Rothko is dead, we get to see Jeff Koons.
Kerouac is dead, now we read books by JK Rowling.
Alex Chilton is dead, now we listen to Lady Gaga.
We have lost.
I wouldn’t consider myself a friend of Alex’s – I‘ve met him about a dozen times – a drink, a smile, a “Hey, y’all ah right?” that was about it. It was more than I ever wanted and far more than I had a right to. Because while meeting him was great – it was always about the music for me. I still have that, and that’s fine. But like anyone, I would have liked to have heard one more song.
One more sloppy, barely held together, heartbreaking, amazing song. Warts and all. He did that better than anyone.
Rock on, Butch.