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The history of rock music is littered with artists who died too young. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Keith Moon, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain… the list goes on. Most could be called victims of the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle, and our mourning of them is indelibly caught up in the notion of powerhouse talent flying too close to the sun. It doesn’t make it any less sad, but it has a tinge of inevitability to it.
Then there are the ones who just keep on tickin’, in many cases despite a lifetime of liver abuse and bad decisions. When they go, they’ll be grieved and memorialized, but likely with the caveat that they had a good run.
To me, it’s the ones in the middle that feel the saddest, somehow, the ones who are neither nascent artists nor coasting on legendary status. Or maybe that’s just because I'm in the middle now, too.
This week two wonderful musicians died. They weren’t household names, but they made a huge impact on a great many people and they leave the world a less magical place.
Toronto’s Dallas Good died last Thursday of natural causes at age 48. The singer and brilliant guitarist for the hard-touring country-rock band the Sadies had played Winnipeg countless times. A distinctive figure with his lanky frame and Nudie suit, he conveyed an almost gothic dourness onstage, but he was anything but grim.
The Sadies lead singer Dallas Good died of natural causes at age 48. (Nathan Denette / The Canadian Press Files)
I detest doing phone interviews, but in 2017, my colleague Erin Lebar had a conflict and was unable to make her scheduled call with Good. Knowing I was a fan going back to his time with surf-rock act Phono-Comb, she offered the slot to me instead.
It can be a disillusionment to talk to someone you admire if they turn out to be boring or unkind or aloof. But he was insightful and generous with his name, natural and engaging in the way phone interviews with a stranger rarely are. (You can read the story here.)
After the call, he went out of his way to tell his PR person to pass on how much he’d enjoyed the interview, and that’s rarer still. It’s no surprise social media has been overflowing with fond remembrances, both from those who knew him and those who just felt as if they did.
I had no personal connection to Mark Lanegan (in truth, I would likely have been too intimidated to interview him). His ‘90s band Screaming Trees never made it to Winnipeg, despite being booked to play here twice (although I did see him sing with Queens of the Stone Age in Toronto).
Mark Lanegan. (Gonzales/Per-Otto Oppi/Avalon/Zuma Press/TNS)
And yet his death Tuesday at age 57 struck me in a way that felt like a personal loss, maybe because, as with Good, I’ve been following his career since I was in my 20s. Best known for his velvety roar on Nearly Lost You from the Singles soundtrack, his distinctive voice was at the heart of many projects over the years. (Stu Berman at Pitchfork sums up his career beautifully.)
Unlike Cobain, his colleague in the Seattle grunge scene, Lanegan made it out the other side after a lifetime of using hard drugs; it feels unfair that he didn’t get to float along into his grizzled 70s like Keith Richards.
When Cobain died, I was almost 23, four years younger than the Nirvana frontman. I’m seven years younger than Lanegan, but let me tell you, that gap feels a lot smaller when you get older.
Tell me what musician’s death really hit home with you at jill.wilson@winnipegfreepress.com. (I burst into tears in the newsroom when I heard Paul Hester, the drummer for Crowded House, had died.)
Jill Wilson
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