Yet despite having only a peripheral knowledge of Alex Chilton and his oeuvre, the fact that he's dead at 59 fills me with a deep melancholy that outstrips the apparent impact he had on my life, or his presence in my music library.
He influenced bands about which I cared. He died too young. He wasn't fully appreciated.
I think, perhaps, the last sentiment strikes closest to home. I didn't fully appreciate him. Not until he died did I research Big Star or the Box Tops, only to find that both are bands to which I should have been listening for years. But it's not the fact that I'd not followed Chilton that chokes me up, rather it's the reality that there are untold numbers of bright lights that will never escape their bushels. And judging by how profound my sadness suddenly is — if I'm honest — it's also that I identify with someone who inspires others but never sees his own breakout success.
And yes, it's certainly a bit egocentric to turn someone's death into an examination of one's own life, but that is, in fact, exactly what we do at a funeral. Sure we talk about the dearly departed, but almost always in the context of how they impacted or interacted in our lives. My lack of personal satisfaction transmutes into the feeling that a somewhat obscure rock musician died before reaching his due.
Regardless, Alex Chilton penned some delightful songs. He inspired others to do the same. He and his progeny brightened the day of countless numbers of people, including me (and I hope you). He made the world a better place, and it's diminished a bit by his passing.
Perhaps this is all captured best by a song by Bob Dylan that Alex Chilton and the Box Tops covered:
I see my light come shining
From the West unto the East
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released"
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