The number twenty seven is a figure wrapped in enigma and curiosity, imbued with symbolism that dances across various cultural and religious landscapes. It finds resonance in the Christian New Testament, composed of twenty seven books, and even in Islam’s Night of Power, which is said to occur on the twenty seventh night of Ramadan. These profound affiliations make it all the more intriguing—yet also disquieting—that twenty seven has become synonymous with a certain kind of artistic tragedy. This is the age at which we lost iconic talents like Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse. While intriguing, it’s crucial that we move beyond the myth of the “27 Club”. I mean, grow up, right?
Let’s cut to the chase: The notion that there’s something inherently fateful or mystical about dying at twenty seven doesn’t hold up to scientific scrutiny. The concept of the “27 Club” seems more a construct of mass media and public imagination than anything else. While the number and its cultural significance might be captivating, the “27 Club” is almost definitely coincidental—a poignant, but ultimately random clustering of tragic endings.
Sure, the allure of the “27 Club” is undeniable, shrouding its members in a kind of tragic glamour. Despite the fact that the majority of the members would leave us asking, “Sorry, who?” Yet the cost is high: we reduce a list of complex, boundary-pushing artists – and some less significant artists – to a single number, a single narrative arc. For every Jim Morrison, a disservice is done: we pivot our focus away from his poetic prowess and revolutionary impact on rock and roll to the more sensational aspects of his demise. This is a disservice not only to their memory but to art itself, as we blur the lines of their individual contributions to our cultural fabric.
Some of the artists ought to be remembered with reverance. I mean Jimi Hendrix didn’t merely play the guitar; he had a conversation with it, one that altered the language of rock music forever. Amy Winehouse was not just a singer; she was a storyteller whose emotional depth transcended genre. Kurt Cobain became the unwilling spokesperson for a generation grappling with ennui, anger, and disillusionment. I am committed to celebrating these artists for their individual brilliance and for the gifts they bestowed upon us in their short lives. Even those who I am playfully dismissing here, it’s their work not the coincidence of their untimely passing at the age of twenty seven that needs to be celebrated. Or more, it’s the people they were that ought to be honoured
With this context in mind, I’m going to make reference to my book, Twenty Seven, which celebrates Jim Morrison, warts and all on what would have been his eightieth birthday. The book aims to peel back the layers of mythology surrounding Morrison, instead focusing on the profound artistic legacy he left behind. For it’s not in the manner of their deaths, but in the substance of their lives, that these artists truly belong to us all.
In a world that too often defaults to sensationalism, let’s make the conscious choice to elevate the discourse, to celebrate lives over lamenting deaths. Let’s turn our focus to the art, the emotions, the groundbreaking contributions that these remarkable individuals left behind.
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