O-R-B-I-S-O-N: A Survivor’s Moxie

It’s been a season to contemplate the fragility of life and the depth of loss.

This week I was traveling back home from my father-in-law’s funeral. While on the road, I chose to listen to a biography of Roy Orbison’s life finally. I had not realized how the life of this iconic singer/songwriter was so marked by tragedy. I also hadn’t realized that Orbison was just 52 when he died of a sudden & massive heart attack, the same age I am now, on December 6th, 1988.

That gave me a bit of pause.

These things together made me reflect on Orbison’s moxie. Here’s what I see:

Moxie finds its voice.

Orbison did not fit the mold of a rock and roll heartthrob.

He wore thick glasses to protect his poor eyesight and preferred dark sunglasses on stage to help him overcome his near-crippling stage fright. He stood and played rooted in one place at center stage, in sharp contrast to Elvis Presley’s hip gyrations or Jerry Lee’s bench flipping.

But, oh, that voice.

Orbison’s smooth baritone soared three or four octaves to operatic heights, sweeping the listener along on three-minute love stories replete with heartache, sorrow, and redemption. Kentucky’s own Dwight Yoakam described Orbison’s voice as “the cry of an angel falling…