Glenn Frey, a co-founder of The Eagles, died yesterday. He was 67.
The Eagles are one of those bands that it is fashionable to hate. I have never understood this, I must say. This was a group that put out well-played, brilliantly recorded, beautifully melodic pop-songs, and did so prolifically. At their best, the band’s vocal harmonies were up there in the pantheon, next to The Beatles, Queen, and The Hollies. They had a number of top-notch vocalists (Frey included), and a couple of superb guitar players. Anyone who has ever listened to the radio in the summer can hum at least one of their tunes.
Most importantly, they channeled an aspect of American culture that is cherished the world over: The open road. Until I was eighteen, I hadn’t been anywhere in the United States where it was cold — or, really, where it got cold. As a kid, I spent some summers in Los Angeles, in Phoenix, and in Florida — in places, that is, where the sun shines most of the time — and I adored them, as anyone would. Back in England, my friends were green with envy. Why? Because they imagined, correctly, that I was doing this:
Later in their career, the group took to writing about their remarkable fame — and the excesses and destruction that went with it. Early on, though, they provided a laid-back soundtrack to every guy who wanted to jump in an open-topped car and drive from Los Angeles to Denver in a single, blowout trip. When the world seemed serious and scary, they were the guys talking about livin’ it up, takin’ it easy, and enjoying that peaceful, easy feeling. “Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy,” Frey sang in 1972, “Lighten up while you still can.” Later, on Desperado, he would chide people who had it good for refusing to accept their blessings: “Now, it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table,” he lamented. “But you only want the ones that you can’t get.” Not earth-shattering stuff, for sure. But sometimes you just want to sit outside with a beer.
As for the later material, well it’s pretty good American rock music. On 1975’s One Of These Nights, the band dispensed with the unfiltered country influences and went a little harder, both musically and lyrically. Out went the reflexive lionization of the California state of mind; in came a commitment to dissecting it from within. The following year’s Hotel California turned this theme up to 11, the experiment culminating in the timeless observation that “you can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave.” Having left behind a gorgeous body of work and a host of saddened hearts, Glenn Frey has rendered that line truer than he could have ever known. R.I.P.
Glenn Frey Died at 67 -- In Defense of the Eagles