suntimes.com
Zevon's 'Wind' offers intimate window into a dying man's soul
August 29, 2003
BY CATHLEEN FALSANI RELIGION WRITER
Looking for a spiritual experience? Have a listen to track three of Warren Zevon's new--and most likely final--album, "The Wind."
"Mama, take this badge off of me, I can't use it anymore. It's getting dark, too dark to see, and I feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door," Zevon sings, his gravelly voice especially gravelly because of the inoperable and terminal lung cancer he was battling when he recorded Bob Dylan's classic song late last year.
"It's gettin' dark, too dark to see. Open up, open up, open up, open up, open up for me," Zevon pleads, as the track fades away.
I dare you to listen to it without feeling, even if you're not a fan, or only know Zevon as the guy who sang "Werewolves of London."
On Aug. 28, 2002, after having a little shortness of breath while working out a few days earlier, Zevon, a reformed drunk and enthusiastic smoker, got the news that he had a rare and advanced form of lung cancer. They couldn't operate and he would probably be dead, at the age of 55, by Thanksgiving, doctors said.
I don't know what I would have done in that situation. I won't even venture a guess.
Zevon knew exactly what he should do. He would write and record as many songs as he could before his time was up. So, accompanied by friends such as Bruce Springsteen, Jackson Browne and Emmylou Harris, Zevon went back into the studio to sing until he didn't have any breath left.
The result is the 11-track "The Wind," which he lived to see released Thursday. (The doctors were wrong. He's fading but still here.)
It is the singular most spiritual album I've ever heard. It's heartbreakingly intimate, inspiringly honest. An extraordinarily beautiful, painful work of art. And it's Zevon's faltering voice--strong as a bear in one moment, weak as a lamb the next--that makes it a masterpiece.
I have no idea what, if any, religious predilections Zevon might have. And I don't care.
What I do know is that this man has acquired a kind of spiritual wisdom that only comes by staring death in the face like a rabid junkyard dog.
"The Wind" is a window into the soul of a dying man. Pay close attention. You might learn something.
"Some days I feel like my shadow's casting me, some days the sun don't shine. Sometimes I wonder what tomorrow's gonna bring, when I think about my dirty life and times," Zevon sings on the down-homey "Dirty Life and Times."
"Don't go, please stay. Don't leave me here when so many things so hard to see are clear. . . . Will you stay with me to the end? When there's nothing left but you and me and the wind. We'll never know till we try to find the other side of goodbye," Zevon says in the heartbreaking "Please Stay."
Zevon's never been afraid of death, at least not lyrically. The Grim Reaper was a frequent character in his musical tales. Even his backstage passes featured a cigarette-smoking skull wearing Zevon's trademark reflector glasses.
I don't like dwelling on death. As Woody Allen said, "I'm not afraid of death. I just don't want to be there when it happens." But apparently, if the last year and a half has been any indication, the universe is telling me death is something I have to learn to deal with.
I've lost too many dear ones lately. And I'm still pretty sore.
So when I heard about Zevon--long a favorite of mine--being terminally ill, I recall shutting my eyes and thinking, "Nope, can't deal with that right now.'' I suppose it's silly that the impending death of a singer I don't know should affect me, but it has.
Zevon reminds me a bit too much of a friend who recently crossed over to the next life well before his time. Both were rehabilitated rogues with Cheshire Cat grins, acerbic wit and thinning blond hair. Both were wonderfully literate, consummate storytellers. It seemed cruel that Zevon should be leaving this world, too.
I remember sitting with my feet dangling over the landing of a staircase at the Park West about a decade ago, listening to Zevon sing his stories. A smart-ass troubadour with the kind of voice that punches you in the gut and tickles you around the sides. It's one of my favorite Chicago memories.
Last Sunday, as I watched a documentary about the making of "The Wind" on VH-1, I was pleased to learn Zevon remained much the same as I'd remembered him. At one point, someone off screen asks him how he feels about being, as he says, a "dead man walking."
"I'd be an idiot if I weren't less than pleased to be doomed," he answered. "I think it's a sin not to want to live."
On "Keep Me In Your Heart, " the final track on the album, Zevon says, "Shadows are falling and I'm running out of breath, keep me in your heart for a while. If I leave you, it doesn't mean I love you any less."
Thank you for everything, Mr. Zevon. We love you, too. |
