by Kevin Broughton
Life ain’t fair, especially when it comes to music. There certainly seems to be no cosmic justice. Duane Allman? Taken from us in a motorcycle wreck at the tender age of 24. Hendrix? Found dead in a bathtub – granted, likely by his own hand – at 27. Yet Michael Jackson used little boys as nighttime playthings, bought their parents’ silence and was allowed to draw breath till the age of 50.
And this week brings yet another reminder. No-talent hacks like Luke Bryan, Kane Brown and…I forget his name, but that dude who held forth in Rolling Stone about the need for stricter gun laws? Who is he? Who cares; he’s a douchebag like everybody else in mainstream country, and millions of morons listen to him and all the rest of them, perpetuating the slow death march of a once-great genre. Those losers and their fans collectively wallow in all that brainless tripe, but we can’t have Charlie Robison anymore?
Charlie’s not dead, but he’s through recording and touring, thanks to “complications from surgery.” Still around, and one hopes still writing. But it sure feels like a funeral.
It’s as unfair as a rich woman wearing “ten years worth of work on her hand.”
Here’s Charlie at Antone’s, doing “Loving County.” I miss him already.