Where Are They Buried? (69 page)

He eventually joined the group Smile, and in 1971, when fellow songwriter John Deacon joined up, they changed the band’s name to Queen. The group found success with a quick streak of well-received singles and in 1975 was catapulted to superstardom by the overwhelming response to their masterpiece album,
A Night at the Opera
. Record executives were initially reluctant to release “Bohemian Rhapsody” as the album’s promotional single—with a playing time approaching six minutes, melodramatic élan, and striking tempo changes, it broke the traditional rules about what constituted a commercially viable song—but the band members persisted and, in large part due to Freddie’s elaborate vocal arrangements, the song raced up the charts. Further, a short film they cobbled together to help promote the song is credited with kick-starting the music-video age.

Over the next decade, Queen toured worldwide and Freddie became renowned for his odd stage mannerisms and outlandish outfits. During the late 1980s it appeared that Queen had topped out in the studio, and each of the members pursued solo interests. But the band never really disintegrated. Instead, it chugged along in a state of arrested development, existing, it seemed, only to drain concert-goers pocketbooks.

Among other projects, Freddie recorded with Spanish opera star Montserrat Caballe and, at home, he found a passion for the exotic Japanese fish
koi
, which sell for many thousands of dollars each. “Excess is part of my nature. Dullness is a disease,” he explained.

In 1991 Queen released a video and Freddie’s emaciated and sickly appearance shocked many. Rumors that he had AIDS were routinely denied, but in November a press release confirmed the rumors. Twenty-five hours later it was announced that Freddie had died at his Kensington home of AIDS-related bronchial pneumonia.

At 45, Freddie was cremated at West London Crematorium in Kensal Green, England. Nobody seems to be sure what became of his ashes. Some say they are kept by a lover, while others maintain
they were dispersed over Lake Geneva in Montreux, Switzerland, where he owned a cottage.

APRIL 23, 1936 – DECEMBER 6, 1988

Roy was an introverted and subdued performer but, blessed with a clear tenor that soared into an angelic falsetto, his voice was riveting. In dramatic ballads of isolation like “Blue Bayou” and “Crying,” Roy’s songs received endless radio airplay during the 1960s. Later career forays into rockabilly and then rock and roll were well received by adoring fans as well.

After his wife died in a motorcycle accident and two children perished in a fire, Roy stopped writing songs, and his career ebbed for fifteen years. But in the 1980s it was rejuvenated when contemporary rock artists—musicians he’d influenced—brought a new popularity to his original songs. Roy was inducted into the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame, was featured in a cable-television special, toured regularly again, and had aligned with an all-star cast of musicians who together released a smash album as the Traveling Wilburys. Roy’s career was back on track when, at 52, he died of a heart attack.

Roy was buried at Westwood Memorial Park in Los Angeles.

CEMETERY DIRECTIONS:
This little cemetery holds numerous celebrities and is peculiarly located behind the office complex at 10850 Wilshire Blvd., just about a half-mile east of I-405.

GRAVE DIRECTIONS:
Many folks seem to have a hard time believing or understanding it, but Roy is in an unmarked grave (as is Frank Zappa just 25 feet away). Walk from the office into the central lawn area and count up eight rows to Frank Tuttle’s stone. Roy’s grave is in the next patch of grass, just left of the water spigot.

NOVEMBER 5, 1946 – SEPTEMBER 19, 1973

Gram Parsons, born Cecil Ingram Connors III, never hit it big, but has nonetheless become something of a cult figure in musical circles. His groundbreaking style of rock music, a seamless acoustic weave with a decidedly country tilt that he labeled
“Cosmic American,” was a direct precursor to such bands as the Eagles, and Gram’s champions firmly maintain that, “If Gram had lived…”

In 1968 Gram befriended Byrds bassist Chris Hillman. Before he knew it, he was a member of the band and sparring with Roger McGuinn for leadership. He spearheaded their country-influenced
Sweetheart of the Rodeo
album, but immediately after its release, Gram and Chris quit the Byrds and formed their own group, The Flying Burrito Brothers, which met only limited success. In 1972 Gram put out a solo album,
G.P.
, and followed that with
Grievous Angel
, though he never lived to see its release.

A few weeks after completing the
Grievous Angel
sessions, Gram went with some friends to visit California’s Joshua Tree National Monument, one of his favorite places. Much of the day was spent at a motel pool drinking, smoking, and injecting a variety of substances. By nightfall, Gram had had enough and went to his room to sleep. A few hours later Gram’s friends found him in a particularly deep slumber and a coroner later determined he had died of “drug toxicity, due to multiple drug use.” Even in death though, 26-year-old Gram was denied the attention he deserved; coverage of his demise was eclipsed by Jim Croce’s death the following day.

After Gram’s stepfather was informed of the death, he arranged for Gram’s body to be flown to New Orleans for burial, but then, things got weird.

When Phil Kaufman, Gram’s manager, learned that Gram had died, he was immediately reminded of a pact he’d made with Gram: After one of them died, “the survivor would take the other guy’s body out to Cap Rock (a promontory at Joshua Tree), have a few drinks, and burn it.” Once he was sufficiently liquored up, Kaufman decided to make good on his promise and, after having ferreted out the shipping arrangements, he and another friend, Michael Martin, dummied up some paperwork, drove out to the airport in a borrowed hearse, signed the release “Jeremy Nobody,” and made off with Gram’s remains. The two drunken body-snatchers then drove 150 miles to Joshua Tree and by moonlight dragged the coffin as close to Cap Rock as they could. Kaufman pried open the lid, poured in gasoline, and tossed in a match. As a giant fireball rose from the coffin, the two headed back home.

The story of Gram’s hijacked and burnt corpse got more coverage in the newspapers than did his life and death (just as it does here), and there was even speculation that the amateur cremation was “ritualistic.” The police, of course, were looking for Kaufman and Martin, and in short order they turned themselves in. Since a corpse has no intrinsic value, the two were charged with
misdemeanor theft for stealing the coffin and ordered to pay $708 in damages, and fined an additional $300 each.

Meanwhile, Gram’s charred remains were sent back to his stepfather, who had them buried at the Garden of Memories Cemetery in Metairie, Louisiana.

CEMETERY DIRECTIONS:
From I-10, take Exit 226 and follow the Clearview Parkway south for two miles to Airline Highway. Turn right and the cemetery is a half-mile ahead on the left.

GRAVE DIRECTIONS:
Enter the cemetery, turn at the second right and then again at the next right. After the hairpin left, you’ll see a large sculpture of
The Last Supper
in the field on the right. Fifty yards in front of this sculpture are two large hardwood trees. Between these two trees, a small bronze circular marker identifies the resting place of Gram’s remains.

Grievous Angel
was released in January of 1974 but, despite the publicity surrounding Gram’s death, it peaked at only number 195 on the album charts. Later, members of Gram’s small but fervent following installed a memorial plaque inscribed “Safe At Home” near Cap Rock.

APRIL 9, 1932 – JANUARY 19, 1998

In 1953 Carl Perkins worked as a baker by day, but his nights were spent performing hillbilly songs at Tennessee honky-tonks in a band with his brothers. After overhearing a boy telling his date not to step on his blue suede shoes, Carl wrote the words on a potato sack. They would become the refrain of his most famous song, and in March 1956 his “Blue Suede Shoes” stomped up the charts. But as the song rose to the top, Carl was involved in a near-fatal traffic accident and, in the hiatus while he recovered, an upcoming artist named Elvis Presley covered “Blue Suede Shoes” and capitalized on the popularity Carl had been building.

His thunder stolen by an unfortunate turn of events and, unable to pen another hit song to regain his momentum, Carl never conquered the world of pop, although his place in music history was assured. Though Carl was inducted into the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame in 1987, he confessed that his biggest thrill was getting a gold record for “Blue Suede Shoes.” “After all those days, the dreams came true in a gold record on a piece of wood. It’s in my den where I wear it out looking at it everyday.”

At 65, Carl died after a series of strokes and was buried at Ridgecrest Cemetery in Jackson, Tennessee.

CEMETERY DIRECTIONS:
From I-40, take exit 82A and drive south on Route 45 for a quarter-mile. Make a left onto Ridgecrest Road and the cemetery is a short distance on the right.

GRAVE DIRECTIONS:
Enter through the entrance with the brick columns and drive directly to the cemetery’s rear. You’ll see two mausoleums and there, in the one on the left, approximately in the center and at eye-level, is Carl.

After friends Jeffrey Hyman, Douglas Colvin, John Cummings, and Tom Erdelyi alternately graduated or flunked out of New York high schools in 1973, they formed a punk-rock band comprising fictitious brothers, the Ramones—Joey, Dee Dee, Johnny, and Tommy, respectively. The adopted Ramone surname was borrowed from Paul McCartney who had used it for incognito travel, but any commonality between conventional rock stars and the Ramones ended right there.

The Ramones were musicians strictly in the academic sense; they owned instruments and used them to make sounds. Tommy spent just two weeks mastering the drums before the band played its first gig. Dee Dee freely admitted that he never actually learned the notes on his bass but just “thump(ed) away on one string.”

Though the Ramones were the first punk act to score a record deal, they weren’t soul-searching lyricists, heartstring-tugging balladeers, or memorable melody makers. In their catalog of almost 200 frenetically paced songs, the average ditty clocked in at 2:19, prompting one wag to comment that the sole purpose of a Ramones song seemed to be to finish it as quickly as humanly possible. They released eighteen albums but only twice grazed the U.S. Top 100, and they never scored a real hit. Nonetheless, the Ramones did something right and their remarkable success can be attributed to the sheer power of persistence.

A few personnel changes notwithstanding, they were a hardworking band and spent twenty grueling years together. In 1989 Dee Dee said, “People always ask why we’re still together. It’s because we don’t have a hit single and we still gotta work for a living.” Although they were increasingly relegated to the music fringes, and despite their lack of commercial success, the Ramones never
retreated from their punk cause and remained true to their legions of rabid fans. Years into the gig, their cartoon-like distinction continued and they blazed through songs like “I Don’t Wanna Be Learned,” “Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue,” and “Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment” with the same fiery intensity. In 2002 the Ramones were inducted into the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame.

MAY 19, 1951 – APRIL 15, 2001

From behind a curtain of long and straight black hair, Joey, the wraith-thin frontman, ignited manic audiences with yelped chants like “Hey, Ho, Let’s Go!” or the trademark “Gabba Gabba Hey!” for two decades. His grim, leather-clad image was what initially endeared Joey to discontented youth but it was his deadpan, no-nonsense approach that retained the fan base.

When the Ramones finally broke up in 1996, after more than 2,200 pile-driving live shows, Joey continued as an outspoken opponent of censorship. He made select appearances as a headline act and, as reigning king of the music underground, Joey frequently acted as a special host for music events and galas.

The first inkling of a serious illness came in 1998 when chronic ill health forced him to cancel a series of Canadian dates. In March 2001 Joey entered a New York hospital to undergo treatment for acute lymphoma, a cancer that destroys the body’s immune defenses. After unsuccessful treatment for the disease, Joey died at 49 in the presence of family and friends in April 2001.

Joey (Jeff Hyman) was buried at New Mount Zion Cemetery, which is a part of Hillside Cemetery, in Lyndhurst, New Jersey.

CEMETERY DIRECTIONS:
From I-280, take Exit 17 and follow Harrison Avenue (Route 508) west for a half-mile to Schuyler Avenue. Turn right on Schuyler and, after a few miles, note a jog in the road and a name-change to Orient Avenue. From there, the cemetery is just another half-mile ahead on the right.