You don’t expect rock stars to die from Alzheimer’s disease. Especially from the band who did “All the Young Dudes” and “Crash Street Kidds.” Suicide. Overdose. Choking on vomit. Those are three of the more common associations we have of rock’n’roll deaths. Alzheimer’s? Not even close. Music functions as a euphoric escape from reality, even on albums that confront it like What’s Going On or Darkness on the Edge of Town. Alzheimer’s/dementia is a whole other level of reality for those of us who have experienced “the long goodbye” and witnessed a loved one slowly fade away. Unfortunately, it claimed former Mott the Hoople drummer Dale “Buffin” Griffin last month at the age of 67.
Griffin was only 58 when he received the diagnosis. In a 2010 profile for WalesOnline, he said, “Many old friends now avoid me as they do not know what to say, which is really hurtful. I just wish they would realize that, inside, I am still the same old Buffin I always was.” My grandmother suffered from dementia during her final years. It could get very depressing and grim. But there were also moments of beauty, grace, humor and dignity. It’s understandable how people would feel uncomfortable watching someone wilt into blankness. But that’s when they need you the most. The capacity to simply drop someone from your life and give up on them, be it family, friend or mate, is one of mankind’s more despicable qualities.
The sad irony is Griffin provided the backbeat for a band whose music epitomizes brotherhood, loyalty and community. He anchored Mott the Hoople through dreamy, funereal dirges, sticky dive bar floor rockers, and front porch folk/country. “Whizz Kid” from 1973’s Mott is like Ziggy and the Spiders from Mars with Levon Helm “Cripple Creeking” his way behind the kit. In the beginning of “Half Moon Bay,” from their 1969 self-titled debut, he’s center stage with manic Keith Moon drum fills, bashing along to Verden Allen’s organ drone and the hypnotic Harrisonesque lullaby guitar of Mick Ralphs. It’s one of the many examples of how Griffin put the power in Mott’s ballads, even though they weren’t “power ballads.”
1971’s Brain Capers is perhaps his greatest showcase. “Death May Be Your Santa Claus” has some funky drumming that would’ve been suitable for a dance-off between James Brown and Jackie Wilson. Their cover of Dion’s “Your Own Backyard” is one of the greatest, most affecting redemption songs you’ll ever hear. It’s driven in part by Griffin’s Levon/Charlie Watts quiet, pastoral swing that gets progressively more commanding with each verse. It’s appropriate for a song whose protagonist reflects on a past defined by disappointment and loss, while in forward motion towards a more promising future.
“The Journey” is a nearly ten-minute ballad worthy of the title. Just when you’ve gotten lost in its beautiful solemnity, Griffin and Ralphs sucker punch you with head-banging drums/guitar that turn out to be the main hook, matching Ian Hunter’s tormented howls of salvation. And “The Moon Upstairs” has a killer guitar riff/drums attack that pays homage to The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which came out earlier that year. They’re both intense rebel yells, the former ending with what sounds like a small explosion.
Hopefully, Griffin is in a much better place, wherever that is. If there’s a heaven, may it possess as much grandeur as a Mott the Hoople song.
Matt Leinwohl