in tears, with the sunlight bathing my face, I woke up smiling.
I don’t believe that dreams are anything other than our subconscious minds working overtime to get us through the night. But…that embrace…maybe, just maybe.
So, Adam, here’s to you on your (34th ) (35th) (36th) (37th) (38th) (39th) (40th) 41st birthday. You are forever tattooed on my heart, and will always reside within the storehouse of my soul, for as long as I shall live…and beyond…
On your grave, I will lie, it’s the closest I will get to touching you again. I will kiss the dirt, make love to the stone…I will always remember you…
…especially during those cold November rains…
I recently reached out to Starr again and asked if she had any other photos, but most were long gone. She sent me the only two she had – of Adam and his son, Adam Jr., from 2001, and a childhood Christmas photo with Adam grinning with the heart of the holidays. Hindsight can make one despondent at times, but I wish I had known to take more photos of us. Selfies, digital cameras, iPhones – all pipe dreams from SciFi films. We lived life sans the technology.
The other one is a photo I found in my archives of a New Year’s Eve party, with Adam on the far right looking bemused at my party antics.
Moments frozen in time…etched in our memories, eternal.
Buttered Soul Pop is how I once described his emotional, sweet, passionate baritone voice…and now it – one of my favorite vocalists – is silenced at 66.
Rest peacefully, James Ingram.
Here he is in 1981 on “Soul Train” singing one of his (many) signature songs (and one of my eternal favorites), “Just Once.” Yes, it’s lip-synced (all Soul Train performances were), but no less magical.
James Ingram performs Just Once on Soul Train, 1982
If there was a god, it’s apparent that he/she has no sense of humor. Still recovering from the loss of comic god Robin Williams only three weeks ago, another comedy giant has left the building.
Joan Rivers is gone.
After a routine throat procedure, she stopped breathing and was taken to Mount Sinai hospital. After going into cardiac arrest, her doctors put into an induced coma, and after hoping for a recovery, and spending her last few days on life support, her family issued a statement that she had passed. I’m still confused as to how this happened at all. And I surmise we’ll be hearing much more about the Yorkville Endoscopy procedures that ended her life in the coming weeks/months.
So to say it’s a sad day in the entertainment world is an understatement. I – most of us, really – grew up, with Joan Rivers as a part of our very fabric, for better or worse.
Her rise and temporary fall is practically mythic. After establishing herself as a stand up comic force to be reckoned with – and in a male-dominated field at that – Johnny Carson made Rivers a household name with her numerous appearances on “The Tonight Show,” during the 1970s, then by allotting her the permanent guest hostess gig in 1983. Her star was in orbit until she was fucked over by that “friend” (well-documented, and something she never really emotionally recovered from). After landing her own talk show, the ill-conceived and short-lived “The Late Show Starring Joan Rivers,” Carson shunned Rivers as a friend and a talent, and never spoke to her again; she was barred from the show and unofficially blacklisted in Hollywood. Her show’s subsequent failure also briefly destroyed her career and was one catalyst to the suicide of her husband Edgar Rosenberg, which shattered her, in 1987.
She was persona non grata and sadly, a punch line for a cruel, albeit temporary, time.
She inched her way back, adamantly, forcefully and tirelessly, regaining her name, her brand, and her humanity. She made brilliantly funny guest appearances on Howard Stern’s FM radio show, started another more successful afternoon TV talk show, “The Joan Rivers Show” (which won her an Emmy and lasted for five years), made a fortune on QVC designing and selling costume jewelry, was center square during a 90s revival of “The Hollywood Squares,” and was Tony-nominated for her performance as Sally Marr, Lenny Bruce’s mother, in “Sally Marr…and Her Escorts.” She never met a gig she didn’t like. She never allowed fragility to define her, rather perseverance and tenacity. From this point on, she was unstoppable, and where once she was a superstar fading, she was ubiquitous from the start of the aughts until the end of her life.
I won’t play revisionist history and state that I’ve been an ardent fan in recent years (I mean, even before her “fall” there were times I cringed rather than laughed). In fact, more often than not, I’ve been angered by the paths Rivers has taken in her final decade or so. There was/is a fine line between being an “insult comic” (Joan was Queen to Don Rickles’ King) and being hateful, vindictive. Always a brilliant, incisive commentator of the world around us, she (in my apparently minority opinion) diminished her art for pure commerce and ego. Where, once upon a time, she eviscerated her targets with intelligence and truth seeped with hilarious sardonic overkill, in recent years she circumvented the truths and went for the jugular, often mean-spiritedly and too-often maddeningly ugly. Particularly as the go-to fashion mouthpiece for every post-Awards show since the mid-1990s, until it became her (in)famous “Fashion Police” specials, which were merely loathsome bully roundtables by a select group of individuals who really had no business insulting or critiquing anyone’s fashion choices. It pissed me off that this comic genius relegated to this. Which, for better or worse, begot countless other wannabes, making any Awards season almost unbearable (it didn’t help that I already thought that fashion killed Rock n Roll). But, it’s been her métier for the last two decades of her life, and cemented her already-icon status for eternity.
Besides, it doesn’t depreciate her overall legacy. Only a liar and a fool would negate or diminish her stature as a trailblazer, nonpareil. She was a cultural emblem, and a tireless proponent of equality (even before it was hip to be that, headlining one of the very first – if not THE first – HIV/AIDS awareness charity events back in 1983! Unheard of for a celebrity of Joan’s stature!), and, most importantly, as one of the last of the great legendary stand-up comics. And that’s how I’ll always remember her. From howling with laughter listening to her classic 70s album, “What Becomes A Semi-Legend Most” (which I listened to again a few days before she passed, and boy, it still holds up), to her outrageously funny “Tonight Show” guest host gigs (I always wished that Carson would retire and she would take over) which I’ve often perused YouTube to watch, to those aforementioned Howard Stern appearances…the woman epitomizes steadfastness. She lived for her family and, unwaveringly, her audience – and they loved her. She loved what she did, even when she didn’t have to do it anymore. But, thankfully, she did.
So Rest in Prada, funny lady. You deserve it. Knock ‘em dead(er) on the other side.
More than 500 Sunday mornings of my pre-to-teen years were spent with my ears glued to the radio from 8am-12pm listening to Casey Kasem’s American Top 40. It was a weekly ritual; while my mother and sisters were downstairs in the kitchen starting Sunday’s afternoon dinner (the scent of sausages frying in the pan wafted throughout our home) and my brothers played outside in the backyard, I was in my room, bed on the floor, pen in hand, jotting down that week’s Billboard hits in my notebook as narrated by Kasem – in between the myriad of artist facts, chart trivia and of course, Casey’s Long Distance Dedications.
As my teen years progressed, this tradition waned – friendships, love, passion, sex, girlfriends, boyfriends, reality, high school, life all snuck up on me – but I’ve always harbored these memories in the storehouse of my mind as idyllic relics of my youth. So, for the thousands of hours of happiness you’ve given me, I hope you are resting in peace, Casey Kasem. And thank you for telling a million kids to “Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars…”
Another master has walked through the gates of Rock n Roll heaven. Richie Havens, who came to prominence as the opening act of the Woodstock Festival (though a seminal force of the 60s folk music scene) has left us. He wasn’t a household name as the years progressed, but should have been. The gruff, hypnotic consistency of his voice beautifully juxtaposed the textured layers of his gorgeous rhythm guitar playing – which was both delicate and abrasive – and words he sang as bold as a lion and lovely as a lamb.
He famously covered the Beatles’ “Here Comes The Sun” and, if you pardon the cliche, made it his own. I was recently reveling in his album “Mixed Bag” – as I have so many times over the years. Released in 1967, it’s often considered his finest album – it consisted of his near-classic cover versions of Gordon Lightfoot’s “I Can’t Make It Anymore,” the Beatles’ (again) “Eleanor Rigby” and one of the definitive versions of Bob Dylan’s “Just Like A Woman.” He was one of the preeminent interpretative singers.
My favorite track on the album is one of my favorite songs of all time – it never fails to bring a tsunami of emotions into my heart – it simultaneously leaves me in a contemplative state of reverie and bittersweet nostalgia. It was written by Jerry Merrick and Havens makes it live with his elucidation.
And as I write this, that song, “Follow,” is wafting from my iTunes and into my soul. Much like Havens’ voice has for most of my life.
Rest in peace, song man. You will be missed.
Let the river rock you like a cradle
Climb to the treetop, child, if you’re able
Let your hands tie a knot across the table.
Come and touch the things you cannot feel…
And close your fingertips and fly where I can’t hold you
Let the sun-rain fall and let the dewy clouds enfold you
And maybe you can sing to me the words I just told you…
If all the things you feel ain’t what they seem.
Then don’t mind me ‘cos I ain’t nothin’ but a dream…
The mocking bird sings each different song
Each song has wings – they won’t stay long.
Do those who hear think he’s doing wrong?
While the church bell tolls its one-note song
And the school bell is tinkling to the throng.
Come here where your ears cannot hear…
And close your eyes, child, and listen to what I’ll tell you
Follow in the darkest night the sounds that may impel you
And the song that I am singing may disturb or serve to quell you
If all the sounds you hear ain’t what they seem,
Then don’t mind me ‘cos I ain’t nothin’ but a dream…
The rising smell of fresh-cut grass,
Smothered cities choke and yell with fuming gas;
I hold some grapes up to the sun
And their flavour breaks upon my tongue.
With eager tongues we taste our strife
And fill our lungs with seas of life.
Come taste and smell the waters of our time.
And close your lips, child, so softly I might kiss you,
Let your flower perfume out and let the winds caress you.
As I walk on through the garden, I am hoping I don’t miss you
If all the things you taste ain’t what they seem,
Then don’t mind me ‘cos I ain’t nothin’ but a dream…
The sun and moon both are right,
And we’ll see them soon through days of night
But now silver leaves on mirrors bring delight.
And the colours of your eyes are fiery bright,
While darkness blinds the skies with all its light.
Come see where your eyes cannot see.
And close your eyes, child, and look at what I’ll show you;
Let your mind go reeling out and let the breezes blow you,
Then maybe, when we meet, suddenly I will know you.
If all the things you see ain’t what they seem,
Then don’t mind me ‘cos I ain’t nothin’ but a dream…
And you can follow…and you can follow…follow…
A few weeks ago, TCM started airing it’s annual display of bittersweet beauty in remembering those who have left us from the world of cinema (they posted the tribute on their official YouTube page on December 10, weeks before greats like Jack Klugman and Charles Durning recently left this life). As with every year, there will be people who were left out, but that doesn’t negate the simplicity and grace of the tribute.
This year, they used the haunting M83 track, “Wait.”
Rest In Peace, Fontella Bass. The singer – most known for her Aretha Franklin-sounding soul classic “Rescue Me” – passed away at the age of 72 from complications resulting from a heart attack she suffered a month earlier.
Sad to hear the passing of Pop and Soul singer Dobie Gray. His “Drift Away” is one the seminal songs of the 1970s. Read his obituary here. Here’s a re-post of a blog I wrote last year about his classic jam – one of my favorite songs of all time.
Rest in peace, Dobie. I want you to know I believe in your song…all of them.
Dobie Gray’s version of “Drift Away” is, justifiably, the most famous and, by far, the most brilliant reading of the Mentor Williams-penned (that would be Paul Williams’ brother) 70s staple. Originally released on John Henry Kurtz’ 1972 REUNIONalbum, the indelible classic always takes me away…to that far away place I used to reside – within the deepest caverns of my soul. At times the song makes me weep, as I miss the halcyon days of my youth and the kinder world we thrived in. When any ills of the world would be swept away when reaching for your LP of your favorite music was all that was needed to, well, drift away.
And when my mind is free…you know a melody can move me…and when I’m feelin’ blue…the guitar’s comin’ through to soothe me…
The song was covered hundreds of times these past 40 years, most famously and recently in a passionless 2003 recording by Uncle Kracker. Credited as Uncle Kracker featuring Dobie Gray, the track meandered along in karaoke sterility until finally Gray’s soul chimed in mid-point and he infused it with a thrilling tremble. When the track reached #9 on Billboard’s Top 100, Gray broke the record for the biggest gap between top US top 10 appearances (it had been 30 years between both). The Kracker version had a far more major impact on Billboard’s Adult Contemporary charts – it holds the record as the longest #1 on that chart, having reigned for 28 weeks in 2003-04. No doubt thanks to Gray.
There was a story told by Kracker that the song was initially written for Elvis, but Presley turned it down once he heard Gray’s version of it. Gray was a demo singer in Memphis at the time. Talk about decree.
Gray’s had a decades-long career. While never matching the mega-success of “Drift Away” (Uncle Kracker notwithstanding), he’ s recorded dozens of albums. HERE is his Wikipedia page – spelunk and learn.
I was thinking about Heath Ledger today while watching his portrait on the Biography Channel and decided to repost something I had written on the day he died, a little over a year ago, on my now-defunct Myspace blog…I know the truth of how he died has since been revealed (accidental overdose on prescription medication) but at the time, the gossip bloodhounds had a field day, as they always do but I was just saddened by the death of a great, young actor.
Word of mouth out of Hollywood, even before its release, was that Ledger was a shoo-in for an Oscar nod for “The Dark Knight”. Insiders reveled that not since Anthony Hopkins seared the screen as Hannibal Lechter has a film villain been so diabolical, so nonchalant in the human pursuit of evil. That the hype sustained the truth is testament to Ledger. His Joker is an archetype, a new paradigm in cinematic villains.
Also, as of that writing I had only seen “Brokeback Mountain” once, and thought it was a fine film, but not so quick to jump on the ‘masterpiece’ bandwagon. It is only in revisiting it do I truly understand its depth and beauty and, yes, I could see why people (Jake Gyllenhaal’s creepy performance notwithstanding) would call it a ‘masterpiece’.
January 22 2008
Heath Ledger Current mood: melancholy Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities
A revelatory, astonishing performance by a soon-to-be great actor in a good-not-great film. That’s what I said when I first saw Heath Ledger in ‘Brokeback Mountain.’ So few times in my film-going life had I witnessed a performance of such visceral implosion – a man bleeding inside out from inner torment. In an improved more cohesive world, Ledger would have walked the stage and accepted a most deserved Oscar that year.
As you all heard, Ledger died a few hours ago, and I only hope it wasn’t due to drug abuse, which has been hinted at, or suicide – that would only prove his cowardice. I feel sadness for his daughter and ex-wife (especially if it were drug use), but my tolerance remains quite low for suicides and overdoses due to recreational drug use (no sympathy whatsoever for that kind of overdose, actually – you know what the risks are), especially when children are involved.
Something struck me when I heard the news. I’m not sure why it affected me – not since River Phoenix died almost 15 years ago (of an overdose, no less) has an actor’s death made me stop and take a deep breath. Here was a man not privy to the gossip hounds, nor a usual staple in the tabloids eighth level of hell. Not much on the radar in Perez Hilton’s subhuman swill pool (and he, after all, is the gatekeeper to that eighth level of hell).
Sure, the gays loved him because of ‘Brokeback’ and I often wonder how many gay men would really care all that much of his passing if he never starred in that film or if he didn’t possess such a manly beauty.
But lovers of film in general knew him as a raw talent – as an actor, he seemed to come from another time, where and when actors delved into their psyche to explore the human remains, no matter how dim-witted the film or revolutionary the project. Here was a talent that would stand with the greats in time. Just like Marlon Brando and Sean Penn, he wasn’t transient. He was that good.
I actually believe that. And now, I’ll never know. And that’s partly why it affected me so. I mean, actors and actresses die all the time, but so few so young. And even fewer so talented. We will never know.
What a loss for true film fans. This is a music video directed by Ledger. It’s for Ben Harper’s “Morning Yearning” and proves that Ledger also had an instinct for directing.
I will never know. We will never know.
My fingers touch upon my lips
It’s a morning yearning
It’s a morning yearning
Pull the curtains shut try to keep it dark
But the sun is burning
The sun is burning
The world awakens on the run
And we’ll soon be earning
We’ll soon be earning
With hopes of better days to come
That’s a morning yearning
Morning yearning
Morning yearning…
Another day another chance to get it right
Must I still be learning?
Must I still be learning?
Baby crying kept us up all night
With her morning yearning
With her morning yearning
Morning yearning…
Like a summer rose I’m a victim of the fall
But am soon returning
Soon returning
You’re love’s the warmest place the sun ever shines
My morning yearning
My morning yearning
My New Boyfriend 