After having my son almost 19 years ago, I pretty much checked out of pop culture in favor of being a full-time mother. So when I heard of drummer Taylor Hawkins’ death, I wasn’t hit hard the way so many of my friends and fellow musicians had been. What did bother me were the headlines that told us “10 different substances” had been found in his body. The implication was tawdry and disrespectful; it was sensationalistic language that didn’t demand a back story. It basically left readers with the takeaway that this was just another sad and perhaps unremarkable casualty of rock ’n’ roll. Who needed to read further? Not having any previous sentiment for the man, I was surprised at how offended I was by these cheap headlines. There had to be more to the story.
Indeed, there was.
I read the Rolling Stone interview with Hawkins from last June. Despite his expletive-rich responses, he revealed himself to be soft and vulnerable on the inside. I recognized in Hawkins an aspect of myself. I saw this tender fallibility in many of my friends, too. This man was simply trying to do his job, just trying to get through. Imagine a musician playing huge arenas who must fight his fear to even be on that stage! There’s no place to hide. All he can do is power through it. Or medicate through it. A human does what he or she must, simply in order to get through.
