Showing posts with label Tributes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tributes. Show all posts

Saturday, October 5, 2024

A goodbye to Kris Kristofferson - The Highwaymen - The Pilgrim: Chapter 33 (American Outlaws: Live at Nass...

I spent a wonderful time at youtube finding just the right song to honor the late Kris Kristofferson. I thought this one from The Highwayman would be good because those men are just so happy to be singing and playing together. Kris was a very big part of my life. Tom and I loved him from the first. I was lucky enough to see him three times, I think. One show Tom missed because he had his appendix out! I was in the front row in a lovely Boston small venue.

Friday, August 23, 2024

Life and the other

 If you have been blogging for a long time, you have made friends who mean as much to you as people you know in "real life". And the long time of blogging means that we have all gotten older, with the sad facts that may go along with it. Sickness. Death. 

Some of my beloved blogging friends have lost their husbands  And today I read that a woman I have been in touch with for a long time died. Her daughter posted on her blog. 

I cried as if I had known her in my everyday life, because of course I did. It is made even harder because I have been away so much in the past year. If she was sick, I didn't even know. I've emailed her daughter.

I know a lot of you have been through this, too. The blogging world is slower, quieter than what came after it. That is why I love it and continue on. It lifts me up, teaches me, offers friendships, and sometimes brings sadness.

Friday, February 23, 2024

The loss of another young man

 At my age, one might expect to go to funerals. In New Tricks, Jack Halford played by the excellent James Bolam says that he goes to a funeral every couple of weeks. Well, very, very sadly the last five funerals or Celebrations of Life Tom and I have been to have been young men. I’ve written about two of them here and here. In between them there were two others, one a bit older than Margaret, and the other in Michael's class, and then last month was the fifth. This young man was a year, lacking two days, older than my daughter Margaret. He died on the local mountain he loved, doing what he loved to do, snowboarding. 

There were hundreds of people there. The place was up a hill, and we were early enough to park in one of the parking lots. When we came out, there were cars almost down to the main road. He was much loved in the community. I didn’t know him personally, but I know his mother, and his sister is one of Margaret’s best friends, and Tom taught him in school. There is something about the small Middle and Senior High School which all the young men, but one, attended that is very, very special. The kids were close, and they remain close. And many, many of them stay in the area. They love this place with the same passion that we have. Some move further away, but they they come back home and get together with all the friends they’ve known most of their lives. It is an amazing school and area that brings them all together for a lifetime. 

And their parents were there, most of them old hippies like Tom and I. There were no women with dyed hair or facelifts. There was gray hair, and there were wrinkles, and there were a few with canes or walkers. Their “kids” are in their forties now and the parents in their sixties and seventies. Even if we don’t know everyone personally, we still “know” each other. We spent most of our time with the mother of a woman whose daughter was in Margaret’s class, and whose own son died almost a decade ago at whose Celebration of Life all of us were back then. 

The man who died was an early skateboarder when that sport was looked down on by much of society. There is a skateboarding park in town, but there hasn’t been enough money to really make something of it. His sister-in-law had the idea to give contributions in his name to the park, and would you believe that $52,000 dollars has been given thus far. It just makes me cry, and makes me feel so proud of this wonderful community.

Thursday, January 12, 2023

JEFF BECK GROUP - SHAPES OF THINGS

A real sadness for Tom and I to hear that Jeff Beck has died. He was THE BEST as was this band. Rod Stewart vocals. Ron Wood on bass. Mick Waller on drums. Nicky Hopkins piano. In the comments to this video, a man said he saw them at the Boston Tea Party, as we did. Rod didn't stay in the band for long, and how I wish he had. For us this was the perfect group. On the first album, Truth, Beck writes about this song. "Shapes of Things Rearranged, but the same Yardbirds hit. This must be played at maximum volume whatever phonograph you use. Makes very appropriate background music if you have the Vicar over for tea." Go to YouTube and type in "Drinkin Again" Jeff Beck group. A masterpiece. AND it is a Johnny Mercer song! On his Instagram page, Jimmy Page wrote: "The six stringed Warrior is no longer here for us to admire the spell he could weave around our mortal emotions. Jeff could channel music from the ethereal. His technique unique. His imaginations apparently limitless. Jeff I will miss you along with your millions of fans. Jeff Beck Rest in Peace."


 

Thursday, September 8, 2022

Death of a Queen

 If you go here, you will see the last picture taken of the late Queen Elizabeth 11. It is the picture many of us saw when we first read the news that she wasn't well, and that family was heading to Balmoral. I would have put it up but it does have a name on it, and I did not want to infringe.

When I first saw it, I thought it was my favorite of all pictures I have seen of her during her long life. She looks like any woman at home. That sweater! Just like any of us might wear, especially those my age or older. It made me smile, even as the news made me fearful.

I know a staunch Irishman, and yet he cared for the Queen. As did so many people, no matter their politics.

I am terribly sad. It feels like someone in my family has died -  a relative I didn't ever see but still loved.

And I'll tell you a weird story. It begins a long time ago. Just before my uncle (by marriage, on my father's side) died, my mother heard three knocks on the window and saw his face there. Then the phone rang with the news. Well, today Tom was at a friend's house. After I had read that the Queen was so ill, I was in the kitchen when I heard three knocks on the front door. Lucy, our yellow Labrador went to the door, as did I. No one was there (and no face). Soon I saw Tom walking from the parking lot to the house. I asked him if he had come to the door and knocked thinking it might be locked. He said no.

The phone didn't ring just after but when I heard those knocks I did fear that she had, or would, die. As far as I know that happened to my mother only once, and this is the first and hopefully only time for me. 

Sunday, October 31, 2021

Wednesday, August 25, 2021

Death of Charlie Watts

 

Charlie Watts: a rock’n’roll legend whose true love was jazz

He may have backed the world’s most successful rock band, but the late drummer worshipped his jazz heroes through big bands and other projects

Charlie Watts playing with his jazz band at Ronnie Scott’s, London, 1985.
The fulfilment of a childhood dream ... Charlie Watts playing with his jazz band at Ronnie Scott’s, London, 1985. Photograph: Alan Davidson/Rex/Shutterstock
Richard Williams

Everyone knew that Charlie Watts’s heart was always in jazz. Even when he grew his hair long and put on hippie garb while the Rolling Stones were going through their Satanic Majesties period, underneath he was still the cool bebopper who could see through the nonsense that surrounded his group and the rampaging egos at its heart.

Wisely, he never let his true musical allegiance show in his playing with the Stones. When they recruited him from Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated in January 1963, not long after he’d been serving an apprenticeship with trad jazz bands, he listened to the records of Jimmy Reed, Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters in order to absorb the way that master Chicago blues drummers such as Earl Phillips, Fred Below and Elgin Evans kept things simple, soon appreciating that simplicity is often the hardest thing of all to achieve.

His personal adaptation of their discreet approach, concentrating on a firm backbeat and avoiding any form of decoration, turned out to be perfect for the Stones as the volume rose and the venues grew in size, but it could hardly have been further from the styles of the great modern jazz drummers he had grown up worshipping. The likes of Max Roach, Art Blakey, Philly Joe Jones and Elvin Jones had freed the drum kit from its subordinate role, enabling them to become full participants in the music, adding a running commentary to the improvisations of horn players such as Miles Davis and John Coltrane, sometimes even as an equal partner.

Growing up in a postwar prefab in Wembley, Watts had saved money to buy 78s by Jelly Roll Morton and Johnny Dodds, Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. When he was given his own first full kit, after getting a start by dismantling a banjo to use the body and the vellum as a makeshift drum, he painted the name “Chico” on the front head of what was known in those days as the bass drum. This was a homage to Chico Hamilton, a Los Angeles drummer who had played in a famous quartet with Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker in the early 1950s before launching his own adventurous quintet, which enjoyed a vogue at the end of that decade and appeared on screen in the 1957 movie Sweet Smell of Success.

Never ashamed of his tendency towards hero-worship, Watts showed his colours in his first act of independent creativity. Ode to a Highflying Bird, published in 1964, when the Stones were hitting No 1 in the UK charts with It’s All Over Now and Little Red Rooster, was a slender volume of words and cartoons in which he used his skills as a trained graphic artist to illustrate the story of Parker (whom he later covered with his quintet), charmingly rendered as a kind of children’s fable.

His soulmate in the earliest incarnation of the Stones had been Ian Stewart, a piano player who loved boogie-woogie and other forms of jazz but who was soon eased out of the performing lineup on account of his looks and persuaded to take over the job of road manager instead. In the late 70s Watts moonlighted with Stewart in Rocket 88, a boogie and jump-blues band whose shifting lineup included guests such as Chris Farlowe, Zoot Money and Jack Bruce.

Always finding jazz clubs more congenial than the stadiums the Stones were now playing, in 1985 he filled the stage at Ronnie Scott’s with a 32-piece big band drawn from the cream of London’s jazz musicians. An extraordinarily eclectic lineup ranged from bop-era veterans to Courtney Pine, an unknown 21-year-old at the start of his career, who sat alongside his fellow tenor saxophonists Danny Moss, Bobby Wellins, Don Weller and Alan Skidmore. Jack Bruce played cello – his first instrument – and Stan Tracey was on piano. Watts sat happily at his kit between two other drummers, the older Bill Eyden and the younger John Stevens, as they played arrangements of classics such as Lester Leaps In, Stompin’ at the Savoy and Prelude to a Kiss. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were in the house to cheer what Watts called the fulfilment of a childhood dream.

He was able to subsidise the project, which toured the US the following year, from his earnings as a Stone. In later years he took advantage of the band’s substantial downtime to return to Ronnie Scott’s and other venues with groups of more modest size and to record in 1996 a beautiful album of standards, Long Ago and Far Away, played by his quintet, a small orchestra and the singer Bernard Fowler. These warm, relaxed versions of songs such as Stairway to the Stars and In a Sentimental Mood, with Watts’s presence registered only by the gentle background rustle of wire brushes, were about as far from Sympathy for the Devil and Street Fighting Man as it is possible for music to get, but they were clearly heartfelt.

He was never patronising about the music he played with his fellow Stones but his long and loyal friendships with other jazz musicians, such as the saxophonist Peter King and the bassist Dave Green, whom he had known since childhood, were of great importance to him. Another close friend was the American drummer Jim Keltner, with whom he recorded a percussion-based album in 2000, again between Stones tours. Each of the record’s nine tracks took its title from the names of the drummers he idolised: Roach, Blakey, Kenny Clarke, Roy Haynes and so on. Yet again he was paying unforced and deeply felt tribute to the musicians who had enriched his life, as he, in a different register, enriched the lives of others.

Saturday, July 3, 2021

50th Anniversary of Jim Morrison's Death

I wrote about our trip to Paris after the fire at Notre-Dame, and today I am revisiting that trip on the 50th anniversary of Jim Morrison's death. First of all, there is no way my head can get around the fact of all those years. From 23 to 73 in a blink of my eye. How is that even possible? 

Anyhow, when we were in Paris, we visited Pere Lachaise cemetery. I don't think we went because of anyone special who was buried there. We had heard about it, and spent a day walking through. It is truly beautiful. 

Fast forward to weeks later. We were in Dublin on a bus, and saw a newstand out the window. There was a copy of Rolling Stone and Jim Morrison was on the cover. We were so excited to buy it. When we actually saw it, our happiness quickly went away. That beautiful boy, dead. Even now I can't believe it. This is my copy of the magazine. Not sure if it is the one we saw in Ireland.


And it was so strange to know we had been at the cemetery after he had been buried there. Just the idea that we could have seen his grave without knowing he had died. Gives me shivers.

So, in honor of the 50th anniversary of his death, I thought I'd post a song. It was hard to choose just which one, but here you go. 

The Crystal Ship

Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss

The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We'll meet again, we'll meet again

Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You'd rather cry, I'd rather fly

The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time
When we get back, I'll drop a line

I read someone's analysis of the song, and you may read it here. All it showed me is that one cannot really analyze poetry! It is what it is to whomever is reading it. 


Friday, June 19, 2020

Vera Lynn's death

Not many 103-year-olds write a magazine article, but Vera  Lynn did! In the May issue of The Oldie, she had a two-page piece on the 75th anniversary of VE Day. She began it with wonderfully encouraging words to this 72-year-old. 
 I'll never forget the 50th-anniversary VE celebration at Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace in May 1995 - the last time I sang in public, aged just 78. I was a mere septuagenarian back then - still in my prime!
"Just 78" will keep my spirits up for a long time!!

During the Second World War, Vera Lynn kept spirits up both for the soldiers and the people at home.
Then, in September 1939, the month the war began, I recorded We'll Meet Again, which topped the hit parade. My life was never quite the same again. As soon as I heard the song, I sensed there was something special about it. It was perfect for the times - and it's still my favourite of all the songs I've sung. Everybody hoped they would see their sweetheart again when the war was over and the boys were back home. 
I bought an album from iTunes years ago called The Very Best of Vera Lynn. 49 songs, two hours and thirty-five minutes! I have listened to it quite a few times, and her heart is so much in the songs. I wrote here about it when it first came out.

This was put up by The Guardian on the day she died.



You may read her obituary here.

Wednesday, May 13, 2020

Today's song/The Dance - Garth Brooks

A week ago Monday we went to the burial of our close friends' son. This man had faced the demons of drugs for so many years, and finally accidentally overdosed. We read that story all too often, but we rarely hear about the real person behind the newspaper article.

This 46-year-old man was one of the kindest, most thoughtful people you could ever know. On the obituary page, one person wrote that the last time she had seen him he cleaned all the snow off her car while she was in the store. Never expecting thanks, he lived his life this way. He even got a medal of honor once for jumping into a moving car when the driver was having a medical problem. He was funny and intelligent and dynamic, and one of the best athletes I've ever seen. But the drugs got a hold on him that he could not escape, as hard as he tried.

I read a quote once and I've never forgotten it. Drugs or any horrible addiction can be substituted.

Booze is like a mean old cur who goes after those who can't bite back;
people with big hearts and sad souls.


 After the burial service, his father said that years and years ago his son told his brother that he wanted a certain song at his funeral, and this song was played on a car CD with the windows open, while we all stood there sobbing.



"The Dance"

Looking back on the memory of
The dance we shared 'neath the stars above
For a moment all the world was right
How could I have known that you'd ever say goodbye

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance

Holding you I held everything
For a moment wasn't I a king
But if I'd only known how the king would fall
Hey who's to say you know I might have changed it all

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance

Yes my life is better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance

Wednesday, April 8, 2020

Today's song - When I Get To Heaven/John Prine

John Prine has been the soundtrack of my life. It was hard to choose one song to honor him but I decided this is the one that I hope he is living right now. May he be enjoying that vodka and ginger ale cocktail and the nine miles long cigarette.

John Prine
1946-2020

Friday, January 18, 2019

Today's poem by Mary Oliver


If you have read my blog for a while, you'll know that I love Mary Oliver's work. In the poems section (under the blog header photo), there are more poems by her than any other. She has meant so much to so many people. Last evening as I was going down my blog list, blogger after blogger had a piece on her. I've got many books of her poetry but on this sad occasion I knew just the book from which I wanted to choose a poem. Dog Songs.


School


You're like a little wild thing
that was never sent to school.
Sit, I say, and you jump up.
Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand
to the nearest dead fish
with which you perfume your sweet neck.
It is summer.
How many summers does a little dog have?

Run, run, Percy.
This is our school.

Mary Oliver
1935-2019

Monday, June 25, 2018

Donald Hall's death

I'm so very sorry about this. I have been a fan for a good part of my life, and have written about him a few times here on the blog.  Here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.


Donald Hall, US poet laureate and prize-winning man of letters, dies at 89

  • Daughter confirms death at home in New Hampshire
  • Hall was known for work on love, loss, baseball and the past
In a 2006 photo, Donald Hall, author of numerous poetry books, poses in the barn of the 200-year-old Wilmot farm that has been in his family for four generations.
 In a 2006 photo, Donald Hall, author of numerous poetry books, poses in the barn of the 200-year-old Wilmot farm that has been in his family for four generations. Photograph: Jim Cole/AP

Donald Hall, a prolific and award-winning poet and man of letters who was widely admired for his sharp humor and painful candor about nature, mortality, baseball and the distant past, has died. He was 89.
Hall’s daughter, Philippa Smith, confirmed on Sunday that her father died on Saturday at his home in Wilmot, New Hampshire, after being in hospice care for some time.
“He [was] really quite amazingly versatile,” said Hall’s friend Mike Pride, editor emeritus of the Concord Monitor newspaper and a retired administrator of the Pulitzer Prizes, adding that Hall would occasionally speak to reporters at the Monitor about the importance of words.


Hall was US poet laureate in 2006 and 2007. Starting in the 1950s, he published more than 50 books, from poetry and drama to biography and memoirs, and edited a pair of influential anthologies. He was a baseball fan who wrote odes to his beloved Boston Red Sox, completed a book on pitcher Dock Ellis and contributed to Sports Illustrated. He wrote a prize-winning children’s book, Ox-Cart Man, and attempted a biography of Charles Laughton, only to have the actor’s widow, Elsa Lancaster, kill the project.
The greatest acclaim came for his poetry, for which honors included a National Book Critics Circle prize, membership in the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a National Medal of Arts. Although his style varied from haiku to blank verse, Hall returned repeatedly to a handful of themes: his childhood, the death of his parents and grandparents and the loss of his second wife and fellow poet, Jane Kenyon.
“Much of my poetry has been elegiac, even morbid, beginning with laments over New Hampshire farms and extending to the death of my wife,” he wrote in a memoir, Packing the Boxes, published in 2008.
He at times resembled a 19th-century rustic, with untrimmed beard and ragged hair. His work reached back to timeless images of his beloved home, Eagle Pond Farm, built in 1803 and belonging to his family since the 1860s. He kept country hours for much of his working life, rising at 6am and writing for two hours.
For Hall, the industrialized world often seemed an intrusion, such as a neon sign along a dirt road. In the tradition of TS Eliot and other modernists, he juxtaposed classical and historical references with contemporary slang and brand names. An opponent of the Vietnam war, he was ruthlessly self-critical. Nakedly, even abjectly, he recorded his failures and shortcomings and disappointments, whether his infidelities or his struggles with alcoholism.
The joy and tragedy of his life were his years with Kenyon, his second wife. They met in 1969, when she was his student at the University of Michigan. By the mid-70s they were married and living at Eagle Creek.
“We sleep, we make love, we plant a tree, we walk up and down/eating lunch,” he wrote.
But Kenyon was diagnosed with leukemia and died in 1995, when she was 47. Hall never stopped mourning her and arranged to be buried next to her, beneath a headstone inscribed with lines from one of her poems: “I BELIEVE IN THE MIRACLES OF ART, BUT WHAT PRODIGY WILL KEEP YOU BESIDE ME?”

President Barack Obama presents a 2010 National Medal of Arts to poet Donald Hall, at the White House.
 President Barack Obama presents a 2010 National Medal of Arts to poet Donald Hall, at the White House. Photograph: Charles Dharapak/AP

In the 1998 collection Without, and in many poems after, Hall reflected on her dying days, on the shock of outliving a woman so many years younger, and the lasting bewilderment of their dog Gus, who years later was still looking for her.
Hall was born in New Haven, Connecticut, in 1928, but favored Eagle Pond over the “blocks of six-room houses” back home. By 14 he had decided to become a poet.
He published poetry while at Phillips Exeter Academy and formed lasting literary friendships at Harvard, including with fellow poets Robert Bly and Adrienne Rich and with George Plimpton, for whom he was the first poetry editor at the Paris Review. He met Daniel Ellsberg and would suspect well before others that the leaker of the Vietnam war documents known as the Pentagon Papers was his college friend.
Hall studied at Oxford and became one of the few Americans to win the Newdigate Prize, an honor given to Oscar Wilde, John Ruskin and others. He returned to the US in the mid-1950s and taught at schools including Stanford and Bennington. He was married to Kirby Thompson from 1952 to 1969, and they had two children.
Hall’s first literary hero was Edgar Allan Poe and death was an early subject. In recent years, as Hall entered the “planet of antiquity”, many of his elegies were for himself.

Saturday, February 24, 2018

Death of Emma Chambers

The Guardian has a lovely obituary piece about the sadly late Emma Chambers. I so loved her as Alice in The Vicar of Dibley. She was the dearest character. The jokes at the end of the shows were just great.



Sunday, May 28, 2017

Death of Gregg Allman

Like many others, I've spent a lot of today looking at youtube videos, and listening to my old Eat a Peach record. This is one of my very most favorite songs. Last year it was played at the memorial service of a man who died way too young, and I thought it was a nice way to pay tribute to Gregg Allman. "Soulshine, it's better than sunshine, it's better than moonshine, damn sure better than rain." 



And then this wonderful performance of Melissa. The person who put it up said, "Calm the sadness and play the tunes while Duane welcomes him with open arms."

Thursday, February 16, 2017

The death of Stuart McLean

Tom and I are so sad that Stuart McLean has died. We have spent some of our best times listening to the Vinyl Cafe, entering into the lives of Dave and Morley and the kids. His voice was so perfect. He told stories that seemed as real as could be. He seemed like a friend who just happened to be on the radio. "Come and get me, copper" is a phrase that sets us laughing every time someone in the family says it.

There is an obituary here, and amazing social media tributes here. He will be sorely missed in this world.

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Death of Leon Russell


I feel so lucky that I saw Leon from the third row in a small, intimate venue in August 2014. He has been one of my musical loves for a long, long time. He was supposed to be there again last month but he'd had a heart attack this summer. I thought he must be better because he had rescheduled for February. But it was not to be. Sadly for us, happily for him, he died in his sleep today.

We were in the presence of greatness. That voice, that piano playing, those songs.

He was completely unique in the music world, and his death is a deep loss. There is an excellent obituary in The New York Times here.

It was hard for me to choose one song to put up in honor of Leon Russell, but I think this one is the most meaningful to me as a parent, and now grandparent. I wish there were a video of this song, but there are some nice photos that are shown.

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Death of Leonard Cohen

I just read on my blogging friend Robin's Instagram that Leonard Cohen has died. I feel so very sad about this. He has been a musical fixture in my life for nearly fifty years. I can't believe he is gone.

Last month I posted a photo of Hazel Nina and I walking and I quoted a line from Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye. I planned to put up a video of he and Judy Collins singing it. This was a meaningful song to Tom and I when we were kids because we were always being separated by school schedules and family responsibilities.

So now I shall post it in memory of, and in honor of, the wonderful Leonard Cohen.



You may read a very recent article in The New Yorker here.

Monday, October 5, 2015

The death of Henning Mankell

Photo
Henning Mankell, the Swedish creator of the Inspector Kurt Wallander series, in Stockholm in June. CreditTt News Agency, via Reuters
Henning Mankell, the Swedish novelist and playwright best known for police procedurals that were translated into a score of languages and sold by the millions throughout the world, died on Monday in Goteborg, Sweden. He was 67.
The cause was cancer, said his literary agent Anneli Hoier. Last year, Mr. Mankell disclosed that doctors had found tumors in his neck and left lung.
Mr. Mankell was considered the dean of the so-called Scandinavian noir writers, who gained global prominence for novels that blended edge-of-your-seat suspense with flawed, compelling protagonists and strong social themes. Among the others are Arnaldur Indridason of Iceland, Jo Nesbo of Norway and Stieg Larsson of Sweden.
But it was Mr. Mankell who led the way, with 10 mystery novels featuring Inspector Kurt Wallander, a gruff but humane detective troubled by self-doubt, overeating, alcoholism and, eventually, dementia. Most of the action in those books takes place in and around Ystad, a real-life town of 18,350 inhabitants on the Baltic Sea, about 380 miles south of Stockholm, which has become a magnet for Wallander buffs.
Photo
Mr. Mankell's "Faceless Killers," published in 1991, won the Glass Key award. CreditOrdfront
Mr. Mankell divided his time between Stockholm and Maputo, the capital of Mozambique, where he was the artistic director of the main theater, Teatro Avenida.
“I came to Africa with one purpose: I wanted to see the world outside the perspective of European egocentricity,” he wrote in an essayfor The New York Times in 2011. “I could have chosen Asia or South America. I ended up in Africa because the plane ticket there was cheapest.”
Though Africa was rarely the main setting for Mr. Mankell’s detective novels, it informed his sensitivity to the mistreatment of non-European immigrants in enlightened Sweden.
“Solidarity with those in need run through his entire work and manifested itself in action until the very end,” Robert Johnsson, Mr. Mankell’s literary agent for Sweden, and Dan Israel, with whom he founded the publishing company Leopard, said in a statement.
In “Firewall” (1998), he managed to adeptly intertwine financial cybercrime with colonialism. That novel begins with the discovery of the body of what appears to be a heart attack victim lying in front of an A.T.M. in Ystad and the seemingly unconnected murder of a cabdriver by a teenage girl on the outskirts of the town.
The novel ends with the villain — a white doctor in Africa driven by anticolonialist rage — flying to Sweden in a frantic attempt to ignite a meltdown of the global financial system. Wallander saves the day, but only after stumbling into the conspiracy through his hapless affair with a woman who is the villain’s accomplice.
Mr. Mankell grew irritated over attempts by readers to trace elements of his life in Wallander’s. Still, the parallels were there. Born in Stockholm on Feb. 3, 1948, Mr. Mankell was abandoned by his mother, along with his two siblings, and they moved in with their father, a judge, in Sveg, a small community in northern Sweden.
Through his father’s court activities, Mr. Mankell learned about criminal cases in a small-town setting not unlike Wallander’s investigations in Ystad. And like the author’s mother, Wallander is an errant parent who abandons a child — though the two reconcile in the course of the detective series.
Mr. Mankell, whose grandfather was a composer, passed on his love of classical music to his famous detective. Wallander spends many lonely nights listening to Mozart operas or walking the windswept beaches of Ystad with his dog, Jussi — named after Jussi Bjorling, the great Swedish tenor.
And Wallander’s repeated failures at lasting romances echoed the author’s own: Mr. Mankell was married four times, the last to Eva Bergman, daughter of the Swedish film director Ingmar Bergman. “It shows I am an optimist,” Mr. Mankell said in a 2013 interview with The Guardian.
Mr. Mankell embarked on a literary career early. Hoping to emulate Joseph Conrad, he went to sea in the Swedish merchant marine at 16. But he quit when, after numerous voyages, he got no further than the British industrial port of Middlesbrough.
Besides, when he was 19 a play he had written was produced in Stockholm. A year later, he was named an assistant theater director and traveled around the country with touring productions.
It was not until 1991, when he was 43, that the first of his Wallander novels, “Faceless Killers,” was published. In the opening scene, Ystad police officers, led by Wallander, are called to an isolated farmhouse, where they find the owner, an elderly man, tortured to death. His wife, who has been bludgeoned, survives only long enough to utter a single word: “Foreign.” That incites Ystad mobs to attack local immigrants in revenge. The novel won the Glass Key award, given annually to a crime novel written by a Scandinavian.
Mr. Mankell’s popularity grew with each Wallander mystery. In “Sidetracked” (1995), a series of aged men, apparently model citizens, are killed in increasingly grisly fashion and then scalped by the murderer.
In “One Step Behind” (1997), three young revelers, dressed as 18th-century nobles, are found shot to death in a forest. And in “The Man Who Smiled” (1994), a depressed, alcoholic Wallander comes out of brief retirement to investigate a double murder that may be linked to a wealthy philanthropist.
Like almost all of the Wallander mysteries, these best sellers were adapted for television. The British actor and directorKenneth Branagh played Wallander in several BBC broadcasts. Perhaps the most successful Wallander screen portrayals were for Swedish television and starred the Swedish actor Krister Henriksson, whom Mr. Mankell often said came closest to his own image of the detective.
Income from his novels and their screen adaptations made Mr. Mankell a multimillionaire. But he continued to espouse often controversial left-wing views.
A virulent critic of Israel, he denounced the two-state solution as fraudulent. Writing for a leftist political blog, Pulse, after a visit to Israel and the West Bank in 2009, he called for “the fall of this disgraceful apartheid system.” In 2010 he was aboard one of the ships in the flotilla that tried to break Israel’s blockade of Gaza. In a confrontation with Israeli forces on one of the boats, nine people were killed. Mr. Mankell, who was on another vessel, was arrested and deported back to Sweden.
He is survived by his wife, Ms. Bergman, and a son, Jon.
Mr. Mankell chafed at his failure to reach a broader audience outside of Sweden for his many works besides the Wallander series. In all, he wrote more than 40 volumes of fiction and 40 plays.
But some critics suggested that, like other mystery writers seeking higher literary recognition, Mr. Mankell could not escape the stylistic limitations of the detective genre.
In a 2007 Times review of his World War I-era naval novel “Depths,” Lucy Ellmann asserted Mr. Mankell was “encumbered with all those irritating little habits mystery writers can develop: staccato sentences, paragraphs and chapters,” as well as “that old audience-grabber, plot for plot’s sake, in the form of a murder every now and then (even the cat gets killed).”
Mr. Mankell eventually tired of Wallander. He ended the detective’s career with the publication of “The Troubled Man” (2009), in which Wallander bows out of the police force because of Alzheimer’s disease. “I shall not miss Wallander,” Mr. Mankell told The Guardian in 2013.
But his readers and many reviewers did.
“Detective Chief Inspector Kurt Wallander has solved his last case,” Marilyn Stasio lamented in a 2011 Times review. “Making this news more bitter, the alcoholic, diabetic, antisocial and perpetually dour Swedish detective is at his gloomy best in ‘The Troubled Man.’ ”