Musicians Never Die

graphic by HSR

On July 28th, I lost a dear friend--the fourth loved one I’ve lost this year.  His name was Eric and he was one of the most talented musicians I have ever encountered in my life. We met when I was seventeen through my boyfriend at the time. As a guitarist myself, I was instantly mesmerized by both his technical ability and the emotionality behind his playing. It seemed that everything Eric played came from his soul more than his hands. At the age of eighteen, he played with the heart of someone twice his age. At the age of twenty-one, his music stopped.  

In the days after Eric’s passing, I found myself stalking my way through his social media not for photos of him, but for any videos or recordings of him playing, any surviving remnant of the music he brought into the world during his short stay here. I saved them, listened to them on repeat, engrained them into my ears and into my memory. The more I visited Eric’s sounds, the more I came to understand something central to the relationship between art and artist: even when an artist passes, their work carries their spirit onwards.

As artists, our work is an extension of our memories, experiences, and identities. It is a part of us that materialize into sound so that others may feel what we have felt and connect to it in a union of catharsis. From Kurt Cobain to Tupac to Amy Winehouse to Prince, artists taken from the world too soon have left behind their music as a never ending legacy of challenges overcome and beauty found in the darkest corners of the mind and of the world.  

Yet, for as many late artists as there are, the question arises of what makes some artists last in our memories while others fade. When it comes to popular remembrance, I admit that the vast majority has to do with marketing more than emotional connection. Hundreds of thousands of people know the names and faces of Jimi Hendrix, Whitney Houston, and Freddie Mercury while they might be hard pressed to identify a favorite song or anything signifying a deep connection to the surviving music of such artists. However, when it comes to personal remembrance, the connection runs deeper. During the songwriting process, it is as if through invisible alchemy, artists put themselves into their sound such that they live through that sound forever.  I have spent countless nights crying to “Me and My Bobby McGee” by Janis Joplin, screaming into pillows to “In Bloom” by Nirvana, and dreaming of the type of musician I want to become to “Eruption” by Van Halen. Though the creators of such songs are no longer alive, when I listen to these songs, it is as if we are having a conversation, as if I am being guided through my challenges by the maps left from those before me.

I think this is also perhaps why artists’ posthumous releases have never sat right with me. From Lil Peep to Juice WRLD to Pop Smoke, posthumous releases beg the question of who is to benefit. Is an emotional connection really driving the release, or is the incentive simply rooted in a desire to financially profit off of a notable name and fans in search of familiarity and comfort?  Did these artists even want these songs released or did they feel they were not their best work and wanted them to remain private? B-sides of records exist for a reason: sometimes artists are not wholly proud of their creations; it’s human. Anderson Paak has even gone so far as to get the words, “When I’m gone please don’t release any posthumous albums or songs with my name attached. Those were just demos and never intended to be heard by the public” tattooed on his arm. Perhaps artists should not have to get their wills tattooed on their bodies for their labels and estates to not seek a monetary profit off of their deaths.  

The last time I saw Eric in person, I asked him how his music was going and if he had plans to record and release any of his music. He said he did not, simply because he wanted to focus on other things. He had a well-paying job at a thrift store that he enjoyed. He had acquired quite a few pets he was busy taking care of. For him, music was simply a release and a means of finding joy in creativity. I wonder if this is precisely why finding clips of Eric playing aided my grieving process so deeply; those songs were created by and for him and no one else. In those moments, he was simply expressing himself through his guitar, allowing himself to live on through his music.