BILLY BOB THORNTON: One night my mom was visiting when Warren was here. Warren had had a few that night, and with all the various medications…My mom was talking to Warren in the kitchen. She’s very soft spoken, and she was fascinated by Warren. She knew we’d been friends and she’d never met him. She says, “When’s your birthday, Warren?” He turns and stares at her, and he goes, “Warren.” She goes, “Yeah, yeah, I know. I was wondering when your birthday is.” And, he does the lean and he says, “You have a great son.” He never told her when his birthday is. I don’t think he ever heard her, he was just so dumbfounded.
JULIA MUELLER: The last time I saw Warren was in January of 2003…I heard about his illness from a friend. I was in shock. Also, hurt that he hadn’t told me himself. I called numbers that were no longer working. I didn’t actually know if he was still alive but a friend gave me money to fly out to L.A. because I had to at least try to see him. When I walked in, the first thing he said was, “This is where you lived.”…While we were going out he got this real crush on Dean Martin, and I really liked Dean Martin. So we would joke about Dean. I had one of those celebrity bottles of wine with a picture of Dean Martin on it. I thought, well, this is great, but Warren doesn’t drink. But I thought, there’s only one thing this wine would be good for and that would be to open it with Warren and have a drink to our love, to Dean Martin, whatever.
I fly to L.A. with that bottle of wine. Finally, I get him on the phone and I’m so elated that he’s still alive and he’s happy to hear my voice.
Sitting on the couch with him, I felt more comfortable than many times when I was living with him. I said, “I have not been this comfortable with a man in many years.” He said, “Life’s hard.” I said, “Yeah, it is hard, but it’s not bad.” Then, he did seriously kiss me and it felt very, very good. Some part of me was saying he had a girlfriend. Another part of me didn’t know what he wanted. Then, he sat up and said, “There could be more.”
CARL HIAASEN: I got very angry with him during that period, and I never told him. I didn’t have the heart to because of what he was going through. I could understand the depression, but this was extraordinarily selfish behavior for someone when you have your kids, and their hearts are already breaking, and then to have to see their father like this. I said the one thing this guy should not do is die a cliché. You don’t want your kids picking up the L.A. Times and reading their dad died of a drug overdose. If there’s anything about Warren, it’s that he was not a cliché…I almost got on an airplane out there because I thought, you cannot lacerate the people who love you, especially your own children. He knew that. He knew it very well. He wasn’t proud of what he was doing.
Critics and fans debated Warren’s obsession with death. Once, responding to a question about the line “Play that dead band’s song” that is a reference to Lynyrd Skynyrd in “Play It All Night Long,” Warren said:
“All I can tell you after all these years is if people think it’s funny, I tell ’em they’re wrong. On one level, for me, it’s supposed to be ennobling, about dealing with keeping your chin up through the human condition. If I have a philosophy, it’s that life is a very rough deal, a very unforgiving game, but people kind of do the best they can. That seems to be the pattern. That song was supposed to be about people making the most of it…but on another level, I think it’s sorta gotta be funny.”
CARL HIAASEN: When people reach out at times like that, when there’s something unresolved, I don’t think it’s so much that they want a blessing as much as it would have been nice to have a final word. Toward the end, he was caught up in the album coming out and the VH1 thing…He was still very career-oriented. I think he had a sense that this was his last gig, and he wanted everything to be right. And, I’m not sure he had the time or inclination at that time to start dialing people. Honestly, with the clock ticking, you make these decisions. And, you never know. There are two sides to everything.
DANNY GOLDBERG: The album had come on the charts at fourteen with a bullet and it was clear that it was going to be a gold record. The last thing he said to me was, “I’m so happy that the belief you had in me is paying off for you.” That was typical. He was very conscious of everybody’s role in his life. Few artists have that kind of sensibility. It was extraordinarily generous of him, especially during that last year.
In his final months, Warren’s album was finished and it was selling. He had lived to see it through and that was the task he had set for himself. His health was declining quickly, and because he had no real reason to get out of bed, he gave himself over to watching television and drinking scotch. There was, however, one last thing to stay alive for: he wanted to meet his grandsons.
ARIEL ZEVON: I was pregnant with twins and I got put on bed rest, so neither Dad nor I could get out of bed. We would call each other from bed and compare daytime television tips and just ask, “How was your day?” “Terrible. How are you doing?”
CARL HIAASEN: Warren had his mind set about the day Ariel was going to deliver those kids; he was trying to get better to go to the hospital. He said to me, “It’s only a month away. I’m nervous about seeing my in-laws. I’m nervous.” I said, “Warren, these are your grandkids. You’ve got to go see your grandkids.” He wanted to be his best possible when the boys were born. He kept saying it was only a month away and I’d say, “Warren, it’s two months away.” He’d say, “What day is it?” I told him. “God, I lost track of the whole month.”
I thought it was a healthy fixation. It was part of his mission. It wasn’t just the album. I said, “You’re going to get to hold those babies, and there’s not going to be any feeling like it in the world. None.” After he did see them, he called me. I said, “Well?” He said, “Carl, they’re perfect. They’re just perfect.” But, you know, he was inventing conflict and stress and anxiety. I told him, get a room next to the hospital, get a car, have them carry you into the hospital. Whatever it takes. That’s the sort of thing you can’t trade for anything. It was so wonderful that he was around for that, and so important.
On the night of June 10, Ariel checked in to St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica for a June 11 delivery.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: Warren found a motel across the street from the hospital, and made arrangements for a driver. It was difficult because Ariel went into false labor several times, and no one wanted to put Warren through having to relocate if it wasn’t the real deal. Finally, Ariel had passed the safety mark and the doctor told her to pick a date and she would induce labor. She picked my birthday.
Warren and I were on the phone all night as he checked in to monitor Ariel’s progress. Finally, I made the last call, then went to meet him outside the hospital. I held Warren’s arm to steady him as he brazenly walked down the long hospital corridor to the recovery room where our daughter had just given birth to our grandsons, Maximus Patrick and Augustus Warren Zevon-Powell.
Just before we entered the room, Warren whispered to me, “Did you notice the shirt? Prada. I’ll only wear it once, you know. For our grandsons.” I had to laugh through the tears. Warren was Warren, to the day, to the minute, to the last breath he took before he died.
Warren by Ariel’s hospital bed for the birth of his grandsons Augustus Warren and Maximus Patrick, June 11, 2003.
After the hugs and kisses and tears and photographs, Warren tugged at my arm. “Come on. I know where the chapel is in this joint. Let’s go thank the Big Guy in the Sky.” Warren was very unstable now, but he insisted we go upstairs. When we got there the chapel was closed, so we sat on a bench outside the closed door.
“This is where we’re supposed to be,” Warren said, taking hold of my hands. “Don’t you see it, old girl? We made it. We made it to the front porch.”
Sure enough, I thought, we did.
ARIEL ZEVON: After Max and Gus were born, I had health problems and was in the hospital for three weeks. After that, because the babies were so little and needed so much, it was hard to see Dad as much. He came to our hou
se once, just after they were born, with Faith, his nurse. We made it up to his apartment when we could.
The last time we went to see him was a really, really nice visit. Dad was in a good mood and very happy to see us. The babies were great. The other times we had gone, it would get difficult because the babies would start crying, or he would try to hold them and he would worry that he was too weak to hold them. But the last time, he was calm and the babies were totally mellow. We didn’t talk about anything really deep or anything like that. Just regular stuff like what he was watching on TV, because that’s about all he was doing at that point. He held Gus in the crook of his arm and Gus was really quiet—peaceful. He held him for a long, long time.
I can’t describe it exactly, but it was very special. Very unusual for Dad. I’d never seen him like that before. Gus just stayed with him. They watched each other. He was very happy because he’d gotten to hold the babies. Then, he sang a Scottish lullaby that he told me he’d sung to me when I was a baby.
I called him a bunch of times after that visit and he never wanted us to come up. He was doing the same thing with Jordan. Then, one day, I was changing a baby and the phone rang. It was Ryan, and she said, “Ariel, your dad’s not breathing.”
FIVE
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
Shadows are falling and I’m running out of breath
Keep me in your heart for a while
If I leave you it doesn’t mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for a while
BILLY BOB THORNTON: I had gone to this record store where they sell old magazines like Rolling Stone and Circus. You know, they keep them in those wrappers…they had this one Rolling Stone that had the Beatles on the cover and it had a review in there of Warren’s record. I think this was around 1976. So, I knew that I was going to see Warren. He was going to come by the house…So, I thought, oh great. Warren is going to love this. I had it for a surprise when he came over. So, he comes over and we’re standing in the studio and I say, “Hey, Warren, listen, I’ve got something for you that’s really cool. Wait ’til you see this.” I opened the magazine up and he was doing the Warren lean, you know, right next to me. Leaning so far over you don’t know how he can keep standing without falling over.
He’s kind of staring at me like, “What the hell is this?” I turn it to the page and there’s a picture of him, younger, of course, looking really good. And it had this really glowing review. I say, “Look, I found this in this record store today. It’s really cool. I got it for you.” He just did that stare, you know. He’s looking at me, and he says, “I don’t want that.” I said, “What do you mean? It’s a really great review of your record. What’s wrong with you?” He said, “If you like it, you keep it.” Then, he said, “You know what I really want?” I said, “What?” He says, “I want that little beanie hat you wear.” Which is just very Warren.
Now I’m just staring at him and I’m thinking, you know, all this OCD stuff, and I can’t give him the beanie. I would never give it to him, but he’d always hit me up for it. Anyway, when I went to his memorial service, it was in this church and all, and I was wearing the beanie hat, for Warren. But, I didn’t want to be disrespectful in the church, so I went into the preacher’s office and I told him the story and I said, “Listen, man, if you don’t want me to wear it inside the church, I’m okay with it.” But, the preacher listened to the story and loved it and he let me wear the hat. I just wore my beanie to the memorial service because Warren always loved it, and I wouldn’t give it to him. But, then, maybe that’s rubbing it in a bit.
Ariel and Ben were married with Ariel’s godfather, Jackson Browne, officiating in Coimbra, Portugal, August 25, 2005.
ARIEL ZEVON: For me, losing my father was put into some kind of perspective because all the while I was losing him, I was gaining something through the birth of my babies. While he was sick, I was pregnant; he died shortly after they were born. With the babies coming it made the cycle of life complete. It made it impossible to dwell on death because the babies needed to be taken care of, so I had to keep going. It was kind of perfect to have them born when they were—and we were all happy that Dad made it to see the babies. For me, it was important to see how happy he was, how proud of them he was…it was important to him to live to see them and that helped me.
RYAN RAYSTON: The thing that remained about Warren was his heart, and how his kids changed his life in his last year. How his daughter had become his hero. How he was glad in the end that he had the chance to really see who his children were. And, he was astonished. He couldn’t believe Ariel was coming and sitting by his bedside, bringing him casseroles and little gifts. Warren called me one night, crying, and he said, “Why is she here? Why is she sitting here? I don’t deserve this.”
DANNY GOLDBERG: I saw Warren a couple days after Dylan had started singing a few of his songs in concert, and he looked at me and said, “You know, it’s almost worth it.”
MITCH ALBOM: Warren was like the salty-sweet things in life—when you put those two flavors together and they’re better than either one of them is separately. He was like that because, after these little sardonic asides, or cryptic references to rock and roll or Dostoyevsky, which would come in the same sentence, he would hug you. He wasn’t afraid to say, “You’re a real pal.” He told me that numerous times. A lot of guys won’t use those kinds of words.
DAVID CROSBY: I would rank Warren Zevon with people like Randy Newman and James Taylor and my favorite writers. He was and remains one of my favorite songwriters. Very few people have an ability to write songs that are mocking, wry, and loving all at the same time. He saw things with a jaundiced eye that still got at the humanity of things.
DAVE BARRY: Warren lived his whole life expecting death, so he was ready for it. Maybe more than most of us who are trying to live clean and decent lives. I’d say he kicked death right in the balls.
JACKSON BROWNE: Once at a show that Warren opened for me in Atlanta, I introduced him to the audience as “the Ernest Hemingway of the twelve-string guitar.” Later, he corrected me: “It’s the Charles Bronson of the twelve-string guitar.” Warren didn’t have literary pretensions. He had literary muscle.
DAVID LANDAU: Once I was messing around with a bizarre lick I’d been playing for a while. Warren came running up and says, “Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School.” His thing was not to come up with musical, hooky catch-phrases that everybody relates to—phrases that are lying around in the language. Warren’s thing was to make up phrases and make them mean something. To really imbue them with meaning that other people could then relate to. It is a much more ambitious thing to do. He didn’t always succeed and I think it’s one of the reasons that he wasn’t more successful than he might have been on a mass scale. He really couldn’t write in that more traditional way. He was always looking to do something more original and ultimately more meaningful. Many of Warren’s songs gave language new meaning.
STEPHEN KING: When I listen to some of the stuff Warren wrote, like, “Don’t let us get stupid / Don’t let us get old,” I think, if I could write something like that I’d be a happy guy.
MICHAEL IRONSIDE: Warren was very proud, proud of his life. I like that. There’s that Nelson Mandela thing where he says, “We’re not afraid of our darkness. What we’re afraid of is our lightness.” Our job isn’t to turn our bulb down to make the person next to us more comfortable. Our job is to turn our bulb up and give the next person permission to do the same. Warren did that.
BONNIE RAITT: There’s no way the mainstream could be hip enough to appreciate Warren Zevon. He was our everything, from Lord Buckley to Charles Bukowski to Henry Miller. Warren made someone like Randy Newman even seem normal.
BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN: For somebody who had the amount of instability and difficulty that he had through a large period of his life, he finished in a blaze of glory…He was writing as well, or better, than he ever did when he died. That’s hard to do, and that takes a real dedica
tion to your craft—a seriousness of purpose.
GORE VIDAL: There was simply nobody else writing like Warren Zevon at that time. He was one of the most interesting writers of the era, and certainly ahead of his time.
THOMAS MCGUANE: Warren touched me as a kind of lost child. But, because he’s such a prickly, complicated person, he’s not the kind of lost child you give a hug to. He liked to shock people. He had a kind of mad scientist interest in watching how people reacted to outrageous statements and things. I think he rather preferred watching the reactions to actually doing the shocking.
CRYSTAL ZEVON: When Warren finished recording The Wind, he called me and said, “I better die quick so they’ll give me a Grammy nomination. It’s a damned hard way to make a living, having to die to get ’em to know you’re alive.”
Ariel, Jordan, and Jorge accepting Warren’s Grammys for Best Contemporary Folk Album and Best Rock Performance with Bruce Springsteen.
Warren and Jorge recording The Wind.
About a week before he died, he called to talk about our grandsons and Ariel. Then, he wanted to talk about the book. He said, “You are my witness. The story is yours. But you gotta promise you’ll tell ’em the whole truth, even the awful, ugly parts. Cuz that is the guy who wrote them excitable songs.”
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