Just now, I'm sitting in an Edinburgh coffee shop. Amongst the chatter, "Perfect Day" by the recently deceased Lou Reed solemnly laments in the background. I think to myself "they probably wouldn't be playing this if he wasn't dead". I hate to think in such a cynical way but I can't shake the feeling. I felt it when Michael Jackson died too. As soon as he popped his moonwalking clogs, people couldn't get enough of him and his music, whereas a few weeks prior to his passing, they were all still joking that he was some sort of modern day "Spring Heeled Jack" nonce. Fortunately for us all, Lou left no such legacy.
My life is dedicated to music, I'm in awe of it. If I were a Christian, I would be a "filthy sinner" because I bow down and worship it like it's some sort of false idol. When I meet someone for the first time, the first question likely to come lumbering out of my mouth would probably be "what kind of music are you into?". In my 26 years on this planet, no one so far has ever replied with "I'm a massive Lou Reed fan". Maybe that says more about the circles I move in than the validity of my research though.
I'm not really aware of the cultural impact Lou Reed has had, but since his passing, he has been heralded by many as a "genius". I can't help but feel that this term is thrown around far too often. It gets pinned on people like a sort of jaded, yellowing Blue Peter badge (especially when awarded posthumously). It makes me wonder about the artists we have today. Once they enter the cold dark recesses of the afterlife, who else will be knighted with the accolade of 'genius'? We can but speculate.
I don't think we should carry on down this road of being so unashamedly sycophantic towards the recently deceased. Respect is due of course, but I feel it warps people's perception of the art that carries on living. Saying that, I don't suppose "Lou Reed passed away today, he was pretty good at the ol' music thing..." makes for a very good obituary. It's not sexy enough, not strong enough.
As I finished that last sentence, the Amy Wineouse song "Love Is a Losing Game" begins to softy pump through the speakers like a delicate heartbeat from beyond the grave. It immediately fills me with nostalgia. My mind races to a time where she still lived, breathed, drank and drugged.
Amy's passing was tragic and all too soon, undeniably a wonderful and beautiful talent. The word genius was also thrown around after her death too. She oozed emotion from her very core and sang with extreme passion but unfortunately as most of us know, her life and career was marred by the terrible disease of addiction. I fear this is what she will be remembered for the most. Much like her now legendary predecessors Kurt Cobain and Janice Joplin she will go down in history as part of the "27 club", snuffed out by fame, drugs and alcohol and yet the word genius still remains for her and her fellow club members.
Death makes chameleons of us all maybe. It alters how people think of and remember us after we're gone. Dull browns turn to vibrant reds, blues, yellows and magentas. Why can't we achieve this status of whilst we are still alive? Surely that would be better? Maybe that's what Facebook and Twitter are for. We can all be dead on there...
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