Of the 321 well known musicians how died prematurely in the glory days of rock’n’roll, 40 were taken by drugs, 36 by suicide and a whopping 22 by plane or helicopter crashes. 35 died in cars, 18 were murdered, 9 drowned in their own vomit and five in their own swimming pools. Pick up a guitar in London in 1972 were more lethal than picking up a rifle in Stalingrad in 1942.
Coming home from school back then and saying you were going to be a formula one racing driver would have prompt a sigh of relief from your mum: ‘well, thank god you’re not going to be in a band.’
Now, thought, things are different. With the notable and noble exception of Kurt Cobain who blew whatever it was he had inside his head all over the wall with a shotgun. So far as I am aware, nobody in Duran Duran is dead and, the last time I looked Pink is in it and even Oasis have manage to steer clear of their swimming pools.
Perhaps this is the problem with music today. Perhaps the declining for radio and dwindling album sales have something to do with a lack of danger. Back in 1990s I would have to rush to see a band, partly because I liked the energy of a live concert and partly, subliminally perhaps, because there was a sense that they would all be dead by the following week. Usually they were.
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