Your Drug Tongue's Spoken
Just prior to deadline, I got the sad news that Malakas frontman and all around rock and roll motherfucker Cranford Nix died from that most rock of bitter ends, a heroin overdose.
Son of a bitch. Now I don't even have anybody to relapse with.
Although it wasn't completely unexpected - his demise was predicted as often as Johnny Thunders- that doesn't make it any less tragic. Cranford was one of the greatest rock and roll songwriters in America.
Put on any of the Malakas albums and see for yourself. After you finish choking on the bitter sarcasm of his lyrics, you'll find hooks worthy of the Replacements in their prime, or John Easdale at his best. But he liked the drinking, and he liked the drugs, and he loved the notoriety that both brought him.
I interviewed him last year, and it was such a blast, we agreed to do another interview later, for a chapter in my upcoming book on the perils of rock and roll decadence. We never got to do the second interview. I called him late in the year, and he was in good spirits, had just gotten out of jail, in fact, having served 6 months for the crime he describes in detail in our initial conversation.
We agreed to talk again a week later, and I just never got around to it. Now I never will. It is a dubious honor indeed to present you with the final Cranford Nix interview, but I've got pay some kind of tribute to him.
I've kept my original introduction intact, because, well, Cranford wasn't dead when we did the interview. He was alive as motherfucker, even sneering at the bony fingers of death pointing his way.
Personally, I don't think that Cranford would've cared one way or the other about how you remember him, but I know I want to remember him as a loose lipped, grave cheating son of a bitch that was always five minutes ahead of everybody else.
Wherever you are Cranford, I hope all the drinks are free.
Formerly GOD'S LONELY MAN