R.I.P. Jay Reatard

Today we mourn the passing of Jimmy Lee Lindsey, 29, who died where he was born, in Memphis, Tennessee. He was probably a GG Allin fan, and he was built in that same image, one that serves as particular inspiration to me and many of the people I admire: kicking, screaming, and (in this case) figuratively shitting all over everything he came into contact with. Maybe because he was angry, maybe because he sad, or scared, or maybe just to experience the rapture of coming into contact with life in a way few of us can or ever do: full. But mostly, likely, because this is just how he was built. And while - even if we don't - none of us are ever really all that far from feeling the way Jay Reatard felt, he was something I'll never be, and nobody I'll ever really know or be friends with will be, either: The Real McCoy, with a heart that pumped piss, vinegar and red hot blood, unstoppable by only a few things, this being one of them. Unfortunately, when guys like him die, it reminds us of the only thing on the horizon when living a life so feeling, the endgame of quagmire too many inspirations have been caught in the crossfire to prove, no mater how useless this life may or may not be:

There's nothing punk about being dead.


Jay Reatard - Fading All Away