No period of adjustment is allocated kids who lose a hero they’d never met. At 17, we get to lament peoples’ mass disinterest, and thank ourselves for having been given a pass into a club that requires no payment save for flashing an open heart and wide-eyed smile at the door. Our histrionic teenage symbolism extents to a full-catalog listening session, shaking our heads in distress first about what we just found out, then in jubilation for what we’re already aware of.
So spun our menagerie of The Nils
and Chino records on the occasion of Alex Soria
’s death. All deaths are “untimely” when you care enough, no matter how many countries’ hops away a person is when he goes. A painfully shy introvert who prefers rock n’ roll could easily take to Alex; stories are legion--relatively, considering his status as a largely-unknown--regarding his discomfort in public situations, at least offstage. A possible analog, Nick Drake, is fawned over by more and more kids every day and, as the more archetypal suicide he always hypothesized…