Wilson Pickett died today, succumbing to a heart attack at sixty-four.
I was surprised to find out that he was so young and saddened too--he projected an older and knowing persona way back when in the sixties, my first awareness of him. (The song "Engine, Engine Number Nine" rings in my head even now, likely heard from LA's old R&B station, KGFJ.)
Mr. Pickett's age upon passing is also just a little alarming, as both my mother and my step father will turn sixty-four this year. (They've both had their bouts, but seem relatively hale.) Take care of yourselves, parental units!
And Rest in Peace, Mr. Pickett. Say 'hi' to Mr. Rawls and Mr. Pryor; if you can.
