I’m not really “into” music these days. There was a time, though. There was a time.
I wonder if the death of Glenn Frey tore others of my age the same way it cut into me. Losing Glenn Frey is like having a piece of me gone.
My generation will always say that the Beatles were—and still are—the greatest. We all say that. But the truth is that when I want to sit down and hear a genuine classic, it’s almost always the Eagles. They were playing in the year I was married, blasting out of the scratchy vinyl LPs that young people think are so cool today. I took my daughter to see them back when “hell froze over” in 1994. And I just watched them on YouTube in Australia in 2015. They don’t look the same. They’ve gotten older and the band has gone through several iterations. Sometimes they wear suits and they have that wonderful thing called gravitas now. They’ve created wonderful new music through the years, yet they play their old music with no apologies, almost asking “Do you hear how much BETTER this is than when we did it the first time?”
And it strikes me how integral Glenn Frey was to all of that, and to me. How many of his melodies I hum to myself in the car or the shower or the garage. I will still sing them to myself, and Glenn Frey will be immortal in that small way.
Life goes on, without Glenn Frey. But it stumbles, sadly and it will walk differently without him.