Between his birth to a Mormon mother and L.A. gangster father, and dying from mesothelioma possibly contracted while playing in his father’s Arizona carpet store, Warren Zevon composed one of the most quick-witted, prismatic, charismatic, worldly-wise bodies of popular songwriting. It’s one that still defines what it means to be smart in music. A notorious, booze-swilling, gun-toting extrovert in adulthood—capable of outrageous acts of violence or regret—his early songs are populated by unforgettable, cartoonish characters like the sociopathic murdering lad of “Excitable Boy,” the headless mercenary of “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner,” and of course, that impeccably groomed lycanthrope with a taste for piña coladas and beef chow mein in “Werewolves of London.” Zevon was a voracious reader and a cracked intellectual of sorts; his range of subjects was wide from the get-go: boxing (“Boom Boom Mancini” from Sentimental Hygiene) and the internet (“Networking” from Transverse City) to threats to world peace (the title track from The Envoy) and Elvis Presley (“Jesus Mentioned,” also from The Envoy). Even occasional inside jokes like “Gorilla You’re a Desperado” were entertaining.
In his quick, literate lyrics, the pianist/guitar player showed the entire spectrum of human emotion from biting humor and sharp sardonicism to fragile self-loathing and raw neediness. As his career wound on, the travails in his personal life, most self-created, literally became his songs. Unwilling to kid himself or anyone else, he increasingly confronted his problems head on in songs like “Searching for a Heart” (Mr. Bad Example),” “My Shit’s Fucked Up” (Life I’ll Kill Ya), and finally, “Keep Me in Your Heart” (The Wind). His illness and death in 2003 at the age of 56 was mourned on national television by superfan David Letterman. It also robbed the music world of an intentional and irreplaceable intellect and song craftsman—the kind of artist who when asked for any final life lessons famously responded: “Enjoy every sandwich.”
“Poor Poor Pitiful Me” from Warren Zevon (1976, Asylum)
The most intriguing thing about Zevon as a songwriter is his versatility. He was equally talented at being a snarly, balls-to-the-wall rocker as he was at looking in the mirror and being an honest and confessional balladeer. Here on his self-titled debut album, he splits the difference with a humorous fast-lane Hollywood tale. Driven by Waddy Wachtel’s slashing electric guitar, and enlivened by David Lindley’s fiddle, Jai Winding’s piano, and Bobby Key’s saxophone, the half-complaining, half-bragging songwriter brays those now immortal lines: “She really worked me over good/ She was a credit to her gender/ She put me through some changes, Lord/ Sort of like a Waring blender.”
It’s a cliché to even think it, but his first album may in the final analysis still be his best. The guest list includes nearly every L.A. player of the era imaginable, including Jackson Browne, Lindsay Buckingham, Stevie Nicks, Glenn Frey, Don Henley, and Bonnie Raitt. This song is one of four Zevon numbers later covered to great acclaim by Linda Ronstadt.
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