I was saddened to hear about the death of Davy Jones, lead singer of The Monkees. At 66 he seems much too young to die of natural causes (seemingly more and more rare among celebrities). But he did.
I was contemplating the difference in the reporting of his death as compared to the recent death of Whitney Houston. While she also was much too young to die, her death was surrounded in tragedy and regret. Every report pairs her extraordinary voice with her inner demons of addiction.
I have heard nothing but good about Davy Jones and his life. Even his fellow band members have expressed great sorrow at his passing, even though they had professional conflicts. While I'm sure he made plenty of mistakes that he had regrets about (he was on his third wife), at least his death, while "too young", was a natural occurrence.
I admit to more sadness over Davy's death than Whitney's. I think it is because I loved him in my childhood. I watched The Monkees, listened to their music (have their CD and had it loaded on my iPod before Davy died), and of course daydreamed of meeting them. His death is a reminder that time marches on, and I am gently reminded of my own mortality.
Labels: Davy Jones, Daydream Believer, death, The Monkees, tragedy, Whitney Houston