The wall-to-wall coverage of Michael Jackson has died down, and though I've been engaged by the endless recountings of his life and work, I can't claim to be emotionally moved by his demise. But it got me thinking about which untimely celebrity deaths did touch a chord. I'm not talking about heroes of mine who lived a full life, like Phil Rizzuto or Dr. Seuss, but those whose end arrived way too soon. These are the five that came to mind.
Jim Henson (1990, age 53)
I can't add much that most people don't already kn0w. But to my mind, a carelessly neglected pneumonia stole away one of the 20th century's warmest, most brilliant souls. His production company has soldiered on gamely, but a large chunk of the magic is missing. It's like trying to capture the essence of childhood as an adult -- as Michael Jackson learned, a futile pursuit. Yet, while he lived, Henson made us feel like kids. I'm going to go back there someday, indeed.
Mark Heard (1992, age 40)
I rank Heard -- a folk-rocking, world-weary cynic with a compassionate heart -- among the best four or five songwriters of the last 50 years. In his music, he never stopped trying to portray an imperfect world -- and its need for Christ -- with honesty and sometimes uncomfortable clarity. "Treasure of the Broken Land," the last song on his final album, seems to portend the end: "I thought our days were commonplace / Thought they'd number in the millions / Now there's only the aftertaste / Of circumstance that can't pass this way again." Soon after, he recorded a version of the old hymn "My Redeemer Lives," with its confident assertion that "I shall conquer death." Two heart attacks later, he did just that.
Kirsty MacColl (2000, age 41)
This one strikes a more emotional chord with me for some reason, although I consider Henson and Heard two of the bedrock artists of my life. Not that Kirsty’s work can’t stand on its own; after all, “Tread Lightly” (from her amazing 1988 album Kite) is my all-time favorite song, and “Fairytale of New York,” her dark Christmas ballad with the Pogues, is in my top 5. I love the spirit of her music: the deadpan, devastating wit mingled with disarming tenderness and empathy -- not to mention serious songwriting chops. She was swimming with her two sons off the coast of Cozumel when she was struck and killed by a speeding powerboat in an area off-limits to watercraft, moments after pushing one of the boys to safety. The boat's owner (and, some witnesses have claimed, driver) is a wealthy Mexican supermarket magnate who has never been prosecuted. Had Kirsty lived, she would no doubt have built on the triumph of Tropical Brainstorm, her Cuban-flavored final release. I had it in my car recently, cranking up the cheeky brilliance of “Treachery” and “Us Amazonians” and wondering at the sheer senselessness of our loss.
Phil Hartman (1998, age 49)
There seemed to be a disconnect in the life of Saturday Night Live's best-ever performer. He was universally described as warm, professional, and a loyal friend by his colleagues, but prone to an emotional distance in his personal life. He struggled through three marriages, the last one ending in murder at the hands of his drug-addicted wife, who later turned the gun on herself. I wrote this poem, titled simply "Phil Hartman," the morning after I heard the news:
What was the final word you said
While walking here among the dead?
What face did you press on before
you set your slippers on the floor?
Where did your naked spirit ride
before the numbing laughter died?
And last night did I see you there?
Or are we but one dream to share?
And could you hear us laugh at all
beyond the haze of the fourth wall?
A sad lesson in marrying wisely, I guess. I see no other meaning in Phil's death.
Joe Delaney (1983, age 24)
This one's a bit different. Although I followed football casually at age 12, I somehow didn't hear of the death of Delaney, the Kansas City Chiefs running back, until a year or two had passed. But the story (told most powerfully here) gripped me when I came across it, and even as a young teen I couldn't shake it. Here was someone with a lifelong fear of water, who ran into a pond to rescue three struggling boys. One managed to reach safety on his own; the other two drowned. So did Joe. "I can't swim good, but I've got to save those kids," he had said, according to witnesses, none of whom plunged in alongside him. "If I don't come up, get somebody." He was a budding star in the NFL, yet he made a clear-minded decision that he knew could kill him, all to save some kids. It always puts me in mind of Easter.
I always think of Michael Landon. I don't know too much about him as a person, but as a Little House fan, it was sad when he passed away. Like Pa died.
Posted by: Lori | 07/21/2009 at 09:13 AM