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The bespectacled blond steps slowly, almost humbly, across the small stage. He takes a bow before he takes a seat behind the baby grand piano. For the rest of the evening, he rises only to move from that stool to another, where an acoustic guitar, perfectly tuned to his raw-but-rich voice, waits faithfully for his embrace.
He entertains with an ease we've seen in others of his genre, joking with the audience between songs and making a sincere effort to assure the crowd he's one of us, not at all comfortable in his pseudo-celebrity skin.
Yet he abstains from telling stories about how his music came to be. There's no need for him to describe his state of mind, or the circumstances that inspired a song, because it is evident to those who listen.
This guy has an edge. His lyrics are pointed, witty and timely. He's well-read and intellectually aware, but you're pretty sure he'd order a pitcher of Pabst while translating his lyrics into French. His messages border on the bizarre, mess with the macabre and hit us with hilarity.
Best of all, he's making us think about what's going on around us.
Mercenaries. Martyrs. Madmen. Monsters.
Diplomats. Do-gooders. Dogs. Drugs.
Lovers. Lawyers. Louts. Luck. Lichtenstein.
He's singing about Baghdad, the Middle East, the CIA and the threat to world peace. Heck, he even sings about junk bond dealers playing Seminole bingo down in Big Cypress.
Wish you had caught his act? You could have if you had been at the Chestnut Cabaret in Philadelphia in 1985. Now it's too late. Warren Zevon took it with him when he died of lung cancer this week. He was only 56.
But this prolific songwriter packed a lot into his short life, and when the end was in sight, he faced it like a man determined to die as he lived: eyes wide open, moving forward, earning the admiration of his fans and peers.
Sleep well while you're dead, excitable boy. We'll play it all night long.
- Jeff Webb is editor of editorials for the Times' Hernando County edition.