Enjoy Every Sandwich: Life Lessons from the Inimitable Warren Zevon
No Music, No Life; Know Music, Know Life
In the fall of 2023, I wrote a tribute to Jimmy Buffett in the wake of his passing. In doing so, I hoped to lift up his unique perspective as a songwriter and his triumph in becoming the living embodiment of his manufactured worldview. To be clear- that is the ultimate compliment; he created a dream world of tropical paradise for hardworking people and made it real for them until the very end; holding close to his chest the secret of his waning health.
On his internet radio show Time Crisis, another one of my favorite songwriters, Ezra Koenig, once spoke about how “living artfully” is the final step in a life-well lived for an artist (probably Episode 116 with Jerry Saltz but don’t quote me). I think this phenomenon was well explored by Jack Kerouac in his seminal On the Road; to the reader it’s not exactly clear what Dean Moriarity (Neal Cassidy) did that made him so special, but apparently to others just his mere presence and vitality radiated some kind of artistic genius, such that his art was merely living, and living well. That’s the precise genius that Buffett tapped into when creating the Parrothead lifestyle. I don’t think he was doing performance art of the Pagliacci joke, rather he embraced what embraced him.
Margaritaville, the song itself, is a sneering critique of tourists but what persists in memory is a fun song about an island getaway and faraway shores, never mind the bite- life is serious enough. However, this misinterpretation doesn’t fail Buffett, at least not in the same way that the cultural misunderstanding of Springsteen’s Born in the USA rubs him the wrong way and serves as a deepening of the metaphor. I’m not even a real Parrothead, but Buffett’s death moved me deeply. I spent weeks ruminating on the power of what he created, what it meant, and what moved through him. In my mind, he’s at the beach in heaven, circling up with Jerry Garcia, Anthony Bourdain, and Bob Marley to share a few beers and pass around a joint. What these men share, across genre, discipline and period is their typification of “just enjoying the ride.” We need these kinds of “lightworker” artists as deeply as we need the dark and bleeding hearts of Cobain, Morrissey, Lou Reed, or Ian Curtis. For every “Life’s a Bitch,” there’s a “Life’s a beach.” That seems to tie a bow on that concept- but what about the inbetweeners?
The zany Frank Zappa, Elvis Costello, or Father John Misty types who operate in the world of wit? They’re literate and poetic but not in the manner of Jim Morrison or Nick Drake, and are themselves far from “innocent” or the idealistic hippie-types with their wry smiles and lyrical winks and nods. I think I would categorize this type as the court jester, a figure with the famous privilege to speak and act without consequence, due to the perception of the jester as a figure not to be taken too seriously. The identification, and naming, of this archetypal figure brings me to Warren Zevon in particular, who I really sought to highlight in a piece with no intention of using Buffett as a means to get me there. . . oh well. Like Buffett, Zevon’s artful and deliberate handling of his own demise has mystified, inspired, and consumed me- albeit at a time far removed from when it happened. Buffett and Zevon exemplify different ends of this spectrum—sunny escapism vs. sardonic realism—but both lived and died in character. I discovered Zevon’s final Letterman appearance while studying for the Bar Exam, a particularly difficult time in my own life. While “Poor Poor Pitiful Me” spent hours in “Splendid Isolation,” I would find myself seeking inspiration to keep on keeping on through “Lawyers Guns and Money” and the triumphant “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.”
For all of last summer, I took it upon myself to review and rank my subjective list of the 100 best albums. In working through the stacks, thanks to my obsessive nature, when I reviewed something special, I would stick with it for a week. Perseverating on its perfection, pouring over the work in its entirety and lapping it up. After playing Zevon’s 1978 album Excitable Boy front to back until I wore it out, I still hadn’t had enough; Like a real junkie, I needed to move on to live performances to get my fix.
Some lovely web user took care of posting a live performance of “My Shit’s Fucked Up,” and another generous netizen posted the more palatable “Keep Me in Your Heart.” There’s a live “Excitable Boy” or two to be found, but the highlight for me was posted by David Letterman’s official YouTube channel, posting a twenty-three minute long, twenty-two-year-old clip from the late night show. Inspiration, move me brightly away from Barbari, I thought to myself before clicking the link. What unfolded was an existential gut punch, the type of thing that makes you cry because it’s beautiful and cry deeply because it’s ironic, and it hurts.
For those unfamiliar, the story goes that David Letterman (funny man and pioneer of the Late Night show), was long-time fan of Zevon and always booked him irrespective of his relevance to the then-contemporary music scene. In September of 2002, Zevon publicly announced his terminal lung cancer diagnosis, the same year that he finished a new album. Rather than just having Zevon on a regular episode of the Letterman show to promote the album, the show’s producers proposed a special episode dedicated to what they presumed would be Zevon’s final appearance. It’s a touching idea, but in my opinion, a haunting one to pitch to somebody still alive! It worked because on October 30th, 2002, the special episode, dedicated entirely to Zevon aired featuring a special interview and performance of three songs. Though Zevon apparently told Letterman to keep things as light or funny as possible given the circumstances, and the audience was apparently told to avoid sympathetic reactions, what ensued was deeply profound, sad, and funny, all at the same time. The interview portion of the episode reached its peak when things turned slightly serious. When asked about the differences in his life after the diagnosis, and how things have changed, Zevon gave an answer so poised, so perfect, so truly Zen, he knocked the wind out of Letterman and just about everyone tuning in that night, and any night after. Basically, getting at that he wanted to make the most of whatever time was left, he quipped "I really always enjoyed myself. But it's more valuable now. . . You're reminded to enjoy every sandwich and every minute playing with the guys and being with the kids." My heart broke at the perfection of 'enjoy every sandwich.' In that phrase—humorous, humble, and quietly heroic—Zevon left us a legacy that refuses pity and insists on presence.
There is no real timely reason for me to be reflecting on Zevon’s legacy or Letterman performance this week; no relevant anniversary or upcoming posthumous release, rather perhaps I am haunted by it. If the former Jewish gangster-turned ironic rockstar could do anything cool from the afterlife, maybe he would pick some young lawyer with an old soul and a sense of humor and make sure she felt the need to randomly sing his praises, just to keep the legacy alive. I should only be so lucky. Jerry Garcia- I’m open for receiving similar messages if you need an earthly medium! While I could sit here and sing the praises of Desperados in the Eaves, Mutineer, or Carmelita, you should just go listen for yourself. That’s the baseline. What I remain so consumed by is Zevon’s prescient gallows humor.
I’ve always loved the metaphor of the self a radio. That there are multiple layers to reality, buzzing about through the atmosphere, invisible, but perceptible when you tune into them. I would love to think of myself as this type of radio, picking up on messages put out there long before me, and radiating long after I’m gone, but there just for me to find when I need them. I have always been a receptive person in this way, and perhaps my power (if I can say so myself) is my desire to be a vessel, or a radio, collecting tidbits of information that feel important from figures that are worth preserving as time marches forward. You never know when you’re gonna need wise words. As my favorites say, “The wheel is turning and you can't slow down, You can't let go and you can't hold on, You can't go back and you can't stand still, If the thunder don't get you then the lightning will.” So maybe that’s the lesson, or at least the one I keep circling back to: live in character. Whether you’re a beach bum, a court jester, or a haunted prophet with a guitar, be deliberate, be funny, be kind. Live like it matters. Savor the bite and the sweetness. And when the moment comes—because it always comes—may we all be lucky enough to say we enjoyed every sandwich.
