I wrote this in 2005, on the nineteenth anniversary of Philip Lynott's death. At the time, I was hugely, almost entirely consumed by the music of his band, Thin Lizzy, and of the work he had given us. This is what I felt and thought then.
Re-reading now, I miss the apparent simplicity of my feelings then. I've edited a little for clarity and length, but otherwise, this is as it appeared on my LJ (aw, bless) in January 2005.
We have now been thirty years without our Philo, but that's a post for another day.
~wavy timey-wimey lines~
And so yesterday marked the passing of another year, the nineteenth,
since Philip Parris Lynott slid off the mortal coil. Nineteen years
since the last great black rock star (as distinct from other genres) finally gave in completely to the addictions
that had blighted his life for ten years. A classy lady lost her beloved
only child, two little girls lost their dad and the rest of us got our
hearts broken by another selfish git who felt the need to live the rock
lifestyle more than to live at all.
Or maybe that last one is
just me. Maybe I've been hardened and made cynical by a long list of the
inglorious dead. I've long believed that Rock and Roll is a bitch who
takes her greatest worshippers and destroys them. They also destroy
themselves. I do not know what drove Jim Morrison to a bottle of whisky: genetics, a disease, a wish to get to the elusive 'edge', or
simply a desire to die. I don't know why Philip Lynott felt the need to
take heroin, but I know the end of the story. The story always ends the
same way.
A boy (very rarely a girl- this is a sexist world)
grows up feeling like an outsider, for whatever reason. Maybe he reads a
lot and is moved around the country a lot (Morrison), maybe he feels the
world around him is holding him back from the greatness he feels inside
himself (Lennon), maybe he's marked as an outsider by his skin and by his
mother's lack of wedding ring (Lynott). The greatest of our rock and
roll boys were outsiders.
Then through hard work and luck and a
little dash of genius, somehow they 'make it' and become the toast of
the town. They still feel like outsiders and even rail against their new
life in a variety of self-sabotaging ways: you know the cliches by now. For a while, they live
practically charmed lives and everyone loves them.
They create work of such awe-inspiring, emotion-drenching genius that
it will never be forgotten, be it defining the psychedelic hippie
movement for the world (John) or painting a vision of Los Angeles so
dark it shocks decades later (Jim) or creating a hard rock song so
perfect it means everything to everyone, even people who don't know the
name of the band (Philip).
Then comes the downturn, and it always comes. The fall comes from a change in their minds/souls that
leaves them a different person, and often pharmaceutically-influenced. Perhaps it's unfashionable politics
and partners (John), or incoherent attempts at bringing art and poetry to the masses
(Jim), or a determination to carry on the rock life when it ceases to be
relevant (Philip). Sometimes, the world changes around them, too...
Their
spirits broken, they fall ever more into the dark shadows that have
lurked around them since they got their first hit record. A man with a
broken spirit doesn't fight the shadows as he once did, cannot resist
the shadows as once he did. Where once he flirted with the shadows, now
they take him entirely.
For some, the end comes quickly, before
perhaps even they know it or can help themselves (Jim). For some, the
end comes when they least expect it, and it is not self-inflicted
(John). For some the end comes slowly, very slowly, and they have turned
down the chance to turn it around and finally, the shadows take over
entirely (Philip).
The story, no matter the journey taken, always ends the same. The story, no matter when it happens, always ends the same.
And no matter when or where or how or why the story happens, I am left a little sadder than before.
I
have always understood that this is how the world works. I have never
thought them angels or martyrs to a cause, whether the end was self-inflicted or not. The tragedy comes in thinking of what
they missed, what we missed, whether they wanted to die and if things
could have been done differently.
With Jim, I once dreamed that I
was trying to save him. I loved him and so I locked him in a flat and
stayed with him as he ranted and raved and threw things and worked out
his problems and his addictions. That's how it felt, and the press and
the rest of the world were outside the door and I knew I couldn't let
them in because then Jim would lose: Jim would die. I woke up without
knowing whether it worked or not, even in my dream. I died a little that
day, knowing as I did that I could not help him, could not save him and
that he was lost to me before I was even conscious. Perhaps that is why
when the subject of reincarnation comes up in conversation, I say I'd like to have been
Jim in one of my previous lives. I don't believe in reincarnation
myself, but if it is real, if it is true, then I hope I carry a little
of Jim with me, that I'm building on his mistakes and weaknesses. Even
if reincarnation is not real, I'm trying to learn from his mistakes and
weaknesses, and if I don't carry a little of him with me in my soul, a
slice of my heart is given over to him, and probably always has been. He
has always been lost to me, but I think I have always been meant to
find him. He has always been lost, always been dead, and so I have lived
with it.
Then, there is Philip. Not as big a star or a legend as
the others I have loved, his name and face are barely recognisable to
the youth of Britain, and unknown to most of America. He wrote the
everyman rock anthem "The Boys Are Back In Town" which means anything to
anyone and so means everything to everyone. People know his voice
whether they know it or not, but his name has been forgotten to the
wider world that isn't as concerned with rock music as some of us.
You
see, Philip died out of fashion. His decline was slow and long and
those around him knew it- so Midge Ure and Bob Geldof (both his pals)
didn't bother to ask him to join in Band Aid or Live Aid. Either of
these events might have resuscitated Philip's career and so saved his life, but
they considered him an unfashionable liability by then - despite his song 'Yellow
Pearl' (written alongside name du jour Midge) being the theme tune for
Top of the Pops. When he died his tortured death by lifestyle, that
lifestyle was out of fashion. 1986 was a time of "Just Say No" thanks to
Grange Hill and Nancy Reagan. Drugs were out of fashion (so we were
told, but people were still taking them, shock horror!) so when he died, Philip was
lambasted and pilloried and destroyed in his media post mortem. Since
dead men cannot speak, he remained out of fashion.
Things are
changing now. The new 2-disc Greatest Hits did wonderfully in the charts
for a record released with hardly any publicity by a band who ended in
1983. The hellraiser lifestyle is back in vogue thanks to the boorish
Russell Crowe and the impish Colin Farrell. ROCK and roll as opposed to
dreary indie or grunge and goth is back in fashion and so are its
greatest practioners, the ones who loved her best. Jim has made his way
onto yet more student bedroom walls and Philip, beautiful and charming
Philip, is back on the lips of those who matter- Dan Hawkins of the
Darkness spreads the Thin Lizzy word every time he dresses to go on
stage.
I have loved Lizzy for a long time now. This is not like
my Led Zeppelin moment, which flared quickly without much warning and
then the flames flickered lower as quickly. It was less pronounced than
my time in the Doors' sun, which resulted in a dissertation and a
healthy feeling of being driven insane by Jim. It started with buying
Jailbreak because it's a well-known 'classic' and because it had 'The
Boys Are Back In Town'. Then much later, randomly, a Best Of. Then
downloading 'Roisin Dubh' because it had an Irish title. Falling so much
in love with the seven minute epic lovesong to Ireland that I went off
and bought the titular album the next day.
My love for Lizzy grew
slowly, as some of the greatest loves do. And although Led Zeppelin
lasted far beyond one summer, the white hot flames died down with the
coming of the cold winter sun. For Philip and his Lizzy, the flames grew
slowly until they became a furnace I couldn't ignore them at all. The
change from 'band I liked' to 'band I couldn't live without' likely came
with the relatively random purchase of Vagabonds of the Western World.
That will forever be the sound of Sunderland for me, the sound of
walking through the city centre or to class. When I left my walkman
in the library, I was less concerned about the walkman than the new CD
inside it. The Slow Blues were, it turns out, calling me.
Then it
came: A dream. Philip was not there. There was a festival and Thin
Lizzy or a Thin Lizzy tribute. The Philip looked and sounded exactly
like Philip and I loved him. But I did not love the Philip-a-like, I
loved the Philip. The world changed that day, just as it changed on that
long ago day that I let Jim Morrison grab my heart (probably sometime
during the first listen of The Ghost Song, or Peace Frog). It changed
the day I loved Dean and it was turned upside down the day I loved the
Beatles. It was always different each time, and with Philip it came with
a deep desire to go back in time and change things. For some reason, I
needed to feel like I could've helped... that if I'd been pals with him
long enough, early enough, things would be different. I had crystal
clear visions of me standing up to Parisian drug dealers and telling
them to fuck off, visions of an America-conquering, world-beating Lizzy
as they would've been without their demons. Pretty Scott Gorham becoming
the pin-up for all the girls, Philip being a genuine Irish hero, being
called home in honour and celebration. Philip being able to see his two
daughters grow up, Philip reaching his fortieth birthday, his fiftieth
birthday.
The truth is, none of it could've happened. I'm both naive and arrogant, but even I don't believe I could have prevented
this thing from happening. People tried to help Philip, far more than
tried to help Jim. By the 80s, the world knew heroin was a problem, knew
it could kill young, healthy, strong men like Philip. In 1971, who knew 27-year-olds could be alcoholics? Ultimately, Philip has no
excuse beyond his own addictions, demons and weaknesses, and perhaps
that is why I wished I could have helped him more than the others. Maybe
that's why I wish I could have the chance to try.
Perhaps,
just perhaps, Philip taught me that even strong people can become addicts. That even beautiful people with everything to live for,
can become addicts. That addiction destroys people, but first it destroys everything good in their lives before it takes their lives... that even good people can fall prey to it. That nobody is safe from it. Addiction isn't just for poor young people or for homeless people. It gets
tramps and rock stars and everyone in between. No amount of willpower
can keep a person from it, and no amount of 'oh, it won't happen to me'
will save you from it. Maybe the drug varies, but the addiction is what gets you...
If addiction can kill Philip, and if it can kill Jim, then it can certainly kill me.
And it can kill you. And before it can kill me and you, it will destroy the lives of the people we love and who love us.
Losing one person is too
many and nineteen years too long to be without them.
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