I only found out today that Terence Stamp died, about a month ago, and I missed it. I loved him: unforgettable in The Limey, and I’ll take the Fellini piece he touched as well. Every time a great artist dies it feels like a note vanishing mid-song, a phrase cut off. The melody keeps going, but with gaps that can’t be filled. Each death breaks me a little, a record collecting hairline cracks, still playable, but now also carrying the sound of loss. Stamp always felt musical to me. In The Limey he plays like a soloist who wastes nothing, no extra notes, only tone and timing. In the Fellini piece he’s more like a haunted refrain, something you recognize before you can name it, drifting through the arrangement and changing the key. When artists like him leave, the chart doesn’t suddenly rewrite itself. But you feel the instrument that’s missing, the way a song thins when the organ drops out. You keep playing, yet you’re listening for a sound that won’t return. That’s the strange part of loving art over time: your setlist stays the same on paper, yet the performance tilts, because one of the voices that taught you how to listen has gone quiet. And you realize how much of your own phrasing came from that voice, and how you’ll carry it forward, cracked vinyl and all.