7 in Heaven: Rock Never Dies

Music
Seacoast NH people remember the stars we've lost

The last five months have brought a heartbreaking succession of deaths of some of the world’s most influential musical icons. Famous artists and musicians die every year, and each passing is a time for reflection on the impact they made, and on the critical importance of art and music to all our lives. But the series of losses the music world has suffered since late last year seems remarkable.

It started in early December 2015 when Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver front man Scott Weiland was found dead in his tour bus at age 48 following an apparent drug overdose. Just a few weeks later, Motörhead front man Lemmy, one of the most revered metal singers of the 1980s and beyond, died of cancer at age 70.

In January, cancer also claimed the profoundly influential David Bowie at age 69. Just over a week later, Glenn Frey, a founding member of the Eagles, died of a variety of ailments at age 67.

It was two months later, in March, that Phife Dawg, a founding member of A Tribe Called Quest, died at age 45 from complications related to diabetes. A couple of weeks after Phife’s death, the world lost Merle Haggard, considered by many to be the greatest country musician who ever lived. He was 79.

And then came Prince. One of the greatest all-time performers of any genre, he died due to illness last Thursday at age 57.

These are not the only notable musicians who have died in recent months. But they represent such a diverse array of genres, and such a devastating magnitude of influence, that we asked some people connected to the local music scene to share their thoughts and remembrances on these seven beloved artists.

To read Dylan Metrano’s personal remembrance of Prince, click here.

Scott Weiland
Oct. 27, 1967 – Dec. 3, 2015
by Matt Kanner

For me, the alternative rock movement of the early 1990s was the right music at the right time. I was in seventh grade when Nirvana’s “Nevermind” came out, and it struck all the chords of my early teenage angst. I was quickly swept up in the wave of grunge that swelled out of Seattle and crashed across the nation.

The first I heard of the Stone Temple Pilots was their video for “Sex Type Thing” on MTV’s “Headbangers Ball.” The song was more alt-metal than alt-rock, more Alice in Chains than Pearl Jam, but when I heard the rest of STP’s debut album, “Core,” I became an avid fan. The band’s songwriting only got better with 1994’s “Purple” and 1996’s “Tiny Music.” And I was enthralled by the vocals on their cover of Led Zeppelin’s “Dancing Days,” and by the climactic refrain of “Big Empty,” from “The Crow” soundtrack.

Weiland was a captivating front man and a distinctly talented performer. He writhed and howled on stage with a chameleon appearance that seemed to change every week. He epitomized the highs and lows of rock stardom — and rock excess.

In his final years, Weiland’s attraction to drugs became less rock ’n’ roll and more pitiful. His performances became embarrassing, his problems cliché. To lose such a distinct talent at age 48 is a sad reminder of the dangers of addiction. I prefer to remember him as he appeared on “MTV Unplugged in 1993, red-haired and healthy, gently swaying in a rocking chair as he crooned hits like “Plush” and “Creep.” “Take time with a wounded hand, ’cause it likes to heal,” he sang.

Matt Kanner is a writer, music reviewer, and publisher of The Sound.

Lemmy (Ian Fraser Kilmister)
Dec. 24, 1945 – Dec. 28, 2015
by Stuart Dias

I was late to the Motörhead party. I had an intense love of thrash metal but didn’t know Motörhead was required reading. At first I was surprised — the music didn’t have the technical precision that I loved about Metallica and Testament. It was muddy, badly produced, and raw. Lemmy’s “gravel in a blender” voice didn’t do much for me. As I spent some time with it, it began to sink in, and I grew to love it, not just musically, but because of what it meant in a broader sense. Motörhead was the band that the metal kids and the punk kids united around. They were a band that was immune to changing times, musical evolution, and acoustic guitars.

Lemmy was the embodiment of rock and roll and seemed to eschew the idea that one must mellow with age. Listen to “Teach Them How to Bleed” off 2015’s “Bad Magic” — it would fit nicely on 1977’s “Motörhead.” At some point, we have to accept that our idols are getting older and are no longer what they once were. Lemmy is one of the few cases where we never had to do that.

I saw Motörhead in 2004. My ears still haven’t recovered.

Stu Dias is a singer and guitarist in several area bands, including Soggy Po’ Boys and Mother Superior and the Sliding Royales.

David Bowie
Jan. 8, 1947 – Jan. 10, 2016
by Nicholas Phaneuf

The scope of David Bowie’s music and his presentation of self has allowed for many people to have their own Bowie. My Bowie began in 1994; I was at peak MTV age, and the video for “The Heart’s Filthy Lesson” left me aroused, scared, and revolted (which I mean as a compliment to the work — go check it out).

As Bowie ended the 20th century by collaborating with Trent Reznor, I began to dig back into his vast catalog. As I explored the various periods of his work, each of which he wore like a beautifully tailored suit, I saw an artist who was not only unafraid of changing but who demanded that I be willing to change. This lesson — that change is vitality, that it is the essence of the artist — is one that I will carry with me.

I hope that your Bowie demands as much from you as a listener and an artist as he has from me.

Nick Phaneuf is a guitarist and bassist in several area bands, including Tan Vampires and Dan Blakeslee & the Calabash Club.