Thanatophobia could happen to you

I’m not picking on the Tax Assessors today. Instead I’m writing about thanatophobia. That’s a word you don’t hear every day. 

Thanatophobia is essentially the fear of dying. Derived from Thanatos (Greek for death) and phobos (fear), it involves a persistent, irrational, or excessive fear of dying. And it matters to me, today, because I write about Marc Feld. Never heard that name? It’s because he changed his name to Marc Bolan. Bo came from Bob, lan came from Dylan. Bob Dylan was his hero. 

Marc Bolan still doesn’t ring a bell to 94.6 percent of you. Maybe T Rex? That was the name Marc gave his band, because it was going to be the biggest thing on earth. Sadly, Marc didn’t know the T Rex was not the biggest thing on earth at the time, it was the Alamosaurus. But I digress.

T Rex had a bunch of hits in merry old England, but here in the States their big hit was “Bang a Gong (Get It On”). They had a decent hit with “Jeepster.” Both songs were about sex, doing the wild thing, or such frolicking.

Bolan suffered from thanatophobia. He so feared dying that he never got a driver’s license. He was convinced he was going to die before he reached the age of 30. He and his girlfriend, Gloria Jones, were driving home from a night out when both had been drinking. She drove off the road, plowed into a fence post and then a tree, killing Marc instantly. Two weeks before his 30th birthday. Had he lived, he would have been as famous as David Bowie, his friend and sometimes rival. 

Gloria Jones was critically injured in the accident, but recovered and had a music career herself. Her claim to fame was “Tainted Love,” although despite two releases (1964 and 1976), it didn’t chart. Glen Campbell played guitar on it.

Chances are you’ve heard the Soft Cell cover of the song. Their version spent a then-record 43 weeks on the U.S. Top 100 (1981-82), peaking at no. 8. 

Thanatophobia is only an irrational fear if its not true. Marc Bolan was obviously justified in his belief, but just maybe a little bit of prevention might have been wise. Like a designated driver.

Kelly Burke was born in Knoxville where he spent his younger years, followed by high school years in Atlanta where he graduated from Georgia Tech, and Mercer Law School. He has been in private practice, a magistrate judge, and an elected district attorney. He writes about the law, politics, music, and Ireland. He and his wife enjoy gardening, playing with their Lagotto Ramanolo named George Harrison, and spending time with their grandchildren. To see this column or Kelly’s archives, visit www.kellyrburke.com. You can email Kelly at dakellyburke@gmail.com.