No wonder I was already depressed by the time I turned 14. On my 14th birthday, Phil Ochs had just hanged himself, an official end to what many of us tend to call “the Sixties.”
There’s no mention of it in the copious journals I was then keeping, with its dates marked as “Stardate,” Latin jokes, and other reports from 466 Lexington Avenue. (Alumni of my weird high school will remember that address).
There have already been some thoughtful pieces this week on Ochs’ legacy; keep a bookmark if you want to read one of mine. I’ll also make sure to link to those who’ve worked harder than I to keep Phil’s legacy alive, including the lovely biopic his brother made a few years back.
This accidentally just published on me, so I’ll take the hint and stop. Much more later.