An Aside of Flying Burritos and SoCal

I must admit I have a small interest-bordering-fixation concerning the  life (and the death, mostly the death) of Gram Parsons. The music aside, which is astoundingly substantial, in a Father Of . . . sort of way–in fact Parsons reminds me of Big Star in that they both made wonderful music that went underappreciated until a younger gen. latched on–I shouldn’t be that interested. I mean, much of the story is very “been there, seen that from our rock stars”–kid comes with a trustfund, becomes an artist, a great artist at a young age, discovers a trustfund-sized drug & alcohol habit, bounces from band to band never with one for long, critically acclaimed, poor selling records, downward spiral . . . yadda yadda . . . dies as part of the almost 27-Dead Club (26 and 10 months or something) . . . not that interesting.

But, it’s the part near and about his death that is totally bizarre–the going to Joshua Tree Natl Monument on Acid looking for UFOs then overdosing on Morphine and dying then having his corpse almost shipped to New Orleans so that his stepdad allegedly can horn in on his granddad’s inheritance except his friends steal the coffin from LAX, drive it back to Joshua Tree, douse it in gasoline and light a match. They escape the cops but are arrested a short time later, charged and fined $750 for the coffin but not for the body. I don’t know what to say beyond “Holy Shit” and “I’m tired just recounting that”


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