I began following R.E.M. during my first year of college.  At that time, their steady rise to fame had just begun and I’ve been a fan through the years. That’s why a recent headline caught my eye quoting Michael Stipe regarding a friend of his, respected musician and fellow Georgian, Vic Chesnutt. If you haven’t heard of Vic you aren’t alone, I hadn’t either until December 26, 2009, the day after his death on Christmas Day from an overdose of muscle relaxers. I saw the story headline, but I didn’t have time to read it. 

Several days later, while in the middle of one of my favorite past-times of searching for new and quality independent-label musicians, one website I frequent suggested several artists based on my musical taste and there he was again; Vic Chesnutt. This time I followed the lead, pulled up digital versions of all of his albums and sampled most of them. Within an hour, I owned two of his last albums (is it okay to still call them that even though they are mp3 downloads?), “North Star Deserter” and “At the Cut”, both recorded with the backing support of a hidden gem-of-a-band by the name of Silver Mt. Zion and Fugazi guitarist Guy Picciotto. Considering my ever-obsessive interest in music, I was surprised that I hadn’t at least heard of someone with over a dozen albums throughout a 20+ year career.

Since downloading these two albums, I have hardly stopped listening to them and I have learned that Vic Chesnutt was an amazing wordsmith. His lyrics, often flowing like poetry, were meticulously crafted to tell some deeply personal stories, mostly soaked in tragedy and sorrow. Such was his life. You should know that Vic, in the early 80′s at age 18, was injured in a car accident while driving drunk. He lost most of the movement in his legs, a lot of the mobility in his arms and his hands were greatly compromised. So while his body was confined to a wheel chair, Vic relearned to play the guitar with simple chords and only a few fingers, and with a very limited musical structure to work with and a uniquely gritty voice, Vic spent the following 26 years rising out of his chair in the ether of his storytelling and musical genius.

His sound is rooted in folk with streams of other influences such as jazz, soul, and country flowing through it. His voice, sometimes rugged and graveled in a heavy Dylan/Springsteen kind-of- way while other times floating weightless in a beautiful falsetto, is usually accompanied only by the minimalist sounds of his lonely guitar. In his music are, naturally, stories of loss, pain, sadness and vacancy; an imprisoned perspective that few can entirely relate to. Yet, if we’re honest, his music is at the same time deeply accessible on multiple levels. The place from which his art stems is hauntingly and intensely real.

However, pointing you to the work of Vic Chesnutt is not the point of this writing, although some will undoubtedly (and wisely) seek his work. No, there is more to his story that I find fascinating. You see, he was raised in a Christian home and yet, from the age of 13, Vic was an admitted atheist. He writes about this dichotomy some in his music. One would have hoped that from his tragic accident, he would have reformed from his formidable lifestyle and embraced a new appreciation for life. That was not the case for Vic. His personal choices in life would likely be defined as unfortunate by many, battling alcohol and drug abuse for most, if not all, his adult life. There are stories written about him describing his drunken belligerence in the public music scene during the earlier part of his career. He was rather anti-establishment and as a result of near medical bankruptcy at the end of his life, he was outspokenlycritical of America’s health care system. He writes of watching his mother die a painful death from cancer, begging mercy from Jesus and Vic had a long-time preoccupation with death, attempting suicide 3-4 times through the years before his successfully-fatal overdose last month.  

You may not have liked the person. You may disagree with his viewpoints. You might not like his music. However, Vic Chesnutt was, if nothing else, brutally honest about life as he saw it and he openly acknowledged the complexities he saw in life. In the midst of the conflict and controversy surrounding Vic’s work, here’s what I take away from listening to his music. He makes me think. He makes me think about my position on social justice issues. He makes me think about my own spirituality and theology. He makes me think about my own mortality. He makes me think about the pain in my life and the pain in the lives of others. He makes me think about compassion and also about anger. He makes me think about being broken and the hope of being fixed. He makes me solidify where I stand in regards to my personal beliefs. All this from a crippled and indulgent atheist. So here are my questions. What would you do as a Christian about Vic Chesnutt? Would you protest his music? Would you even listen to it? Would you hear the stories and appreciate the realism or would you dismiss him as a bad influence? Would you embrace him as a human being or would you turn back into your comfortable circle? What is our role as Christians in God’s Kingdom? Are you intimidated by atheists? We know that Jesus hung out with outcasts, but do we really buy that we should too? What if we are the outcasts? Who do you hang out with? Who are you influenced by, and who do you influence?  

One of the last songs Vic wrote was called, “Flirted With You All of My Life”. He called it his break-up song with death. In it he reminisces about his preoccupation with death saying that he’s flirted with her all his life before coming to the realization and celebrating, ”Oh Death / Oh Death / Oh Death / Really, I’m not ready / Oh Death / Oh Death / Oh Death / Clearly, I’m not ready.” This song was released 3 months prior to his death by apparent suicide. 

Vic Chesnutt makes me think. What makes you think?