Life and Death on 'The Late Show'

It is not often that television has anything of import to tell us, and even less often that it is able to arouse genuine emotion, as opposed to manufactured sentiment. And it goes without saying that these rare occasions do not take place on the sets of late night talk shows, which are usually home to triviality and self-promotion. But recently, David Letterman did something that has perhaps never been done on television. On October 30th, he devoted his entire program to a terminally ill musician, Warren Zevon. The show was a celebration of Zevon's music -- he performed three songs -- but it was also a public goodbye. It was a remarkable and moving program, and Letterman deserves credit for pulling it off so gracefully. So does Zevon, of course. Those who saw the show are not likely to forget it anytime soon. Warren Zevon is a rock singer/songwriter who has never sold many records. With the exception of "Werewolves of London," he's never had a hit. But he is known and respected among his fellow songwriters for his barbed take on life and his unusual subject matter. His song catalog is rife with colorful titles like "Monkey Wash Donkey Rinse," "Sentimental Hygiene," "Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead," and "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner."

He has made a career out of the unusual, and his persona is that of the wild eccentric, an "excitable boy" always perched on the edge of danger. Ignoring the usual subjects of pop music fare, Zevon has tended to focus on the obscure and the weird, populating his songs with headless mercenaries, outlaws, serial killers, boxers, unscrupulous pharmacists, sinister doctors, and "Liz and Liza," who keep him company on his blistering "Detox Mansion."

Because he has been anything but a mainstream taste, Zevon has walked a lonely road in the music business. He was without a recording contract for a time in the 1980s, and his albums are rarely consistent from start to finish. Rather, they are like conversations in a bar with a neighborhood character -- some extraneous, wandering observations surrounding a few tales you won't soon forget.

He may not have had many of the suits on his side, but Zevon has been fortunate to have at least one powerful backer: David Letterman. He has appeared on Letterman's program just about every time he has a new album, and it is clear that Letterman's affection is real. Perhaps the late night host, who started out as something of a rebel himself and has long been conflicted about his career choices, admires Zevon's resolute staying power, his refusal to go middle of the road.

And so there he was again on the Letterman set, walking out somewhat gingerly to generous applause. He would sit for a talk first, and one wondered how this would go. In the past, Zevon has indulged the very tired rock convention of obscurity in response to interview questions. But now, as would befit a man in his predicament, all pretensions were dropped. He did retain his crackling wit, as when he told Letterman that his "tactical error" in refusing to see a doctor for 20 years was "one of those phobias that really didn't pay off." At other points, the gallows humor was a bit too close to the bone, and even Letterman winced:

Unlike many celebrities who live recklessly and spend their waning days campaigning against their former behavior, Zevon accepted his illness as the likely result of choices he had made. "There are always consequences," he said, refreshingly. Letterman asked if his illness gave him any insights into life and death. Zevon shrugged and said he didn't think so, "Not unless I know how much you're supposed to enjoy every sandwich." There was a hush in the audience. And then Letterman did the most difficult thing, which was to conclude the interview. How to do that? Television is not designed for such situations. It is made to show images, not to comment on them. It turns most human sorrow to the mush of sentiment.

So Letterman simply said, "Thank you for being here, and thank you for everything." With that, the segment ended, and the show returned for the performances. Zevon sang two fairly recent songs, "Mutineer" and "Genius," before concluding with one of his classics, "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner." One of Zevon's well-kept secrets is tenderness and a gift for gorgeous melodies, and both were in evidence on "Mutineer." What was also in evidence was the slow decline of his voice. The song's lovely chorus requires the singer to go up high, and Zevon made a brave attempt at doing so. He didn't quite get there. Yet the performance was spellbinding -- a dying man performing at a kind of public farewell, singing a gentle song of companionship and trust: "You're my witness, I'm your mutineer." Midway through the song, Zevon turned from his piano and looked at his musicians. He would repeat this gesture in each song he played. In "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner," he looked over his shoulder at Paul Schaefer, who was leading the band with great gusto behind him. The men exchanged a glance of recognition, and joy. Musicians often exchange glances like this when they are playing and the playing is going well. But here those glances carried much more than pleasure -- it was difficult to shake the sense that Zevon, like Letterman earlier, was saying "Thank you for everything."

At the conclusion of the final song, Letterman had a second chance to say goodbye. Standing with Zevon at the piano, his arm around him, he said, "Warren, enjoy every sandwich." To some, this might sound flippant, cold. But it was true to both men's desire to avoid weepy spectacle, and it was true to Zevon's defiant attitude. It was so much more honest than some cheap line like, "Warren, I know you'll beat this thing," that one can readily imagine other hosts uttering.

Zevon will not beat this thing, and he knows it. The entirety of the Letterman program was played out against that realization, without the slightest attempt to paper over the grim reality of his imminent death. This, and Zevon's compelling musical performance, made for a truly moving hour. It is unlikely that television has ever handled something like this with such maturity. Terminal illness has long been a staple of made-for-television movies, which are almost without exception weep-fests, and add nothing in the way of understanding. Like most people do in cases like this, Zevon has responded by focusing on the essentials -- spending time with his children, and doing what he loves, in his case playing music. In one sense, there is nothing remarkable about such choices. What else would you do, after all? But in stepping out into public view and letting us see him, Zevon has been courageous. He has given people a look at what an encounter with death looks like, and an example of how to meet it -- with stoicism, with humor, above all with dignity.

Critics who have followed his music point to its fascination with death, and its many hints at impending demise. They will, naturally enough, search the songs for the lyric that is most fitting for his epitaph. But watching his performance on Letterman, a different epitaph comes to mind -- Yeats's "Under Ben Bulben." That poem famously concludes thus:

Over the years, many have puzzled over the meaning of that last line, but I would bet that Warren Zevon isn't one of them.

Some people are made of stone, it seems, able to watch the most emotional scene unfold without so much as a goosebump forming on their armour-skin. These are the people that look at the photograph of the Chinese student standing defiantly in front of the tank and manage nothing more than an accusatory "idiot." They're the ones that sit through the ending of Old Yeller and ask their friends "why's everybody sniffling?" I wonder if these people were able to make it through Warren Zevon's performance of "Mutineer" on the October 30th David Letterman show without feeling something. I can't imagine such a person.

Zevon was the only guest on that particular evening. Letterman, a longtime fan, friend and supporter of Zevon's music, cleared the schedule to make room for an interview and three songs. The interview was as humorous as one can be when the interviewee is discussing his imminent doom. Warren Zevon has lung cancer and very little time left to live. He explained it in his typical offhand style, saying this is what comes from not going to the doctor for twenty years, adding "that little phobia didn't pay off."

Hipper people than me were onto Zevon from the git-go, but I have to confess I heard one of his songs before I heard him perform. Linda Ronstadt's version of Zevon's "Poor Poor Pitiful Me" was one of the only songs I really loved by her in the 70s. It wasn't until I made one of my regular pilgrimages to a used record store in the University District (University of Washington), a great little shop called Cellophane Square, that I found Excitable Boy in the 25-cent bin. It had one bad scratch over "Midnight In The Switching Yard," so it couldn't be sold at regular price. My habit was to raid the quarter bins. Five for a dollar. I'd barely make it back to my car, struggling under the weight of huge stacks of records, then spend the next few weeks listening to every one of them, separating out the crap (90 percent) from the cream (10 percent). I'll never forget the first time I put the tone arm down on that Zevon record and became an instant devotee. That night I drove to a record store and purchased his debut album and a brand new, clean copy of Excitable Boy. I played them endlessly, played them for friends, learned every guitar chop, and waited anxiously for the next album.

Two years went by. As it turns out, Zevon spent them drunk. In 1980, a new album did come out, one that disappointed me on first listen but grew better each time I played it. Bad Luck Streak In Dancing School, in hindsight, is a solid album filled with the kinds of characters and imagery that make Zevon unique. Nobody else, perhaps with the exception of Harry Nilsson, could have made a song about a Zoo Gorilla, snatching away his glasses and trading lives, work. The brilliance of Zevon is right there in "Gorilla, You're A Desperado." Such a simple song. Cute and silly on the surface, but underneath it all is regret for screwing up a relationship and an observation that a gorilla dressed like him couldn't do much worse (or better, for that matter). The acidic side of Warren Zevon was displayed clearly on "Play It All Night Long," a pounding tune that was anything but a love letter to the south. Never one to avoid controversy, Zevon said what was on his mind, painting a dark picture of country life.

"Daddy's doin' sister Sally
Grandma's dyin' of cancer now
The cattle all have burcelosis
We'll get through somehow
Sweet home Alabama
Play that dead band's song
Turn those speakers up full blast
Play it all night long"

Zevon waited until AFTER the plane crash to comment on Skynyrd, while Neil Young suffered the slings and arrows and, as we all know, those southern men don't need him around anyhow.

In the years that followed, Zevon put out consistently entertaining and honest material. He could be startlingly honest even when he was being a clown. In "It Ain't That Pretty At All," he told us he was going to get a good running start and hurl himself against the wall. Why? "Because I'd rather feel bad than not feel anything at all."

Damn straight.

Sometimes he took on very specific subject matter. "Boom Boom Mancini" is about the former lightweight boxing champion of the same name. This was a fighter who captured the hearts and imaginations of many by winning the title his father had come oh so close to winning before being drafted and pulled into World War II. Injuries sustained during the infamous Battle Of The Bulge ended pop's career, and here was Boom Boom doin' it for dad. After he won the title and had a few defenses, a tragedy occurred when a Korean fighter died from injuries suffered in a bout with Mancini (after first nearly beating him). The fighter's name was supposed to be Duk Koo Kim, but a mystery erupted days later involving the identity of the man in the casket. Mancini was briefly vilified for doing nothing more than fighting valiantly back from the brink of defeat, and fight fan Warren Zevon was there with "Boom Boom Mancini," and this segment:

"When they asked him who was responsible
For the death of Duk Koo Kim
He said, "Someone should have stopped the fight
And told me it was him."
They made hypocrite judgments after the fact
But the name of the game is be hit and hit back"

Zevon comments on politics of the shadiest nature, the dangers of drug addiction, mercenaries, and love, not so much unrequited as damaged beyond repair. With 1989's Transverse City he even came up with a science fiction concept album. In recent years, Zevon's work has changed only in that it is about the aging process, still viewed and described as only he can. On the ironically titled 2000 album, Life'll Kill Ya, he sang of a trip to the doctor to find out why everything seemed wrong, only to receive a simple, off-the-cuff diagnosis in "My Shit's Fucked Up." More ironic still is the haunting ballad that closes the album. "Don't Let Us Get Sick" is an actual prayer to God for a dignified, easy end. Did he know something was up that far back? He still looked healthy in publicity shots for his latest album, which came out early in the year and was also ironically titled. My Ride's Here features a cover shot of Zevon looking back at the camera from inside a car, clearly going away. So strange now.

The man who brought us the headless Thompson gunner bent on revenge, the werewolf partying in London, the exhausted man nearly screwed to death by a girl with moves "sort of like a Waring Blender," and the luckless loser, handcuffed and dragged behind a clownmobile in a circus tent, is not quite done. There are likely to be a few more colorful characters for our amusement and wonder. As Warren Zevon is not the type to lay down and wait to die, he's heeding the prognosis, which says he may only have weeks to live, and working as fast as he can on one final album. He doesn't intend to be morbid. In fact, he recently stated that he had "some mischief in mind." What that means is anybody's guess, but I'll lay odds it'll involve irony. Zevon can't resist irony, and let's face it, few artists have used irony as brilliantly.

Watching him struggle for enough lung power to hit the high notes of "Mutineer" on the Letterman show is what got me. I lost it right there. My wife lost it, as well. We're both long-time fans, but I can't help believing that even the many people who only know Warren Zevon as "that guy who did 'Werewolves Of London'" shed tears that night. There was something very poignant about this great artist, performing in what seemed like obvious discomfort, and knowing it may be the last time, putting his heart and soul into every note. He finished the evening with "Roland, The Headless Thompson Gunner," a masterpiece of twisted humor with no high notes to fight for, and he seemed at ease. For the length of that song, it was easy to forget the situation and just enjoy Warren Zevon. How did he do that? When the inevitable happens, I'll remember a lot of good times associated with his music, with concerts I attended, interviews and articles I read, but I think the thing I may remember most is "Roland" from October 30th, 2002. That was a class act. Then again, I don't know what that mysterious "mischief" is that he has planned, so it may be too early to say what will be most remembered. With Warren Zevon, it could be anything.

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