The thing about Orbison is he had the enormous stones it takes to be different, and succeed. He dared to be his own performer, he had the guts to display deep, dark vulnerability in his songs. Not “My dog died and my baby left me, pour me another beer” – more like, “My baby left me, and I’m thinking of going out and standing by the tracks… maybe a train will come.” Orbison was a very unlikely superstar, a strange looking man with a strange voice that I’m not convinced originated from this world. Folks like Morrissey can still only dream of the gothic, Romantic, majestic structures of “It’s Over,” “In Dreams,” “Running Scared.” Orbison could not only paint a picture, he could take the listener to another plane of existence. He knew pain, he knew heartache, he knew what it was like to be different from all the rest. Mr. Orbison, you were something else, and you still make my mother cry.
