The Catholic Bard muses on the sudden string of well known celebrities passing away. Chuck Mangione, Malcolm Jamal Warner, Ozzy Osbourn and Hulk Hogan.
Those were names loomed large in that pivotal time my life as I began transitioning from childhood to adulthood. Mangione came first, though I didn't know him by name at the time. It would be years later before I attached his name and larger body of work to that delightfully ubiquitous song that became his trademark. I mean, a flugelhorn? Who tops the charts in the age of Disco and 70s rock with a flugelhorn? His picture adorning the record sleeve was one of pure elation. I mean, I dare you to look at that picture and not smile:
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| Happiness personified |
Malcolm Jamal Warner became a big name in my later high school and college days with his turn as Bill Cosby's TV son (a loosely inspired character from Cosby's own real life son). Like Michael J. Fox and Michael Gross on Family Ties, his easy chemistry with Cosby at times almost overshadowed the rest of the show. Since Cosby was such a cultural juggernaut at a time when America still had strands of homogeneity, it wasn't difficult learn Warner's name, even if only as part of the day's larger cultural tapestry.
Then there was Ozzy Osbourne. A lightning rod for self-made problems, Ozzy's was one of ups and some catastrophic downs. Not all were of his doing. Originally part of the provocatively named Black Sabbath, he dipped when, in 1978, an obscure group who opened for them on tour came to steal the show every night. That group was Van Halen. Finally, Osbourn formed his own group around himself, tapping into a young guitar virtuoso who gave Mr. Van Halen a run for his money - Randy Rhodes and the legendary Blizzard of Ozz and Crazy Train. Thus began the famous 'Guitar Wars' featuring Rhodes and Eddie that were broadcast in our area on 96.9, home of the Buzzard, and were required listening for most of my peers in my school. But alas, young Mr. Rhodes died tragically in the same manner as Buddy Holly and his fellow passengers, leading Ozzy down another spiral. This was after Ozzy was hospitalized for biting the head off of a rabid bat during a drug fueled concert appearance. Such was Ozzy's life. Part poster child for the sex, drugs and rock and roll Me Generation, part cautionary tale, part individual trying to scrape out a positive legacy before he passed.
And of course, there was Hulk Hogan. In my lifetime, never has Professional Wrestling been so famous with the wrestlers being household names - almost parodies of characters - than the early to mid 80s. And Hogan was the spokesman. Though I never cared for the wrestling gig, I had to admit that however inauthentic you might say wrestling was, give credit to a man who can pick up Andre the Giant and twirl him about. Like the WWF of the day, and the 80s in general, Hogan was larger than life. It was an odd time of excess, decadence, godlessness and strangely the last gasp of a somewhat pre-post-modern society.
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| It's easy to forget how much of a giant he was |
With the exception of two musicians of wildly different musical genres, none of the four had much if anything in common. And yet they all loomed large - very, very large - in that time of my life when such things mean so much to a youngster. Well, Mangione's song loomed large since you heard it all the time. Like You Light Up My Life, but more agreeable. Yet they all made an impression on a time in my life I will never forget. Even if that time, like all times, must pass.
