I can't say that I take any particular pleasure in my role as eulogist and God knows I've been getting more than my share of gigs lately. John Denver, in spite of all the crap that was thrown his way, from nouveau hip television talk show hosts and would-be cutting edge rock journalists, was a hell of a cool person.
I went back to John's house in Aspen about six years ago and interviewed him with my then-friend, Larry Coryell for a syndicated radio show that broadcast in Japan. Our welcome was most hospitable and in a few minutes the three of us had learned a few songs which we taped as we looked out over a scenic Autumn landscape much like the one outside my window as I write these words.
Despite the media's consistent attempts to infuse John's career with the slow drip of a kind of intravenous poison, that is "This guy isn't the real deal," and we all know what I'm talking about, one has to take a couple of steps back and admire his sheer balls. He was a man, after all, and didn't blanch at the prospect of going out on the sea with Mr. Cousteau.
The story that really grabbed me about John, I heard in the third person as he was interviewed on Charles Grodin's late-night television show. This was when Grodin exercised a little bit more taste in his selection of his guests (even providing an occasional slot for a live musical performance by Michael Feinstein or Nancy LaMott or some other unlikely purveyor of excellent alternate choice). John sang that night, and that was great but we had become inured to his lilting tunes and consistently competent vocalizations.
What struck me was the story he told about his ex-wife. That when - so it went - their divorce had become final, she had responded immediately by having all the fine trees which he had planted on the grounds of his former dwelling cut down and torn out. Denver responded by visiting his ex's house with a chainsaw in hand and butchering all of her elegant furniture into stovewood and kindling.
John recorded my song, "Wish You Were Here" down in Nashville and I went down and helped with the arrangement and piano playing. I'm going to miss him and the sculpted, unmistakable Native American terrain of his cheekbones and eyes. His sweet voice and his manly way of handling himself in a world that thought it had outgrown him.
Love,