Just Ashes
Reflecting on the 16th anniversary of Link Wray's death and celebrating Native American Heritage Month.
Hello, and welcome to the November edition of Switchblade. And Happy Native American Heritage Month! Down below I’ve rounded up some interesting Indigenous-centric links and such for the occasion.
It’s been a busy fall around here, complicated by yet another Covid quarantine. I also did way too much freelance work, squeezed in a couple more book interviews with sources I’ve recently tracked down, and wrote a proposal for a new book, the subject of which is top secret for now. Needless to say, I am ready for some serious hibernation over the next few months. Hopefully your holiday season looks to be restful as well!
Book Updates
No new news this month on the Link Wray biography. Still editing, still fact checking, still gathering photos bit by bit. I recently connected with some more people who knew Link in the ‘60s, ‘90s and ‘00s, which was exciting. Keep your eyes peeled for a 2022 publication date. Bazillion Points, my publisher, has a dedicated email list for the book that you can sign up for. That and this newsletter will ensure that you are the first to learn about pre-orders, pub date announcements, events and everything else book-related when the time comes.
Link’s Last/Lost Years
November 5th, 2021 is the 16th anniversary of Link Wray’s death. His passing is something I get asked about a lot, and I know you’re sick of hearing me say this, but…you’ll read a lot more about in the book when it comes out.
Whenever November rolls around, I can’t help but think a lot about Link. After you’ve spent years studying someone’s life, they kind of feel like family. November also prompts me to ponder the last 25 of his 76 years, which he spent living in Denmark. Six years ago this month, when I had just gotten a book deal and “officially” started to write his biography, I maxed out my credit card, booked an AirBnB and traveled to Copenhagen to visit his final resting place on the 10th anniversary of his death: November 5, 2015.
Copenhagen is gorgeous and the people are lovely. I can’t recommend it enough (I mean, my first name does mean “from Denmark”), but be advised: November is chilly, damp and dark, the sun barely peeking out between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. The weather really messed with my mind even though I have experienced my fair share of bleak and bitter winters—unlike Link, who favored milder climates like his native North Carolina. I was also unknowingly pregnant at the time, which probably explains some of the weird feelings (and why I couldn’t stop shoving these strange hot dog-egg-goat cheese-cucumber things into my face). After a few days, I understood why Hygge is such a big deal in Denmark. If I were a Dane, I might descend into madness by mid-November if I didn’t have Hygge.
People typically think of the places associated with his earlier music—North Carolina, Portsmouth, Washington D.C., Arizona, New York and San Francisco—when they think Link. Copenhagen is often just a footnote in his story, but he spend a third of his life there, moving in 1980 after meeting his fourth wife, Olive (a Danish woman) in 1979. His remains were interred, like most Danes’ are, at his neighborhood parish, Christian’s Church. I spoke with the church’s pastor, who recalled occasionally catching a glimpse of Link sitting in a back pew on Sundays dressed in black, shades on. He would always disappear before the service ended.
Much of Link’s life in Denmark is a mystery to those of us outside the tiny bubble of him, Olive and their son, Oliver. He recorded several albums, but didn’t really begin touring again until the mid-’90s. Danish producer Kim Hyttel, who produced his underrated 1993 LP Indian Child, told me that Link was extremely private while living there, and was even afraid of being overrun by fans and music industry people. Everyone else I’ve talked to who knew Link during this time expressed similar sentiments: he treasured his privacy; not even band members or close business associates really understood what his day-to-day life was like. His contact with his friends and the eight kids he left behind in the States became less frequent—then stopped altogether—the longer he lived in Europe. There are a lot of dynamics at play here and I’ll go into it much more in the book, but when he did tour, he and Olive typically actively avoided seeing friends and family.
I visited Link’s grave twice during my trip, once on the actual anniversary. In between, I did some sleuthing, visiting old addresses and attempting to get in touch with Olive and Oliver (no dice). I tried to make sense of being a man like Link Wray in a place like Copenhagen, wandering around his old neighborhoods, visiting libraries, grocery stores and the site of the only Danish music venue that I know of him playing.
I imagined how Danes may have observed Link, a North American Indigenous man in his senior citizen garb: long ponytail, sunglasses, Elvis muscle tee, gigantic cross pendant, leather jacket, black jeans, black sneakers and a fanny pack, surrounded by a sea of chic Scandi blondes on bicycles. The trip would not have been complete without an investigation into how Link might have maintained a supply of his beloved corn chips. Per my research, tortilla chips were pretty readily available; anything resembling a Frito, not so much. (Side note: I also reported and wrote this article on Copenhagen’s weirdly clean water while there. Snack foods, wastewater treatment—my journalistic skills know no bounds!)
I met Arjan Deelen, a Dutch-born promoter who moved to Denmark many years ago. He knew Link through his work with collaborator/friend Robert Gordon; he also produces some very cool Elvis tribute shows across Europe. Arjan was kind enough to drive me around and entertain my endless questions about Link’s Denmark era.
Link’s death was not publicized for weeks after it happened on November 5, 2005, nor did his wife or son notify anyone in the States. (Like the eight children, three ex-wives and many grandkids, relatives and friends who all would have appreciated knowing that he’d passed.) In fact, most of Link’s family learned he was gone when the Associated Press finally picked up the story from a Danish newspaper just before Thanksgiving, almost three weeks after the fact.
The “official” obituary released by Olive that turned up blindly quoted in several reputable news outlets was, to be generous, a piece of work. For one thing, it failed to mention any other survivors—again, like Link’s other eight kids. The American family members did eventually host a nice tribute show in Maryland for their dad the following January, with many of Link’s former bandmates performing, but they never got to say goodbye, process his death in realtime or have the option to participate in the funeral.
Link spent more time in Denmark than he did anywhere else. Clearly, he was at least somewhat content or he would not have. He built a life, made memories and raised a family there. While it’s not his most popular material, he did create quite a bit of great music there as well. But strangely, at his grave in the beautiful city he occupied for 25 years—where his spirit ostensibly should be palpable—the only thing I could feel was emptiness.
Of course there’s no law that the dead’s auras must be directly visible above their final resting places for the benefit of visitors, but there is a reason we mark graves: So they become a place of mourning and remembrance. Maybe it’s just because there’s more fanfare and lore around these people, but when you make a pilgrimage to Oscar Wilde’s tomb in Père Lachaise Cemetery or the site of Gram Parsons’ pyre in Joshua Tree, you feel something, even if it’s just your own mythology of the person or a reflection of their impact on you. (Remind me to tell you about getting locked in Tammy Wynette’s mausoleum several years ago. Definitely felt something there, i.e. terror!)
Every November when I think of the cold, dark crypt where Link lies, I remember what Arjan said while we stood there looking at the gravestone a couple days before the 10th anniversary: “I think he’s not here. What’s beneath this is just ashes.”
Here is Robert Gordon, filmed by Arjan, paying tribute at Link’s grave last year with a song of theirs. RIP, Link. You are missed by so many.
Native American Heritage Month
Indigenous histories, stories, cultures and voices like Link’s should be studied, shared and lifted up year round, but November being Native American Heritage Month is as good an excuse as any to do so. If you are a white American like I am, I hope you agree that it’s our bare-minimum responsibility to educate ourselves. In the interest of clearing that admittedly very low bar, here’s what I’ve been reading or following lately that I recommend:
Land-grab universities
This rage-inducing long read for High Country News by Robert Lee and Tristan Ahtone explains how the United States funded land-grant universities with expropriated (read: stolen) Indigenous land. It took me days to chip away at the dense article, but it’s important for every American read—especially those who have attended or donated to any of the 52 universities mentioned. This pretty much sums it up:
Nearly 11 million acres of Indigenous land. Approximately 250 tribal nations. Over 160 violence-backed treaties and land seizures. Fifty-two universities. Discover the bloody history behind land-grant universities.
The authors also wrote an op-ed for The New York Times on this topic. For a visual representation, check out the maps and interactive features that accompany the High Country News piece.
Anton Treuer talks
Back in 2011, I interviewed Anton Treuer for a story on preserving the Ojibwe language for the now-defunct Twin Cities Metro magazine—one of the most wonderful, eye-opening interviews I’ve experienced as a journalist. In addition to his work as a professor of Ojibwe, Treuer is the author of Everything You Wanted to Know About Indians But Were Afraid to Ask. In the coming months, he’s giving several virtual talks about the book and other topics such as residential boarding schools, diversity in education and Native sovereignty.
Marlena Myles
I’ve been in love with Indigenous Twin Cities-based artist Marlena Myles’ work for a long time, so I was thrilled to see that she has a couple new murals up around town.
She designed a pattern for Baby Bling in honor of Native American Heritage Month if you happen to be in the market for adorable baby headbands.
We Had a Little Real Estate Problem
Writer, comedian and WFMU alum Kliph Nesteroff has a new-ish book out that I’m adding to my winter reading list: We Had a Little Real Estate Problem: The Unheralded Story of Native Americans & Comedy. Steve Martin endorsement aside, this topic sounds fascinating as hell.
@notoriouscree
I’ve been learning a lot about Indigenous history from posts by James Jones (a.k.a. @notoriouscree) on TikTok. Though, as a geriatric millennial, I refuse to directly engage with TikTok so I just watch the Instagram versions.
ICAB
It seems criminal that in all my college art history classes, I never learned about the Indian Arts and Crafts Board, of which Vincent Price (yes, that Vincent Price) was chairperson in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.
Read this Google Arts & Culture presentation about the IACB (including its three museums) and click on the thread below for more info on Price’s involvement.
That’s all for this month. Thanks for reading, and talk to you in December!
Dana