Tom Verlaine was the guitarist, singer, and primary songwriter for Television, a late-’70s New York band whose 1977 album Marquee Moon became one of the most influential guitar records of the post-punk era. Television never chased mainstream success, but their interlocking guitars, restraint, and sense of space went on to shape decades of alternative and indie music. Verlaine died in January 2023.
Tom Verlaine with Television at El Club in Detroit, MI, on May 4, 2019. I only saw him once, but I’m grateful I had the opportunity.
Tom Verlaine — Missing Him Just the Same
I’ll always remember where I was when I found out Tom Verlaine had died: taking a quick bathroom break at the AMC Theater in Fort Wayne, Indiana, before the Avatar sequel started — the great fish screensaver of our time — when my Apple Watch lit up with a New York Times obituary. Not exactly the setting for mourning someone who lived outside the spotlight but meant so much to so many.
My wife knew I was a big Television fan and quietly asked if I wanted to leave. I stupidly said no. Halfway through the movie, I kind of wished I had — not in mourning, just because three hours of blue fish-people will test anyone’s patience. 😂
Avatar in IMAX 3D is dazzling, sure, but the plot is the kind of thing you can figure out in fifteen minutes flat. Big, loud, predictable spectacle. Verlaine was the opposite. He lived under the radar, played to smaller rooms, and yet even if you knew every Television song by heart, he could still take a solo somewhere you didn’t expect. His music was wiry, poetic, always sidestepping cliché. Avatar overwhelms and fades; Verlaine whispered and stuck.
When he passed, I didn’t shed a tear. I didn’t know him personally. But I felt the absence.
Ed Crawford from fIREHOSE once sang “In Memory of Elizabeth Cotten” about reading a notice and learning that someone had quietly passed. The song isn’t about personal grief in the family sense — it’s about respect, distance, and realization. He admits he didn’t really know her, couldn’t summon tears, but still felt the loss.
That song came to mind immediately when I heard about Verlaine — not because the situations are identical (Crawford clearly respected Cotten deeply), but because the feeling is. The strange space between admiration and intimacy. You don’t claim the pain of those who truly knew the person, but you still feel something real slip away.
But I couldn’t shed a tear, I never knew you well
But I’m missin’ you just the same
That lyric nailed it. His family and friends lost him on a level I’ll never touch. But fans lose something too: the living possibility of one more note, one more unexpected turn, one more moment of his presence passing through the room. It’s a different kind of grief — quieter, but still real.
When we lose someone like Verlaine, we also lose the knowledge he carried — decades of thought, instinct, and mastery on the guitar that nobody else could replicate. His style wasn’t just notes on a fretboard; it was a lifetime of listening, trial, error, and invention. All of that went with him. Nobody will ever play quite like Tom Verlaine again.
And people who know Television — really know them — also know the impact they had. Just about every alternative and indie band traces back to them in some way: R.E.M., U2, Sonic Youth, the Feelies, and countless others carried pieces of Verlaine’s sound forward. You can hear Television all over bands like The Strokes. Bands like The Strokes took that sound and expanded it for a new generation. Echo & the Bunnymen, Interpol, Wilco — the list goes on. It’s bullshit they’re not in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. (Of course, many other deserving bands have also been overlooked — but that’s a topic for another day.) They’ll get in eventually, because the influence is undeniable. But Verlaine won’t ever know it, and that’s the cruel part about recognition that comes too late.
I was lucky enough to catch Television live once. They only played a handful of scattered shows, and this one sold out quickly — I bought tickets right away, knowing they didn’t play often, even though part of me still assumed I’d see them again someday. I had no idea it would be the last time. It was May 4, 2019, at El Club in Detroit. At one point, Verlaine walked past our table, and he had an aura about him I can’t really explain. That’s part of what we lost when he died. The records remain, but the spark in the room — the chance to hear him bend a phrase differently from the last time — is gone.
Setlist from that night:
https://www.setlist.fm/setlist/television/2019/el-club-detroit-mi-6390fe07.html
I didn’t know Tom Verlaine the person. I knew and respected him as a musician and performer. I can’t even measure the number of times I’ve played Television records or his solo albums — they’ve been part of the background and foreground of my life for years. The grief felt by his family and close friends is something private and profound. What I carry is something else: the loss of a creative force who helped shape how I hear music — and the quiet ache of knowing I’ll never get to see him step onstage and surprise us again.
The Music Remains
He’s not with us anymore. But the music he made remains — recorded and preserved. It’s alive every time it’s played, waiting for new guitarists to discover Marquee Moon — and all the other music he left behind — for generations to come.
Avatar overwhelmed and faded. Verlaine whispered — and stuck.