CHRIS Rea, the Middlesbrough-born singer-songwriter who wanted to be known for his more serious work, has departed this life at exactly the wrong time for that.
The husky-voiced singer, born in 1951, always hoped to be recognised for his blues songs and slide-guitar playing which there would have been a better chance of had he not passed away on December 22nd.
Losing him in June, while still tragic, would have meant radio stations playing his songs On The Beach or Auberge, sunny tracks evoking Mediterranean holidays and long, lazy nights.
His number one hit The Road To Hell, a prescient track evoking dystopian futures, would come to mind. It would not be inappropriate to play that in September. It is now.
Unfortunately, Rea’s passing came in the very month which a different hit of his, one not particularly representative of the musical path he chose to follow, has been played in saturation. We have heard it in every shopping centre, on every playlist.
It is impossible, therefore, for any of us to immediately associate Rea with anything other than that. Indeed, a text from your most banter-focused mate with the most obvious joke possible is probably how you found out.
Rest in peace, Chris Rea. The coincidence was untimely but real.
And a word of advice to Mariah Carey: if you wish to be remembered for your many diamond albums, for the best-selling songs of the 90s and 00s respectively, for inventing the hip hop remix with Fantasy? Try to pass on in summer.
