Dear Alex,
You're still dead and the world still needs you. This is belated, but so it goes. What the fuck does it say when a man such as yourself had to go and die because he couldn't get health insurance? I understand the situation; those assholes don't want to give me any, either. The "American Dream" is buried under piles of bird shit yet again. In the meantime, we still believe in the Jesus myth and burn books whenever possible.
I throw your tunes into my podcasts. I figure the first thing I ever heard of yours was "The Letter." I have fond memories of hearing "Sweet Cream Ladies, Forward March" being piped over the speakers at the local drive-in theatre. I didn't know that was you until years later. Always good to write songs praising prostitutes. No one does that anymore, do they? They don't really do much of anything anymore.
When I hear your songs, I hear a dude whom I wish I had personally known. We both being from Tennessee and all, both of us having a penchant for absolute weirdness at all times, coupled with the sincere appreciation of the elusive hook and/or melody. I keep wondering if all the kids Paul Westerberg introduced you to even got it. The hilarious beauty of "Guantanamerika" or the groove of "No Sex" or "Jailbait." You were doing it from the soul for the soul. Westerberg never even got close.
That chaos of "You Can't Have Me" pretty much sums it up. The fucked-up wah-wah bass colliding with the crashing drums spilling all over the place and the sax being strangled, trying to be heard in the din, which is odd considering how much literal space is there between all those notes. The epic failure of Big Star giving way to the idea that it didn't need to be clean. Afterward, there was Like Flies on Sherbert and no looking back.
You covered songs you loved, and you always made the idea of recording songs or making a record just fun. Who the hell does that anymore? The way the music biz is these days, we might all just get around to doing that sooner than later. Bieber even cut his hair. The girls cried just like they did for The Beatles, man. Somewhere, the Eagles still remain relevant to someone, too.
Anyway, you're only the second "idol" of mine whose death made me feel an actual loss (the other being Hunter S. Thompson). One of your songs will start playing on my iPod and I can't help but think you're still around to make some more. That was the best thing about you, dude. You were always there, just putting out an album here or there, every now and then, no big deal. But we always had that next one to look forward to somewhere down the line, and it was always a good thought to wonder when it was going to arrive.
So yeah, man. Save me a seat or give me a call sometime. We should definitely get together and catch up. You know where I am.
JT
