Come Monday
Saturday, September 2, 2023, I woke up to the pinging of some back and forth in a group text letting me know the amazing Jimmy Buffett had died. One friend joked, “Did he step on a pop top?” referencing a lyric from his hit song, “Margaritaville.” I did not think it was funny.
I went to the kitchen and began making coffee and inexplicably, began to weep. “This is silly,” I thought to myself. Crying over the death of a stranger, but I could not stop sobbing, and soon realized he was no stranger. I, along with millions of others, had lost a cultural icon. The music and all that came with being a Parrothead (as his fan base famously call themselves) had just suffered an unexpected and tragic loss.
Now, nearly two weeks later, my social media feed is still full of tributes to the icon. I was first introduced to the music of Jimmy Buffett in 1973 with the release of his album, “A White Sports Coat and A Pink Crustacean”. I clearly remember my pre-teen self, lying next to my best friend on the floor on our bellies, in her brothers’ basement bedroom in upstate New York, singing along to “The Great Filling Station Holdup”, “They Don’t Dance Like Carmen No More” “He Went to Paris” and “The Peanut Butter Conspiracy” just to name a few. Give them a listen and you will get a sense of all that Jimmy was about.
I first saw him perform live a couple of years later when he opened for a little band called the Eagles. I saw him again when living in Phoenix, Arizona in 1982.
When I moved to California in the mid 1980’s a co-worker asked me if I had ever heard of him, and I found a kindred spirit. “I had found me a home.” (Another classic). By then, the lifestyle was taking hold. Buffett opened a restaurant in Key West, Florida and created the Margaritaville atmosphere, allegedly to make sure he’d always have a place to play his music, having little inkling of what was still to come.
He was a published author and prolific storyteller in both song and tome. I believe he pioneered turning his name and his music into a brand that became a lifestyle.
In the mid 80’s I saw him a few more times. Once at the Greek Theater in Berkeley, Jimmy was wearing a yellow button-down shirt with red sweatbands on his wrist. A few songs into the show a young man walked up center aisle wearing pretty much the same outfit, sporting the same wavy blond hair and mustache. Without missing a beat, Jimmy gave a chuckle and said, “I hope you get lucky tonight!” before the young man was escorted back to his seat.
The next time I went to see Buffett was at the Concord amphitheater the following summer, and outside the entrance was a huge sign that read something like, “If you were at the Greek theatre and saw the Jimmy look alike, that was me. I was very drunk and don’t remember much but would love a photograph.” This being long before the internet or cell phones, he left a phone number for contact. I laughed out loud. I sure hope he got lucky that night as well.
The last time I saw Jimmy live, I was backstage at the Shoreline Amphitheatre in Mountain View, California. I went up to him and asked for his autograph, expecting to meet an amiable fun-loving guy. I did not. He was not. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he seemed put out. For all I know, he had just had a fight with his wife, and he did begrudgingly sign the poster I was holding, but it crushed me. “Never meet your heroes, for you will most likely be disappointed,’ goes the adage, and this was clearly the case for me.
In his defense, I was in a safe space where only authorized personnel should be, and he was not expecting to be asked for anything prior to taking the stage. And I was reminded that he is a performer.
While it stung for a bit, I blamed myself for bad timing and never stopped loving the music. “A Pirate Looks at 40” is easily one of my favorite songs of all time and one I most often request from any busker I happen upon.
Jimmy Buffett had his first hit with “Come Monday,” a song he wrote in a Howard Johnson in San Anselmo, California in Marin County in the mid 1970’s. The lyrics, “heading up to San Francisco, for a Labor Day Weekend Show” gave me pause. Knowing what I think I know about Mr. Buffett along with the message left by family on his official website, that “he lived his life like a song till the very last breath”. I can’t help but wonder if he decided on the end-of-life cocktail, going out on his own terms. I have absolutely no proof and nothing here but speculation but cannot fathom his passing on Labor Day weekend -- except for incredible irony or to fulfill the “Come Monday, it’ll be all right” promise. Maybe it is true. Maybe it is false, but when I think of Jimmy dying of cancer, I like to think he planned his final performance.
I realized I am so grieved by the unexpected passing of this icon because his music embodied my youth. He was a living legend, and the music/lifestyle was something that gave comfort and escapism to lives that are often filled with stress and uncertainty.
He was more than a musician. He understood that, for a couple of hours, his job was to help us escape and forget our troubles. He was a storyteller.
Come Monday, it may not be all right for all of us, but for those who loved his music and embraced his mission, we know we are better having “known” him.
Hollie Grimaldi Flores is a Nevada County resident and freelance writer for hire. She can be reached at holliesallwrite@gmail.com
xo, Hollie
