Linda, the very epitome of an eternally smoldering babe, proof positive that it’s not all about blondes for American males, is it?
Can’t even sing anymore, other than in a straightforward though plaintive speaking voice as she tells her tale to Terry Gross. So Linda Ronstadt has Parkinson’s disease, oh please.
This sadness is heightened in fall, when death and the loss of light all through nature rather massively reinforces the darkenings we experience any day and season of the year as friends and loved ones fall to a sudden hemorrhage or protracted cancer, a whiplashing rear-ender, the infirmities of age, the indignity and potential desperation of job loss, the severing of a cherished relationship, ad-and-ever-so-sad infinitum… This surprised me a bit, inasmuch as my friend, whom I’ve known pretty well for most of my adult life, presents a rather relentlessly cheerful public persona, far removed from the dark brooding pathos of “Melancholia.” Yet it also put me on notice, again, of the deep sadness that underlies so much of life and so many people, a sadness virtually everyone meets on various and shifting terms throughout the peaks and vales of our brief tenures here.
I was talking with a friend recently about my previous post on Van Morrison and his mood-laden song, “When the Leaves Come Falling Down.” He was telling me how another Morrison mooder, “Melancholia,” is reportedly Morrison’s only truly autobiographical song and, indeed, also represents my friend’s truest and deepest stance toward life.
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