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They’ve come and they’ve gone.
I’m talking about the guys I’ve known in music here—fellow musicians and record store folk. They employed me, enjoyed me, taught me, rocked me and disliked me at one time or another, I would imagine.
And I can’t think of one who didn’t die earlier than he should have. You’re supposed to die when you’ve lived at least threescore and 10, whether usefully or otherwise.
None of these cats even got close.
The first musician I personally knew—and regarded well—who died young was Joe Dunlap Jr., guitarist for the New Jivebombers, a guy who looked tough on stage, but was a sweetheart off. Murdered in his cab late one summer’s night. I was devastated.
Co-founder of Singing Dog Records, Dave Wolfson, my college buddy and employer, disappeared while living in Chicago, turning up dead and decapitated in an Illinois ditch. Chicago is a tough town, foul play there is unlike foul play anywhere. Took years of bad dreams to get over that one. Dave, Dave, Dave. Sigh. What did you do? He opened a lot of record stores and made a lot of money. He was gone in his 30s. Buy low, sell high was his motto. But die young? What a waste.
Three-fifths of my favorite Columbus rock-and-roll band, the Burners, has gone on to that great rehearsal in the sky, and I miss every dang one of them. Sweet Michael Gene Antler, guitarist, bassist and a musical god to me, died from his own hand. Singer Jamie Lyons and guitarist Micky Bletz made it to early middle age before they checked out, sort of from natural causes endemic to the music business I guess you could say. This was just one of the great roots rockabilly/rock bands of the day. Micky was the most visually exciting guitarist I knew, and Jamie virtually a singer on par with Jerry Lee Lewis, but without the piano.
More record store personnel: the irrepressible Dave “Captain” Diemer, the most wonderful old diehard hippie/wrestling-loving uncle to everybody on High Street there ever was. His Joe Tex imitation alone made him immortal in my book. Of cancer, in middle age.
Then there’s his emotional opposite, the eternally grouchy Joe Goldschlager of Goldmine Records, who had a sign up warning people not to take the Lord’s name in vain, but used every other cuss word in the book. He liked me because I liked Savoy Brown. Of cancer, in early middle age.
Of all the tragically unnecessary deaths, none to me ever seemed more futile than that of Jim “Kozmos” Cummings. The top-hatted bassist with Willie Phoenix died in a barn fire as he was helping rescue farm animals. Koz, you were probably a better bassist than a softball pitcher, but, man, you were a living teddy bear. What a great, great guy.
And easily the most talented guy, which made it all the harder to understand—or did it?—was the suicide of Ronald Koal, who had the best set of pipes in Columbus back in the day. I knew him for years and I can’t think of many young struggling local musicians who didn’t secretly hate him because he had the crack Trillionaires backing him and he could be such a good singer and stage presence. Truly a waste and terribly sad.
One never reckons with death, it reckons with us—I don’t fear it, but I don’t want to taunt it, either. I miss each and every one of these guys and I’d bet they’d be pretty surprised by how highly I think of them still. It’s a roll call I don’t care to add to for a long, long time.
