A lifetime ago a man I once loved gave me the gift of Kenny Rankin the way one passes on an insider tip about the markets or the missing ingredient in a beloved biscuit recipe.  The gift  endured (outlasting the relationship, and the lover’s death), to the extent that often I’ve foisted the New York City-born Rankin on others proclaiming the glories of his melismatic voice, a jazz bird trill cloaked in 70’s folk refinements.  Such voices are not only a pleasure—they offer an education in possibilities.  

    Often the music we love takes hold to the extent that its creators get cast as friends we’re rarely privileged to meet, ones who hold our hands through the best, and worst of times.  Rankin ushered me through every stage of my adult madness, his voice a soundtrack for achievement and insecurity, romance, tragedy and oh, so many besotted evenings spent in the company of friends. 

    Was it serendipity or coincidence that his The Kenny Rankin Album made my iPOD rotation this week?  Listening to him—hear him sing, “oh man being of the earth, can you tell me of my worth?”—I feel the fact of all one’s trials distilled to rending poetry.   But then again, I’m partial.  He’s my…friend, and I believe the crying sky that hangs over this Manhattan morning cries for him.  As do I.  RIP.

1 Comment