The start of Labor Day weekend brought news of the passing of Jimmy Buffett (no relation to Warren). He was only 76, the same age as both of my parents. If you’ve come anywhere near classic rock radio and/or Times Square recently, you’re familiar with Buffett's work, especially “Margaritaville,” the catchy, calypso-infused 1977 single which he parlayed from modest chart success into a multibillion-dollar empire of themed restaurants, resorts, cruises, and senior living ("55 and Better") communities. The song and the commercial enterprises it spawned all celebrate a singular statement of purpose: the sea, the sun, and (especially) frozen tequila-based cocktails will deliver succor and redemption in the face of life’s hardships, be they severe foot injury, regrettable body-art-related decisions made during a drunken blackout, or existential angst represented by misplaced dispensers of sodium chloride.
Like no other artist of his generation, Buffett’s
trajectory and philosophy were the ideal representation of Boomerism:
youthful hedonism co-opted by the comforts of American-style
capitalism. All of the tourists covered
in oil were not just objects of artistic reflection from a porch swing: they
were a market to be catered to. Which
Buffett and co. did, cultivating a lifestyle of tasty waves and cool buzzes
which particularly appealed to those in their autumn years. As a few cocktails at the end of a long day
make everything feel all right now, so would the Margaritaville lifestyle
deliver a breezy coda to one’s retirement. No bad days, as the bumper sticker says.
What keeps the narrator of “Margaritaville” just on the
right side of sympathetic is his sheepish acceptance of responsibility. Some
may blame their exes for their misfortune, but by the third chorus, he's ready to concede that it’s his own damn fault. By all accounts, Buffett himself was a decent guy: he spent at least some of his millions generously on conservation and hurricane relief. He bailed on the
Florida Keys after they became too commercialized, perhaps understanding that the hazy
good times would not roll on forever; that sooner or later Americans,
especially those close to the seashore, would have to contend with the bummer consequences
of limitless consumption. I wonder if he
appreciated the irony of building a business empire based on a scene that will
most likely be underwater by the end of the century. Or maybe he understood it perfectly, and
concluded that strumming his six-string all the way to the bank was as good a
response as any.
