The Days the Music Died

My musical heroes keep dying.

Most recently (as of this writing) Randy Meisner died, on July 26th. He was a founding member of the Eagles, their first bassist, and an incredible tenor who could sing such high vocal harmonies. He was 77 years old.

Gordon Lightfoot, Canadian singer-songwriter who wrote the hit songs If You Could Read My Mind, Carefree Highway, and The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, among many others, died on May 1st.

And back on January 10th, English guitarist Jeff Beck died at the age of 78.

I know there are many other famous musicians and singers who have died so far this year—Tony Bennett died on July 21st at the age of 96, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease—but the ones I listed were part of the soundtrack of my youth. I never really listened to Tony Bennett. But the Eagles, Gordon Lightfoot and Jeff Beck were part of the musical backdrop of my life. So, it’s kind of surreal to hear of their deaths.

The first celebrity death to really hit me was John Lennon’s. When he was ambushed and shot by deranged fan Mark David Chapman on December 8th, 1980, I couldn’t believe it. Three years before, Elvis Presley died at the age of 42, unbelievably. I saw a woman on the sidewalk in Springfield, Missouri, staring at a photo of Elvis in a store window, shaking her head and crying. And I thought to myself, “How can somebody get that worked up over the death of somebody famous they never knew?” But when John Lennon died, I understood it better. When you spend so much time listening to their music, on some level you come to know them. The emotion and artistry that came from their heart and soul resonated with something in your heart and soul. Even though you never actually knew them personally, through their music you came to know them intimately, to an extent.

So, when that artist dies, it hits home emotionally in ways that are sometimes surprising. In 1991, when Eric Clapton’s four-year old son Conor died in a tragic accident, falling out of a window on the 53rd floor of a Manhattan apartment building, I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I grieved.

When Davy Jones of The Monkees died in 2012 of a heart attack at age 66, again, it seemed unreal. Weatherman Al Roker summed it up best. He said, “A little bit of my youth just died.” That’s how I felt, too. And I felt that way again when I heard about the deaths of Peter Tork on February 21st of 2019, and Mike Nesmith on December 10th of 2021. Only Micky Dolenz is left now. He’s 78. I hope he’s feeling all right.

Why all this talk about celebrities who died? When we have listened to their music, or watched them on television or in the movies, somehow they become part of the fabric of our lives. And when they die, part of that fabric unravels or is torn. It reminds us how fast time is passing. And it reminds us of our own mortality.

I’ve read guitar magazines since I was a teenager. I not only love to play guitar and listen to others play guitar, I like to read about people who play guitar, and find out about the kind of guitars and amplifiers they used, especially on songs and albums I Iistened to as a teenager.

But I’ve got to say: it’s not as much fun to read about those musicians and their gear as it used to be. I’ve noticed something: they’re all older now, and too many of them seem to be living in the past, reliving their glory days in yet one more interview for an audience that is also aging and dwindling.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, I read articles about young guitar players who obsess over finding the right guitar, the right amp, the right pedals and strings, all to help them get that elusive right sound. Believe me, I understand. I’ve spent a whole lot of years and dollars buying guitars and equipment, trying find a way to make me sound, well, better. I understand the impulse.

But I also understand that, as much pleasure as playing music gives me, there isn’t a guitar or an amp, or a sound or a song that can make me feel fulfilled inside. I am so grateful to my parents, and my grandparents, and the church I attended as a child, for instilling in me the truth that only Jesus can fulfill the longings of my restless soul. I went through some wasted, fruitless years before I remembered that. I wandered away from God, made myself (and my family) pretty miserable, and had to turn around and run back to Jesus. (That’s called repentance.) But when I did, it freed me to enjoy things like guitars and amps and music for what they are: part of the creation that we are meant to enjoy, but incapable of satisfying our deep soul-need for our Creator.

That’s what really makes me sad about all these musicians, and their stories, and their deaths. Most of them seem to have lived and died with little or no serious consideration of God. Tom Petty said something to the effect that music was his religion. That grieves me. It’s not my place to speculate on the spiritual status of any of these celebrities. But when they die, I always read their obituaries for some indication that they might have had faith in God.

Sometimes, after many years in “the far country,” a celebrity will talk about turning away from all the dissatisfaction, and finding Jesus, or coming back to Him. But most of the time, there isn’t any testimony like that. Often, there is just the opposite.

The Rolling Stones have a song called Saint of Me, in which they sing with real awareness about the conversion of Paul the apostle, and of how Saint Augustine turned to faith in Christ after an ultimately unsatisfying life of “women, wine and song.” But then, in every chorus, Mick Jagger defiantly sings “Oh yeah, oh yeah, you’ll never make a saint of me!” Mick Jagger just turned 80 years old on July 26th. I hope he changes his mind.

I love music; I love playing music, and I love playing music with others. I have sometimes wept for joy while playing with other musicians. And there are still a lot of those old songs I listened to growing up, that I still listen to, and derive much pleasure from. But I also found out the hard way (thankfully, before the cost was too great) that, as wonderful as music is, my soul’s true satisfaction and peace only comes from knowing the One who said, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one come to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6) Somehow, knowing the Giver frees you up to enjoy His gifts even more.

That’s what I wish all my musical heroes would find out. That’s what I hope we all realize, before it’s too late. Life is short. It isn’t a game, and this isn’t a dress rehearsal. It’s not like a video game where, when you “die,” you get an endless succession of “lives” to do over.

This world is broken, and so are we. But God is going to fix this world someday, and, because of Jesus, He can fix the brokenness inside of you and me right now. When we find our forgiveness in Him, then we can be free to enjoy the good things of this world, and to anticipate the better things of the next.

And I think that is something to sing about.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Pastor David