November 6, 2002

litterbox

Last exit

By John O'Neill

NOT THAT IT was a complete and utter freak-out moment, but there's something disconcerting about watching a dead man talking on your TV set. Well, not "dead" dead, but certainly someone close enough to cashing out that I could conjure up that medicinal "this is the end smell" that comes with being terminally ill. You'd think it would have been a heartrending, dramatic moment. But there sat Warren Zevon, chatting amiably with David Letterman about his (inoperable) lung cancer and it's impending ramifications, as if he were talking about a recent boneheaded skiing accident. Then again, what can you expect from a guy whose only quote in the press release announcing his diagnosis quipped, "I'm OK with it, but it will be a drag if I don't make it to the next James Bond Movie comes out"?

Then there's the newly released greatest-hits package, Genius: The Best of Warren Zevon (Elektra/Rhino), the cover of which features a skull sporting a pipe and monocle, with Zevon's face reflected in the eyepiece, as if he's already in our rearview mirror forever. It's a defiant stance to adopt especially because the time he has left can be measured in weeks; but they're the type of gestures that serve as irrefutable proof that Warren Zevon is not some bullshit artist. He came in with guns blazing, a wild and restless son of a bitch with a sharp tongue and a morbid wit. He's going out more tempered but still caustic, and the morbid wit found throughout his body of work (including the titles of his last two albums, Life Will Kill Ya and the accidentally appropriate My Ride Is Here) has been turned on himself. Which is why he's on Late Night joking about looking for deals on dry cleaning, getting extra satisfaction out of sandwiches, and claiming to have led Jim Morrison's lifestyle, but being lucky enough to juice an extra 30 years out of the deal.

And then comes the moment that nobody wants to come right out and talk about. Zevon is going to play three songs, and everyone knows that this is going to be the final guest appearance and most likely the last public performance for the once-excitable boy. Worn and frail and a little too small for his suit, he sits relatively motionless behind the piano and, as he sings, the finality of the moment slowly begins to seep in.

"Mutineer" is soft, warm, and lush, and phrases like "I was born to rock the boat" transcend lyric to become a final testament as he leads the band through his own funeral dirge. It's a truly heartbreaking moment – so naturally Zevon segues into "Genius," another one of his many songs in which fabricated imposters tell crazy, bitter tales and imagine vengeful schemes. Then, just to make sure any sentimentality left in the room evaporates, he closes the show with the tall tale of "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner." It's only fitting that he would choose to mark his exit, on a night fraught with genuine emotion, with something this purposefully silly. I'd hazard a guess he may have even considered doing "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead" until the network politely talked him out of it.

Warren Zevon will die soon, and lots of people will write wonderful epitaphs. But tonight was special because, for 30 minutes, one doomed man showed a generally graceless world what true grace is.

Enjoy the sandwich, Warren.