I am responding in a weird way to news of Alex Chilton’s death. It feels like a gut punch, that whoosh of air that I saw certain friends gasp when Kurt Cobain died. When David Foster Wallace died.
Whether performed by Chilton alone or in band or whether covered by Dreampop mega-bands or Cheap Trick, I could always hear the place that made me: that swath from Memphis to NOLA to F’ville (Arkansas, people) to Austin. The fullness, the richness, the contradictions. I could hear my terra in it, and I could hear the qualities that make this place rich. That make this place right, even with all our problems.
His songs–this place–are literate, cerebral, irresistible, arch, poetic, bluesy, stubborn, humidity-saturated.
Big Star – I’m In Love With A Girl
Death is sometimes something that happens. Sometimes something a person inflicts upon himself–and by extension, his loved ones. This one, this one feels like goddamn lost opportunity.