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:
Letterman: What was the diagnosis?
Zevon: It’s lung cancer that’s spread.
Letterman (pause): That’s tough…that’s tough…
Zevon: Well, it means you better get your dry cleaning done on
special!
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:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death
Horseman, pass by!
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.
