RIP Johnny Winter

Around this time yesterday, I came across the cover of Johnny Winter's 1973 Still Alive And Well album while browsing through some of my drafts for this blog, and I smiled thinking about good old Johnny and the fact that he had decided to call his album that way. Apparently, God was willing to prove once again that he does indeed have a really sick sense of humour, because, at the time I was reflecting on the album's title, that affirmation was no longer true.

Johnny Winter had died just a few hours earlier in his Swiss hotel room, only two days after playing his last show. At 70, he was still touring, and he went doing just that, like every musician should.

The cause of his death has not yet been revealed, so right now it's impossible to tell if it was just old age or if there were some other factors involved. He had struggled with substance abuse (like pretty much everyone) in the past, in the form of alcohol and prescription drugs - the Bluesman's Cocktail. Even that he had in common with Jerry Cantrell, and knowing it fascinates me and terrifies me at the same time.

It's hard to find the right words to say when somebody dies, expecially when you have known them for so little time. You have just discovered their existence and, all of a sudden, you have to get used to them not being around anymore. It makes everything seem a twisted, calculated joke of fortune; it leaves you feeling a hollow sadness you don't quite know what to do with.

So you just keep going, trying to honor their existence by making the best of your own.

And, at least, you can find some comfort in the idea that they did that too.

70 years might not be the longest life, but it's quite a lot if you see it from the perspective of Johnny's blues buddy Jimi Hendrix... and he dedicated all of it to the thing he loved most. He started playing in a band with his brother when he was just 10 years old; he made his first record at 15, in a time when 15-year-old musicians didn't necessarily get raped and murdered by the music industry, and went on to release about 20 studio albums... which is not too bad.

Johnny Winter was a legend; a living relic from the golden age of rock music, and, every time a musician of his size dies, a piece of that era is gone forever. He left a hole nobody else can fill, and, as hard as you try to prevent the depressing thoughts from taking over, you can't stop yourself from feeling like real musicians are an endangered species, bound to disappear after the last exemplars are gone.

And then is when you start feeling depressed as fuck... again.

 I feel so alone

Gonna end up a big old pile of them bones

Jerry Cantrell said it all.

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Rest in peace, Johnny Winter. You've earned it.

Now it's time for us to try to keep your spirit alive.