Richard Wright: 1943-2008

It seems that a bunch of my posts of late have been about death, yet here we are again. A few days ago, Richard Wright, keyboardist and founding member of The Pink Floyd succumbed to his battle with cancer. He was 65.

But I don’t want to talk about death and the tragedies of music. Sure, Wright died younger than he should’ve, and he died of a disease that no one should have to endure, but he didn’t die as we expect all musicians and artists to. He didn’t tragically leave us at the all too young age of 27. He didn’t lead a life of misery, and finally succumb to drug abuse, or throw it all away by committing suicide. He lived, a full long life, albeit cut short by disease.

A few years ago, I read Chuck Klosterman’s book “Killing Yourself to Live.” The idea was to travel around the US, visiting the sites where famous musicians died, and write a book about the connection between death and music. While I don’t remember what Chuck’s conclusion was (in fact, all I really remember from that book was being angry that he took such a great idea and used it as a forum to vent his relationship issues instead of actually exploring the concept) I’ve been mulling over the idea for a few days. For some of us, this loss leaves us with a feeling of emptiness and forces us to confront the reality of mortality. Adam Duritz wrote Richard Manuel is Dead about such an experience. For others, it’s like the loss of something external- like if you lost your iPod: you can’t listen to it anymore, but it’s hardly tragedy.

I think the sense of loss is directly related to the connection you have with the musician’s work. When John Lenon died, an entire generation mourned; not because he was necessarily a good person, but because there was some emotional connection that everyone had with his music. It was the first time that people truly believed the Beatles would never reunite; until then, the option was alive in every fan’s head, despite the band members’ continued insistence that it would never happed.

This is the loss I felt when I heard the news about Richard Wright. The Pink Floyd has always been the holy grail of live shows for me; after my dad took me to my first ever concert (Pearl Jam), I asked him what he thought of it. He responded “it was pretty good, but nothing compared to Floyd on The Wall tour.” Those words put me in eternal awe of my dad and the concert’s he went to.

And Floyd was always one of those bands that could’ve gotten back together. Hendrix, Bonzo, Keith Moon, and John Lenon were all dead before I was born. But everyone from Floyd was still alive; the only thing keeping them from reuniting were the conflicting egos of David Gilmour and Roger Waters. But in my head, those guys were going to work it all out, and the band was going to get back together for the most amazing reunion tour of all time. Sure, my dad and people of his generation would say that they weren’t nearly as polished as they used to be, and that the shows used to be better. And I would nod in agreement, not really caring, because I would be seeing The Pink Floyd in concert!

In 2005, I thought I may get my wish. I mean, they got together to play the Live Aid show. Maybe they would do a full fledged tour. Who knew?

But alas, Richard Wright has passed on, and with him, my hopes for a Floyd reunion. Because we hope against all hope for that which seems impossible; but it’s only death itself that actually forces our improbable hopes to come to a halt.

But instead of mourning the loss of potential, let’s celebrate the his life, his ability to craft some of the most amazing psychedelic songs ever, and his place in one of the greatest rock bands to ever walk this earth.

Here’s to you Mr. Wright.

Pink Floyd- The Great Gig in the Sky

Pink Floyd- Us and Them

Buy Pink Floyd @ Amazon.com