Rock and Roll Never Dies
There’s no expiration date on soul.
By STEVE MOCKENSTURM
Levon Helm and his band played the Michigan Theater in Ann Arbor on March 19, 2012. He appeared thin and frail but that big toothy grin was there throughout and his voice was unmistakably Levon. All present delivered the goods, but exactly one month later he was gone.
Johnny Cash recorded American V: A Hundred Highways over the last months of his illustrious life. An engineer and guitarist were kept on call for those days when Cash felt good enough to go to the studio and sing a little bit.
B.B. King will be 9o years old this September. Although embarking on a “farewell” tour in 2006, he has remained active ever since, hitting the road and playing gigs as recently as October, 2014.
I once said to my wife, “Man, these guys rock out right up until the end.”
“Wouldn’t you?” she said.
Recently the local community of musicians of my generation lost one of our ranks. She was a dear soul, mentor and encourager to many; a blues singer and aficionado. Last Sunday we gathered to grieve and remember and share this magnificent gift of music. There were hugs and smiles and tears and all the players were there. Guys and gals we hadn’t seen in a long time (let alone in the same venue) kept popping through the doorway. Someone remarks that if a bomb hit this place the loss of talent would be immense and many parts of the city would fall silent.
It was a clear and crisp Sunday afternoon. A pickup band jammed in the corner of the stone and timber lodge, players rotating in and out. A fragrant and meaty potluck feast lined the back wall. Kids danced with old hippies; a roving harmonica player vied for attention. A large tip jar — our friend’s last tip jar — was stuffed with green. There was nothing but love in the sunlit room and a soft, unspoken reality that this is happening more frequently and all of us are vulnerable.
This is a tough row to hoe for many musicians. Health insurance and quality care are hard to come by for the essentially self-employed minstrel. Artists in general are often working without a safety net and it doesn’t get any better as we get older. As noted by one player, we should and need to be taking care of one another.
None of us play music anymore for the reasons we used to. The rivalries, drama and rank weirdness that once peppered the scene have given way to strong friendships, grace and wisdom. Aspirations of fame and hit records are tempered with time. We play because we love to play. We freely share knowledge and experience with younger players, remembering our first steps onto a bandstand.
It’s a mistake to think creative juice is the sole purview of the young and fresh. Vitality is as much a function of the mind as it is the body. The trick is to never stop learning, questioning, seeking out new energies to share and draw upon.
At 55, I play more live music than ever before. I’m busting gear up and down steps and in and out of clubs like a teenager. My chops have never been stronger.
There is nothing — nothing — in this life to match the feeling of playing in a boisterous rock band at full voice. I’ll often liken it to a team of strong horses galloping across the plain, pulling their load as one, completely locked in. We communicate non-verbally with gestures, looks and musical flourish. There is a serene violence of sorts in the crashing and rumbling as we ride the wave of a song, pushing and being pushed back.
Sure, you can argue we’re not much to look at anymore. Big deal. But I can’t help but feel my musical friends, various bandmates and I are at the peak of our creative powers, just now hitting stride. Pete Townsend did us no favors with the ironically immortal trope, “I hope I die before I get old.”
Don’t buy it. This never gets old and rock and roll will never die.
For Ellenie
1949–2015
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