A man who wrote countless numbers of songs that mean so much to me died of a heart attack yesterday at 59. His name is Alex Chilton and he led a band called Big Star that has given me more joy than you can know. On my way down to the bar last night to play, I saw all these drunken revelers cheering each other, dressed in green, whooping it up, and wanted to say, “Fuck you, do you know what happened today?”
Then I realized they don’t know who Alex is and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He had even said before that his Big Star songs meant little to him. Well, he’s always been a difficult bastard and a famous contrarian, and I love that about him. So take care, Alex, please take care. You will be missed.