How to Mourn a Rock Star
What I learned from mourning the death of Tom Petty.
When Tom Petty died, I skipped class.
I sat in my college parking lot for about five minutes before turning around. I drove forty minutes north to play Dungeons and Dragons with some friends and get the loss off my mind.
At my friend’s house, she reminded me that as of that night, his death actually hadn’t been confirmed. He was still in the hospital, post-cardiac arrest, clinging to life. By the time I got home later that night, Tom Petty was gone.
I never knew Tom Petty. To him, I was one of millions of fans worldwide — constantly finding reasons to revisit his songs. But I don’t have any conscious memories, even from early childhood, where he’s not in the frame. My dad worshipped the man and raised us on Full Moon Fever. My sister and I, as five-year-olds, made up our own dance to Free Fallin’. It consisted of us throwing our hands in the air on “and I’m FREE!” and falling over on “free fallin’!”
My first iPod Shuffle was loaded with my parents’ music before I’d developed my own tastes. And I’d drift away to Only A Broken Heart, comforting a pain I hadn’t yet experienced. Everyone in my family saw him live at least once, my dad leading the pack with five shows he attended from the 80’s to 2017 — Tom’s last year of life.
It was never likely that I’d ever meet Tom and thank him, and one day, out of the blue, my chances dropped to zero.
How do you prepare to lose someone so precious to you, who is equally precious to others, and doesn’t know you exist? What do you do when they’re gone?
As for myself, I immediately got a tattoo.
Grief can do weird things to a person. I wanted a tattoo for years, but also wanted to take my time getting my first. I didn’t want to jump at the chance to tattoo something I loved as a teenager that’d for sure embarrass me later on down the line.
Tom died late in the night on Monday, October 2nd, 2017. By Wednesday I was messaging back and forth with a West Philadelphia tattoo artist I’d met at a friend’s band’s show, arranging my first ink. On Friday I drove from Jersey to Philly, partly for a Glass Animals concert I attended later that night with some friends. But I was secretly there to pay my respects into my flesh.
I’d chosen the small flower symbol from the cover of Petty’s Wildflowers, his second of three solo records. It’s my personal favorite, and certainly his darkest work to date, reflecting on a faltering marriage and struggles with addiction. I always found lyrical tattoos corny, and this little flower aligned perfectly with this artist’s stick-and-poke style.
I arrived at the cozy basement of the Sacred Pokes Tattoo Studio. When I finally laid down on the tattoo table, I still hadn’t told a soul about my plan, save for Eeden, the artist. We played through the entirety of Wildflowers from their computer as I nervously chatted about Petty, Philadelphia, other peoples’ tattoos — anything to keep my mind off the sharp thing stabbing my thigh. By the time the closing track Wake Up Time drifted through the incensed air, I was numb to the pain, and officially tattooed.
It’s been two-and-a-half years and I’m still finding ways to honor the loss.
I’m shit at guitar, but simple songs like Yer So Bad I can bang out with ease. Runnin’ Down A Dream remains my ultimate driving song. I’m currently reading Warren Zanes’ Petty biography, published before Tom’s death, and it lets me escape into a past world. A past world where the man hasn’t yet faced an untimely death. Ever since some members of Joyce Manor complimented a Petty shirt I wore to the band’s recent show, I’ve been wearing it everywhere. I’m always hoping that someone else strikes up a conversation over it and finds a kindred spirit in me. I collect his records, his merchandise, even a prayer candle declaring him as the “St. of the Wildflowers” that a friend gifted to me. I would trade them all in for Tom Petty to still be breathing today.
How do you mourn a rock star? You honor them the same way you would when they were living. But more tenderly, personally, and in unison with the rest of the bereaved.
