Rickey Wright, Music Critic – Dead in Seattle at age 45

Today’s post is different from my usual posts.

I’m sad, and I want to pay tribute to a genius who has gone from my life–my nephew, Rickey Wright. Rickey was consumed with music and the written word from an early age, rocking to the Beatles before he could walk and reading books by the time he was two–he taught himself to read! He was one of those rare individuals who was fortunate to be able to have a vocation and avocation that were the same: music.

He began his career as a music critic/reporter at the Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk, Virginia, along with freelancing at other papers. When he was offerred a position at Amazon.com as a music reviewer, he jumped at it and moved lock, stock, and barrel to Seattle. We–his family–were back east, and we missed him. But he was pursuing what he loved. Music was his life. There is a link to his blog All the Magic! to the right of this post, and there are dozens, if not hundreds, of tributes to RIckey on the Net.

His funeral was last Thursday in Norfolk, and well over a hundred people showed up. His friends in Seattle are holding a celebration of his life, as well.  Everyone has their own memories of Rickey, and what follows is one of my favorites.

The first time I saw Rickey, he was just a couple of hours old. He was tiny and pink and had the years spread out before him, years during which he would go many places and learn many things and make many friends. His great love, however, has always been music. He has loved music almost since the beginning.

Forty-five years ago—1964—I was a fourteen-year-old girl and the Beatles had just arrived in America. I was in love with John, Paul, George, and Ringo—all of them! Every morning before school, I would get up and the first thing I would do would be start my Beatles records playing—and they would continue playing over and over again until I was ready to walk out the door to the school bus.

Sometimes, Rickey’s parents–my sister and brother-in-law– would allow me to babysit, which was something I loved to do. Rickey was such a sweet baby.

Whenever I visited their apartment, I always took my Beatles records along. Of course! During the summer of 1964—just like I did every morning before school—I played the same records—the same songs—over and over again.

No one except a thirteen-year-old girl could possibly stand the sheer repetition—the same songs over and over again.

No one, that is, except Rickey.

In 1964, Rickey was barely a year old. I would hold him in my arms and we would dance all over the living room. Then I would start the records again and we would begin dancing again. One of my favorite songs at that time was the Beatles’ She Loves You …

We would sing along with the record: She loves you … yeah, yeah, yeah.

Well, eventually, even a teenage girl gets tired and I would stop dancing and give Rickey a cue that maybe it was time for us to do something else.

Rickey wasn’t always ready to stop dancing. He wasn’t always ready to stop the music.

Rickey was very verbal, even when he was very young, and he immediately let me know what he wanted—even at such a young age, using monosyllables and stringing them together.

He would point frantically toward the record player, crying out yeah yeah on!  yeah yeah on! He wanted the music to play on and on and on … and never stop.  

Rickey, we weren’t ready to stop dancing. We weren’t ready to stop the music. We weren’t ready to lose you.

But you had to go.

Rest in peace, Rickey. We love you.

And rock on, Rickey. Rock on.