NON-FICTION : "Cristina Died" by Danielle Truppi
San Francisco author Danielle Truppi writes about the death of New Wave musician Cristina, the song “Things Fall Apart” and, to some degree, cats.
Listen to her read it as well. She does a great Cristina voice.
“Cristina Died”
by Danielle Truppi
I found out while scrolling. It was a small paragraph in an article about diagnosed celebrities, and I had to click the link to the obituary to confirm it was the Cristina I didn’t want it to be. I hadn’t necessarily known that she was still alive before her death on March 31st, but when I knew for sure it was her I let out a surprised, ugly sob. It said she’d been suffering from several autoimmune disorders when she tested positive for the virus.
I first heard Cristina’s “Things Fall Apart” as a teenager. It was one of those weekends my dad pulled out his record collection. He’d move the VHS tapes out of the way and pull out Diamond Dogs or Give 'Em Enough Rope or Hissing of Summer Lawns and I’d soak it up, lying on my stomach on the family room rug, handling the delicate sleeves like a solemn archivist.
The cover of the Things Fall Apart EP is zapped with fuzzy waves of ’80s colors and there is an image of Cristina floating in the top corner above her name. She’s lounging on her side in a dreamy, pink dress, head propped up with a fist.
The song begins with the sound of glitter, a festive twinkling that turns into a screaming school bell. The bell is then stomped out by some gnarly, propulsive guitar. It sounds particularly good at a high volume and always compels me to dance with sassy shoulders. My mom hates it, even though she says she doesn’t. Every time it’s on, she comments that it’s too loud or too sad. To be fair, the objection might be related to the fact that we play it during Christmastime, interrupting Bing Crosby, but “Things Fall Apart” is a Christmas song and it has gifted me more merriment than any song about the Christ child.
The verses aren’t sung, but recited with a sharp weariness. Despite the flat affect we learn Cristina is committed to the holiday spirit. “My mother says I’m a survivor / I pull together Christmas every year.” She and her boyfriend couldn’t afford a tree, so they decorated a cactus with her earrings. But then he dumps her, and we feel the holiday spirit pucker. Party guests “killed a tree of ninety-seven years and smothered it with lights and silver tears.” She didn’t feel well and went home, “wept a bit and fed the cat.” That last bit is my favorite part. I love that a song with this song’s sounds ends with an image of domestic solitude. We see the party, but also the return home, casual crying, cat food.
A return to the chorus: “Things fall apart, but they never leave my heart. Good morning, midnight. It’s Christmas.” I wasn’t surprised when the obituary described her as “hyperliterary.”
I’ve never been the kind of fan who knows a band’s birth story or creative lineage, its members’ birthdays or side projects, but I do keep what I love on heavy rotation. Being introduced to Cristina before I carried the internet in my pocket, the only information I had about her was on that record cover and in my imagination. Learning that her life was one taken by the pandemic required me to update the character in my mind. She didn’t live in the ’80s, but in 2020, and now she’s gone.
Of course I was upset when Bowie died, but everyone was. The grief was spread out over all of us and well-documented on social media. It was so big, I didn’t feel like I owned any right to it. Mourning a celebrity no one knows about is a quiet affair. I’ve played “Things Fall Apart” for many friends, but it has mostly been received with polite amusement. Cristina felt like family, like an old friend of my dad’s. She knew him as a young man in New York. We weren’t close, but she was the kind of friend who always called on Christmas. I texted my dad the obituary. He responded, “We will forever be thankful for joy she brought to the holiday season.” Sad-face emoji.
Cristina was quoted saying: “People either write dumb-funny novelty songs or dead-earnest serious songs. There’s nothing around that combines elements of both.” Never confident about her artistic intention, this statement affirmed how I felt about “Things Fall Apart.” It’s not a sad song, no matter what my mom says, but it’s certainly not jolly. The boyfriend’s departure is obnoxious, but it feels too familiar. “‘…I can’t stand in your way. It’s wrong.’ / ‘In the way of what?’ I asked, but he was gone.” We roll our eyes at this guy, but may also recall the sting of a fractured belief, of an abrupt absence. And the song trudges along, sonically and otherwise. I’m not interested in songs that treat heartbreak like a sacrament, some noble lesson that makes you better equipped for the next one. Some heartbreaks don’t deserve that kind of song. I want something that can laugh along with me when my hope slips off of reality. And then I’ll weep a bit and go about my business. I don’t have a cat.
Danielle Truppi is a writer with short fingernails and a dancer with sassy shoulders.
