The man Gram Parsons named as his favorite poet has died at the age of 81. I suspect that he was probably surprised to have lasted that long himself. But he leaves quite a legacy.
I’ll always associate “the Possum” with this huge crossover hit. When I was an undergrad, the members of a particularly rednecked fraternity played it far too often. On the one hand, I thought it was the most maudlin, sentimental thing I had ever heard, and that sentiment was even further underscored by Jones’s trademark drawl, in which lines became, “They laid a wreath uh-pawn his DOE-whirr.” On the other hand, when I was at a Waffle House in New Albany, IN (across the river from Louisville), there was only one song on the juke that I knew was absolutely perfect. So find some peace, Mr. Jones, and thanks for the music.
