Tom T. Hall's Tragic End
My father and myself share a deep, passionate love for music. Many of my fondest childhood memories of my dad are musical in nature, whether in the form of my family compulsively re-watching the Motown 25 special, particularly Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk, on videocassette, or my dad taking me to my very first concert, “Weird Al” Yankovic opening for the Monkees.
My dad introduced me to country, a genre I would come to adore, in the avuncular, gentlemanly form of Tom T. Hall. Hall released albums specifically for children but I loved everything about him.
As a child, and as an adult, I’m a sucker for story songs and Hall wrote and performed some of the best. He combined a novelist’s keen eye for telling details with a short story writer’s gift for concision and succinctness.
I was supremely fortunate to have Hall as my introduction to country. He was the very first country singer I ever got into. I’m not sure I ever would have embarked on my Nashville or Bust project if it were not for my early experiences with Hall.
Hall was a goddamn American whose music expressed something profound and true about our national character, about our resilience and strength and aching underlying sadness.
When I saw that Hall had died on August 20th, 2021 at the ripe old age of eighty-five, I naturally assumed that he died of old age, hopefully surrounded by loved ones and filled with the sense of peace and contentment that comes at the end of a life well-lived.
I didn’t read or hear anything that would lead me to believe otherwise. About a week ago or so, however, I learned, to my horror, shock and sadness, that Hall had committed suicide by a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
“Oh God no!” I yelled out loud upon learning that Hall had killed himself. I’m not entirely sure why. The news affected me in a big way because I hated the idea that a man who gave the world so much was so overwhelmed with pain at the end that he thought he had to take his own life but also because it was so unexpected.
I expected Gary Stewart to commit suicide. His music positively vibrated with suicidal despair. But Hall seemed different. He was a professional. He was a gentleman. He was the farthest thing from an outlaw.
Hell, Hall even wrote, in “Hello Vietnam”, a song firmly in favor of the Vietnam War.
When I listen to Hall these days I hear a lot of pain in his voice. He seemed intimately familiar with sadness and despair, with all of the ugly and brutal things life has to offer.
Part of that might be projection. I can’t help but see him at least partially through the prism of his tragic demise. It affects the way I see the totality of Hall’s life and career, not just the bitter end.
It’s a little like how I used to look at Bill Cosby’s face and see the innately joyful expression of someone who never lost touch with his inner child. These days, however, I look at his aged face and see something cruel and twisted and mean.
Tom T. Hall was a country singer. He was a country songwriter. So of course he knew the kind of pain most of us can barely fathom. The difference is that Hall transformed that pain into great, enduring art before it ultimately led him to take his own life.
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