I heard the news on Christmas day that Vic Chesnutt was in a coma, the result of a suicide attempt. I thought about it all day, surrounded by family and friends. If he did wake up, there would be brain damage. I silently prayed he didn’t.
I’d listened to his great interview with Terry Gross, just days before his Dec. 5 show at the Central Presbyterian Church. Among other things, he talked about not having health insurance, being in debt, and needing surgery. It put me in a bad mood the rest of the day. How could this man, already confined to a wheelchair, be denied the right to live? But there was no anger in Chesnutt’s voice. Maybe he already realized what he had to do.
And that Church show. The more I think about it, the more I realize how special it was. A small crowd, an intimate venue, and a cold night. We just wanted to hear some stories. That’s what Chesnutt was, a storyteller, a Southern gothic to the bone. He didn’t mind shooting holes in the darker parts of memory.
He seemed in good spirits then, but that could be said of many people on the verge. In his music, he laid it all out there, and death was a muse, always there at the edges. Some of us try to beat it, but Vic walked right along with it. Hopefully he’s at peace now.
This article appears in December 25 • 2009.