We lost so much in 2019, including, at times, our sanity, our dignity, and our faith in the goodness (and frankly, good sense) of humanity. But we also lost some people. And places. And hell, some things, too. Let’s reflect back on these deaths, one more time, and mark another year of being alive until our own fateful trip to the other side.
American author and literary titan Toni Morrison died in 2019 at the age of 88. The author of 11 novels, multiple children’s books, and two plays, Morrison was the first Black-American woman to ever win a Nobel Prize in literature. She wrote some of the most blisteringly heart-wrenching and beautiful sentences, characters, stories, and books in the English language. About Black people. Though her boundaries seemed to extend beyond life, she died leaving absolutely no peers, only students. Rest in power.
The pie-only bakery based in Fremont, Pie, has shuttered. Find somewhere else to celebrate Pi Day (March 14), which, as you should know, is a fake fucking holiday.
If you’re lucky you’ve been spared these conversations, but there are entire groups of mostly sad people who speak to one another only in David Berman lyrics. When the indie rock frontman died this summer at 52, those people lost a whole alphabet. He was the kind of songwriter a poet envies, and the kind of a poet a songwriter envies—a master of the opening line, the surprising image, the lyric narrative, and the crucial skill of knowing when to use the Latin word or the German word.
The guy who practically lived in a Star Wars Chewbacca suit since 1977 is dead. Peter Mayhew, the original though not the only Chewbacca, died from health issues at the age of 74. He joins the ranks of dead Star Wars stars like Carrie Fisher (Princess Leia) and Kenny Baker (R2D2). We didn’t know until writing this review that Mayhew had stopped portraying Chewbacca after Star Wars: The Force Awakens, the 2015 film that reignited the franchise, due to poor health. He did, however, stay on as a Chewbacca consultant. Brave work.
Shawn Smith, the immensely soulful singer-songwriter who played with the groups Brad, Pigeonhed, and Satchel, died at his Seattle home in early April of 2019, reportedly of a heart condition unrelated to the diabetes that had plagued Smith’s later years. He was 53. Blessed with a voice that could flit from diaphanous falsetto to stealthy growl with the élan of the greatest in the soul genre (Al Green, Marvin Gaye, Prince—the latter being Smith’s main inspiration), Smith was also a poet of wounded romance. Bruce Pavitt, who signed Pigeonhed to Sub Pop, told The Stranger: “I remember Shawn as a sweet, soft-spoken individual who unveiled a powerful voice once on stage. [His] angelic, soulful style was at odds with the grunge vibe that was blowing by up in the early ’90s.”
The last Value Village in Seattle, which was in Crown Hill for those of you who didn’t know, closed in November. That’s fine. Whatever. Value Village, you’ll recall, was embroiled in a whole scandal for pitching itself as charitable and using misleading ads to get people to buy things because a portion of funds went to charities. In reality, all of the funds went into the Bellevue-based owner’s pocket and Value Village is the biggest for-profit thrift store in the world. Rest in Hell, Value Village.
Two keys-playing behemoths have made their way to the great gig in the sky. Both changed the face of New Orleans music, and music at large, with their individually distinctive styles: swamp blues rocking and voodoo funk rolling Dr. John; and R&B, jazz, and funk making master Art Neville, whose siblings-led band, the Meters, is credited with being one of funk’s founders (along with James Brown, of course).
For eight years, nearly the entire decade, we lived months out of the year in Westeros. In 2019, after a bitterly disappointing season (this is a fact that cannot and will not be discussed), we have laid Game of Thrones to rest. We now know what happens with our beloved Starks, we now know what happens (way too quickly and easily, for what it’s worth) to the Night King, and we now know who claimed the Iron Throne. Good riddance. What was supposed to be the television epic of a lifetime felt flat, lazy (we will not forget you, Starbucks cup), and boring. At least George R.R. Martin isn’t dead yet, so he can finish The Winds of Winter, the last book in the series—though at this rate, we may be writing his obituary this time next year.
Grizabella the Glamour Cat finally went off to the Heaviside Layer—a mythical layer of ionized gas where cats go to be reborn—after fighting off Taylor Swift, Idris Elba, and Jason Derulo’s anaconda dick to become the most Jellicle kitty cat. It was a well fought-battle. Grizabella will remain, forever, a memory. Unfortunately, Grizabella reports that Grumpy Cat, the internet’s most viral feline who passed away earlier in 2019, was not found in the Heaviside Layer. Grumpy Cat was alleged to be on her ninth and final life. Her reincarnation journey has ended.
If you’ve ever enjoyed a summer swim in Lake Washington, or the Seattle Aquarium, the old Kingdome, Discovery Park, Freeway Park, Gas Works Park, and the Burke Gilman Trail, then you need to thank Jim Ellis. He transformed the Seattle metro area over the course of 50-plus years of public advocacy. He never held office, but he made a significant mark on the region through his tireless efforts. He died in October in Bellevue at age 98.
The transformations of singular singer/songwriter Scott Walker‘s career were unusual, to say the least. The American artist—who died in March 2019 at age 76—achieved pop-star status in the UK with the Walker Brothers in the ’60s, but soon tired of the hollow bombast of that life and went solo in 1967. Walker proceeded to release four albums that made him a different sort of star—a cult icon revered by people who crave lyrics of profound literacy and powerful, complicated emotions, as well as music of orchestral, continental sophistication. Most crucially, though, Walker further honed his voice, an instrument of feathery gravity that could convey soaring elation or chthonic cynicism with unimpeachable conviction. Over the next four decades, he set the bar high for artists doing exactly what they want and in their own time frame. Against prevailing music-history trends, Walker became more adventurous as he got older. His was an exemplary artistic path, and it yielded enough great music to engross listeners for a lifetime.
Someone tried to make a Playmobil movie—same concept as the Lego Movie, except with the less popular Playmobil toys. Playmobil: The Movie was panned as being a feature-length advertisement, and in the U.S., had the worst opening weekend ever for a film playing in more than 2,300 theaters. As of this writing, it grossed $1.1 million nationwide (it cost $75 million to make). In sum, it was DOA. Let us lay a lily on its grave.
Last year saw the tragic loss of rapper, entrepreneur, and community activist Ermias Joseph Asghedom a.k.a. Nipsey Hu$$le. He was 33. A pillar of the South Los Angeles community, he was shot and killed outside his store, Marathon Clothing, following a confrontation he had with the shooter earlier that day. Tens of thousands of Angelenos showed up to his memorial service, held at the Staples Center, and thousands more joined the 25.5 mile-long procession through the streets of South L.A., a testament to the love he showed his community.
More local newspapers died this year, with “news deserts” widening across the country. Here in Washington state, according to The Seattle Times, “five Washington daily newspapers—in Bellingham, Tacoma, Olympia, the Tri-Cities and Vancouver—announced plans to print only six days a week to cut costs.” But The Stranger is still here, motherfuckers! You’re welcome.
William Ruckelshaus, an actual moderate Republican with an actual moral compass, died this year in Medina at the age of 87. He was the first administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency but gained his firmest place in the history books when, as a top official at the Justice Department, he was ordered in 1973 to fire the Watergate prosecutor, Archibald Cox. Ruckleshaus’s superior, Attorney General Elliot Richardson, had already resigned rather than carry out what came to be known as the “Saturday Night Massacre.” When Ruckelshaus got the order to fire Cox, he refused and resigned, too. Future failed Supreme Court nominee Robert Bork then carried out the order—but the firing of Cox didn’t stop Nixon from being forced to resign in disgrace the following year.
Financier and sexual deviant Jeffrey Epstein once had the ear of any powerful person he wanted, from British royalty to MIT professors to American presidents. He usually used that access to connect with other powerful white men like Bill Gates, who didn’t seem to care about his well-documented history of trafficking and exploiting women as young as 14. But the well-connected financier ended his lavish life on the cold floor of a New York City jail cell after he apparently hanged himself on July 23, 2019. He was 66.
Famed anthropologist Napoleon Chagnon died in September. Chagnon, who spent much of his career studying and living with indigenous populations in the remotest parts of the Amazon, was known for his groundbreaking ethnographic work as well as scandal. In 2000, a now-disgraced activist named Patrick Tierney published wild, and unfounded allegations against Chagnon, which almost led to personal ruin. Chagnon was eventually absolved, and is remembered now as one of the most influential anthropologists in history.
After suffering a long bout with breast cancer, actress and singer Diahann Carroll died at the age of 84. Known for her landmark roles on television shows like Julia and Dynasty, Carroll was the first Black American woman to win a Tony Award for best actress for her role in the Broadway musical No Strings. She was also known for her stunning lead performance in the 1974 film Claudine, a role which earned her an Oscar nomination.
Former U.S. poet laureate and Pulitzer Prize-winning poet W.S. Merwin died on a 19-acre palm forest in Hawaii that he and his wife planted by hand. That is not a metaphor for the 27 books of translations and the 30 plus books of poetry and prose he published over the course of his 91 years, but it’s not not a metaphor, either.
