I am deeply saddened by the passing of David Bowie and Glenn Frey, who represented the art of rock ‘n roll and its perfect commercialization, respectively. They were contemporaries of mine and I am trying figure out how to explain what this music means to people like me, who were privileged to hear it when it was being born and not on today’s Oldies stations, whether FM, Sirius, Pandora, Spotify, etc.

I can’t imagine my life without music as my constant companion. I still remember sitting on the steps of my house in Queens, NY in the Fifties, a little kid feeling connected to the sounds coming out of a little turquoise, transistor radio.

The black acapella groups who honed their sounds in urban high school bathrooms around the country, were slowly infiltrating the post World War II music of Sinatra. There were white singers and groups singing variations of music from the Big Band era, with a bit more energy creeping into their sound. The Blues of artists like Bessie Smith and Howling Wolf, around before records and radio, began to slowly influence white music. Chuck Berry and Elvis crossed over into the other’s territory right around then and it became my personal symphony of sound.

Wait just a minute, in the spirit of transparency, I confess to being about 30,000 feet above the music. I am on my way home, flying from Hoboken, NJ to Kauai, HI. The above paragraphs were written about a week ago, at the same altitude, on a plane going in the opposite direction. At that time, I was devastated by the loss of David Bowie and Glenn Frey and for reasons that lay squarely at the foot of ego, I felt it necessary to write about my love of music and the loss of these two guys.

Let’s get back to those first paragraphs and the recent addition of The Blizzard of 16 to the title. I knew I would return to this story at some point and 27 inches of Hoboken snow provided the impetus I needed, having no idea why or how it would inhabit this page. We get to figure this out together at an altitude of 30,000 feet, strapped into a seat in a glorified sardine can.

I was saddened by Bowie’s death because he embodies the essence of the music I was drawn to when I was too young to understand its significance. Something special began to happen in the early days of my music and it was about power and connection. Magically, the diverse sounds of early Rock ‘n Roll began to globally magnetize young people, drawing them together. Music is the only universal form of communication, speaking in a language all its own, striking chords of emotion, with the ability to pierce the armor of culture, time and circumstance. Young people took ownership and the more it frightened the generation before, anchored in their predictability, the more power accrued to it and its growing legion of fans. It was a time bomb and the ticking increased until it finally exploded in a phenomenal display of power. It was an unstoppable force.

I was on the early side of its eruption, as old as many of today’s legends and that makes the loss of Bowie and Frey very personal to me. Sometimes, I feel like a Forrest Gumpian character because of my first hand experience, like seeing the Beatles at Shea Stadium in ’64. No, I was not one of the 14 million people who went to Woodstock, but I have a handsome pedigree nevertheless. My ears were in the front row of this music as it was happening. Back then, grown ups had no idea what was going on and most objected to its growing influence on their children. Ultimately, at its cultural zenith, it helped stop an awful war.

Throughout his life, David Bowie was the complete embodiment of this art form, leaving no doubt whatsoever that this music was without boundaries. He had a singular genius. He WAS the music. I am stuck in the sardine can with tears in my eyes, overcome by the power this music has had on my life. Bowie was the genie, reincarnating himself seemingly at will; freeing countless young people to be themselves.

While many are deifying Bowie, there are assholes discounting the contributions of Glenn Frey. I think it was his death a week later that was the knockout punch for me, dropping me to the canvas, leaving me dazed, waiting for my heart to grab onto the rhythm of my music once again. While Bowie kept moving unpredictably from one brilliant persona to another, Frey found a super rich vein and he mined it like a Stradivarius. I loved the Eagles the instant I heard them. Even now, their sweet sound makes me think of driving my car on a beautiful sunny day, window rolled down, left arm draped over the door. The idea of hitting pause when they glide out of the speakers feels sacrilegious because there is nothing more important at that moment.

Today, my grandson Shane is seven; right around the age I was when I began to take ownership of my special music. Like the morons who have criticized Frey, I could easily do the same. The turquoise transistor has been replaced by a smorgasbord of technologies and gadgets. He listens to Disney’s version of homogenized Pop, with changing names and pretty much one sound. In fairness, he does like the Oldies his father, my son, listens to. Now, before I start sounding like those long ago parents, I don’t give a shit what he listens to, as long as he listens. He knows the lyrics and is more than capable of busting a move, throwing his innocent pelvis around in the primordial moves of Elvis, shot from the waist up on the Ed Sullivan show.

He and I made a connection on my Hoboken visit, during the Blizzard of 16. My flight home was cancelled, causing me to stay one extra day. Had I missed that day, I would not have had the motivation to continue this piece from its lonely, three paragraphs. He and I shared a wordless harmony several times yesterday, the extra day. I cried in much the same way as I just did on this flight. We hugged tightly and for a fraction of a second we became one, genetically inseparable.

Without the blizzard delay, he and I would have not had those very special moments. When I fell in love with my music around his age, I knew something was happening, but I didn’t have the vocabulary and I still don’t.