Jon and his wife are expecting their first child next month, which has pretty much taken him off his A game. Add to that his torn ACL, which has left him hobbled and off climbing and kite-boarding for six months, and it is easy to understand why his blogging would suffer. That is where I am supposed to step in, shoulder the burden. But does Mac step into the breach? Nooooooooooo! Mac contracts some sort of retrohantadengue virus. If I could bottle and sell all the viscous fluids that have been hocked from my mouth and sneezed from my nose, I would be the next Ron Popeil. Sorry, for a moment I forgot I was writing for adults and not my 8th grade students. They think I am the Louie C.K. of snot, phlegmn, toots and burps.
I am just beginning to emerge from the fog of NyQuil. I still can’t smell the roses, but my appetite for blogging has returned. And my ears are almost unclogged, so maybe music will sound less distant and mushy.
While I was out of commission, three rock ‘n’ roll legends died: Dick Clark, Levon Helm and Chris Etheridge. I outgrew Dick Clark before I reached high school when he began to look less and less like my shaggier, scruffier rock ‘n’ roll heroes. Throughout elementary school and into junior high he was the face of popular music. American Bandstand seems so quaint, a televised sock hop. Lovely teen couples dancing to records, a few lucky ones sitting next to Dick to rate new records, their “I give it a 95″ meaning so much, not only to me, but the group (Almost always starting with “The” or “The and the”: Moonbeams, Jet Setters, Constrictions, Alpacas, Sunglows, Discettes, Anthony and the Brickbats, Amethyst and the Bluebeards, 
Sara Jean and the Dunkettes) who hoped to see the record go platinum. And I sat at home after school wondering what it must be like to dance close to a girl, to be able to swivel, twist and jerk like a cool dude, to wear my hair gelled and scallopped and dangerous, to swagger around in a form fitting jacket, sharp-toed shoes and a skinny tie. Ah, the always elusive cool.
I have to give it to Clark for never trying to be something he wasn’t. I hardly ever remember him without a suit and tie even as he was talking with Johnny Rotten when he he fronted Public Image Ltd. But Clark, over the years, ceased to be relevant to me and I pretty much forgot him, except when I felt sorry for him when he had a stroke.
Such was not the case with Levon Helm and Chris Etheridge. Helm, for me, was always the face of The Band, as democratic a group as ever existed. The word Americana summons up for me sloppy strings and hokem, but if Americana 
means the essential American voice, then The Band was it. They threw in Aaron Copland, Charles Ives, Woody Guthrie, Leadbelly, Hank Williams, Charlie Parker, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry and Wanda Jackson and they called it Rock’n'Roll and it was glorious. I could never quite tell when Rick Danko, Richard Manuel, or Robbie Robertson was singing, but I always knew when Levon Helm took the mike. His raspy, growly absolutely rockin’ voice was distinct along with his drumming. As is almost the case, I was a bit late to the Band. I didn’t get “The Weight,” and as a result “Big Pink” never made it into my collection, the only Band lp not to. But from moment I hears “Rag Mama Rag,” with Levon at the helm (I am so sorry about that. Remember, I have been sick) I became their BFF (Band Friend Forever!)
I remember seeing “The Last Waltz” in Paris and being transfixed by the sight of Helm so casually singing “Up on Cripple Creek” while pounding away on the drums. That could have been me if I had only known how to play the drums and sing. When Helm got throat cancer (And here I am complaining about a cold, jesus!) it was so lovely to hear his scratchy voice, so wise and traveled, slowed down and contemplative. And I guess I thought he had beaten it, but one doesn’t beat cancer, I guess. And he is gone, along with Manuel and Danko. And I didn’t know he had fallen out with Robbie Robertson, so sad. And Mighty Garth Hudson looming in the back on keyboards. Americana, indeed.
It is a stretch to call Chris Etheridge a rock ‘n’ roll hero; he was, after all, a bass player. But if you deny Etheridge hero status, you deny Bill Wyman, John Entwhistle, and John Paul Jones as well. The Burritos, all gone except for Chris Hillman, grew out of “Sweetheart of the Rodeo,” The Byrds’ swan song, but country rock’s inception. The Burritos’ first album is still in my top-ten, always will be. After the Burritos, Etheridge seemed to play bass on every other album. He became the consummate session player.
So, three legends are gone, quietly, rather than down in flames. And I feel, just a little bit more lonely.
