Like probably many others my age, I learnt about AIDS when Freddie Mercury died.
I also learnt about homosexuality more or less around that time, and I remember that my first reaction was wondering why it was such a big deal to some people.
There is something about the death of musicians that goes right to my gut. I was 10 when Freddie Mercury died, but I remember the heart-wrenching feeling I got when Darrel from Pantera was shot by a random madman, and I was 23 at the time. There is something about the death of people that spent their lives creating music, channeling raw energy and emotions through voice and fingers - something that just screams “wrong” to me.
Both were far from being perfect people: I mean, Freddie, I get that you like to sleep around, but how about using condoms? Hmm? Ring a bell? And Darrel, your liver wants to have a word with you. But they were amazing, inspiring musicians all the same.
And I miss that voice that could summon anything from crazy playfulness, to sexual teasing, to the deepest suffering of the rejected lover and the creepy majesty of an ambiguous fairy tale queen. And I miss that wild, screaming guitar that sent shivers under my skin and won’t let me stay still.
The show must go on.
