Cowboy Junkies "Flirted With You All My Life"

I've blogged before about the dangers of being The Man Who Knew Too Much.

Knowing some background about a song or artist can help, but sometimes it can hurt.

I think the Cowboy Junkies have done the world a tremendous service with their album "Demons." It's a collection of songs written by their late friend Vic Chesnutt.

Despite the excellent readings of these songs, it's just a little too heart-wrenching to hear them sing "Flirted With You All My Life."

This was a track from one of Chesnutt's final records. The "You" in the song is suicide. He sang openly about his lifelong flirtation with suicide. But he sung it in such a way that it made you feel like he had moved on, that he was alright.

Having the Cowboy Junkies take on that song, knowing Vic took his own life, just makes me sad that this was something he couldn't overcome.

That he lost. And we lost.

Vic Chesnutt “Flirted With You All My Life”

Of the many musical passings that I’ve heard about over the years, for one reason or another, the ones that have struck me the most have been the ones I heard on the radio in the car.

Certainly, since about a third of my life is spent inside the walls of a radio station, my memories of getting the news of this person or that person dying, are closely tied to radio.

But the couple I really remember, have been in the car.

I was with my Mom and my sister Julie, coming home from Logan Airport after a trip to Disney World, when I learned about Stevie Ray Vaughn’s death. Hearing his music that day was really the beginning of my understanding of how important his guitar playing was.

I got the news of Bob Stinson death (who was the guitarist for my favorite band, the Replacements), as I was pulling away from the radio station that I worked at in Virginia, at midnight, just after my shift. I actually ran back inside from the parking lot, to confirm what I had heard on the ABC Newsbrief.

Is it something about the safety, the womb-ness of a car that makes radio news so indelible? I’m not sure. I just seems to be, for me.

This past weekend, on the radio, I got the news about Vic Chesnutt.

I was down in Newport, spending a couple of post-Holiday days with family, and I had been dispatched to the grocery store, to make sure we had breakfast food for the following morning. After several days of caroling to and fro, visiting all our relatives, engulfed in the madness of the season, this was the first moment of peace I’d had in a while. I was in the car, by myself, alone on the wet streets of Newport, in the post-Christmas quiet.

I was flipping the dial as I drove. I like to check out the local public radio stations whenever I’m on the road.

“We’re starting out the show with some sad news,” the announcer said.

They didn’t have a lot of information, only that he had been in a coma for a short time, and had died, due to an overdose. Intentional or not? They weren’t sure.

I wrote a little about Vic in an earlier post. Knowing that he had struggled with depression his whole life, I guess it’s not a shock that he left us this way.

But despite his physical and mental troubles, he was incredibly prolific. He’d put out two records just this Fall.

And strangely, one of those records had a song called “Flirted With You All My Life,” which he had called his break-up song with suicide. He sang like he was ready to start living.

There are many tributes and obits out there worth reading, if you’re not familiar with the man, his songs or his story, but this one has a wonderful Vic quote. And Vic Chesnutt was a highly quotable man. Check out his lyrics, but I’m glad he left me with this thought about his career, which I think can apply to all of us who live a creative life:

“I thought I had a calling. Anyway I just kept dialing.”



See him perform the song in concert, here

Vic Chesnutt “Sad Peter Pan”

I think this is the Vic Chesnutt I like the best. Not too much band, but not too too stripped either. A little melancholy, and little funny. Not too many folks can pull off a like like "I just want to be Aaron Neville." And I picture him on the record insert, in that green felt hat.

I saw Vic Chesnutt in concert, at the Grey Eagle in Asheville, North Carolina. Three things really stick out about the show, which was a co-bill with Kristen Hersh.

One was that she requested that song. They were both on stage for the whole show, each taking a turn singing a song, and part-way through the show, Vic turned to her and asked "What should I do next" and she was momentarily caught off-guard, but when she thought about it, she smiled and said "Do the 'pushing the paint around' song."

Vic Chesnutt is wheel-chair bound, due to injuries from a car accident, and he talked about it a bit from the stage, with easy humor, mentioning "I was drunk as a Coot." Who can say the word "Coot" in regular conversation? Whenever I hear the word "Coot" I think of Vic Chesnutt. Which is basically confined to times I watch Beverly Hillbillies reruns.

The third thing is that I remember what he looked like at the end of the show. After 90 minutes of being so at ease on-stage, telling stories and singing his songs, when I came time to exit the stage, he carefully wheeled himself off the small ramp, down past the front row of seats and off to the side of the stage behind a curtain. And because I was in the front row, I could see him back there, and I remember how small he looked. How, once he dropped his stage demeanor, he receded to someone smaller, less comfortable with himself. It was in his eyes.

And as much as I have romanticized a musicians life, I often wonder if that is really what it's like. If you truly get a high, a true happiness from performing, what are the other 22 hours of the day like?

Hear "Sad Peter Pan"