OK. This is admittedly taken from when the news, such as it is, was breaking, but it strikes me as almost haiku-like in its brevity and appropriateness.

The entire first piece from the Washington Post on the reported death of Eddie Money:

“The onetime police officer trainee sang his way to pop rock stardom in the late 1970s, then became a self-deprecating staple of MTV while battling drug and alcohol abuse.

“This is a developing story. It will be updated.”

The story will be. Eddie won’t be. He died, reportedly, from esophageal cancer.

Brutal. Godspeed to him.

Here’s the thing. Eddie Money was a man who had plenty of hits. “Take Me Home Tonight.” “Two Tickets to Paradise.” “Shakin’.”

Great? Nope.

Summer music? Absolutely.

Drink a lot of beer and sing along to these songs? That is arguably why they exist.

There will be many more reports of people like Money who are passing, people who were at the very starting edge of when the digitalization of music distribution caused the nichification of listening.

Whether it is Money, Fleetwood Mac, Journey, or plenty of others, there are anthems that ballpark attendees almost genetically know and get behind. The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” gets people slamming the bottoms of their seats, but it is an outlier.

There was and is something almost tribal about the music of Money—everyone, from bikers to bankers can join together in (badly) singing this in a communal manner. It is something that is increasingly rare and something that will probably cease to exist.

But as he once sang, “Whatever will be will be/The future’s not ours to see.”

Edward Mahoney got that right.