The same day, 24 years apart, two men lost their lives.

On December 8th, 1980, I heard the news on the little AM radio on the headboard of my bed.

I was nine, and John Lennon was dead.

I knew the Beatles and I knew their music. I knew their solo work. I knew “Watching the Wheels” was an amazing song. I knew all the lyrics to “I Am The Walrus,” and I was damn proud of it.

I was late to the party discovering Pantera. I was too young to go to the club here in town where they played before they were signed. But after I embraced my metal blood, I made damn sure I was versed in their music. I grew to love those Abbott boys who loved their fans as much or more than we loved them.

I remember the news story. I remember the footage from the club. I was 33, and I felt like the music world stopped in pure horror.

I will never understand the minds of madmen, no matter how much research I do. Both acts were horrific, violent, and … senseless.

On the same day, in the same way, two icons were taken. And I miss them both.

Thank you for the music, gentlemen.

Kids, if you don’t know Dimebag, fix that.

If you don’t know John Lennon, you weren’t raised right and I’m ashamed of your grandparents. Get off my website and don’t come back until you understand “Imagine” wasn’t his only hit.

I’ll check on you later.

Rock on.



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