Somewhere in my attic, and I’ll scan it when I find it after the move, I have a Cristmas card scrawled in this pathetic bastard’s crippled scrawl that he sent from Murfreesboro Tennessee in 1984 or 1985, with the above inscription in crayon:
As he said to me a few days after a mutual friend blew his head all over a bedroom wall in Griffin Georgia, “I guess he just couldn’t cut it.”
Vic Chesnutt–whose only talent appeared to be milking his paralysis for a rudimentary amount of fame (most famous quote I can remember, “you can’t do this to me…I’m a cripple,” led me to believe that the first phrase we should learn in a foreign language is “you can’t do this to me I’m an American”).
Like his most recent, and final, adventure he attained the endowed Pity Fuck Chair in the Department of Athens Musicology, Flagpole College, 40 Watt University, by a failed suicide attempt at the end of a night of drinking especially heavily two nights before I left for the Army in 1983 (by driving his car into a ditch and not the apparent target, a manufactured home just inside Hwy 19/41 on his way “home”).
Not very talented, and spouting juvenile lyrics built around a likewise manufactured mystique as thin and transparent as a colostomy bag, he finally has completed the act. That so many talented musicians flocked to play on the stage with him still baffles, and you could often get them to play up to their potential (leaving their little Ironsides in the performance dust) by heckling Vic. Like now.
RIP, or whatever, go fuck yourself. Here are some more, early obituaries.