Bye bye Mr. American Pie. All I keep hearing about Don McLean, who was one of my favorite singer songwriters of all time, is just terrible.
Now his daughter Jackie has written a short memoir online. It’s startling. She writes: “My father was afraid to let us leave the house. He always told us that it was dangerous outside. Friends were not allowed to come over.”
And this: “My father could never forgive us for growing up. He wanted to keep us, his lost children, in a Peter Pan fantasy. Every sign of growth caused an outburst, a strain on the bubble that contained us. As I got older, I took to hiding in my room more and more. My very appearance was evidence of my failure to stay the way he wanted me to. Every day he talked wistfully about the good times when we were immobile, mute, helpless against any influence. “I remember when you were first born,” he’d say, “you were the first thing that was ever completely mine.”
McLean is still pending trial on his domestic abuse arrest from last winter. In that time, his wife of 28 years has divorced him. I’m told he’s also estranged from his son. What a mess. What a sad, sad story. Well, I always say, if we’d known Picasso, we wouldn’t have liked him.