WZ: (Cracks up laughing) My girlfriend is in the next room вЂ“ I donвЂ™t know howвЂ¦ I hope not! PM: Going by your songs, one might reasonably suppose youвЂ™ve had some trouble sustaining relationships. But I think that generally the terms weвЂ™re given are pretty hard to sort out, theyвЂ™re a little baffling. Course, thereвЂ™s those around me who might disagree, but I think itвЂ™s been pretty easy. WZ: Mine? I think that lifeвЂ™s tough, I think mineвЂ™s been pretty easy. PM: Do you think your lifeвЂ™s been a tough one? My father was a Russian immigrant and he had precisely the same sense of humour. In May of that year, the present writer called Zevon at room 227 in the Sanderson Hotel in London the following is an edited transcript of the conversation.

Strange thing was, heвЂ™d already recorded a swansong of sorts with LifeвЂ™ll Kill Ya in 2000, a morbid, moving and of course funny essay on mortality that eerily predicted his bodyвЂ™s decay in songs like вЂMy ShitвЂ™s Fucked UpвЂ™ and the title tune.

His last words to his public remain posted on his website: вЂњEnjoy every sandwichвЂќ. Zevon was diagnosed with an inoperable form of lung cancer in August of last year his response was to forego chemotherapy and concentrate on recording his last will and testament, The Wind. Thereafter, Transverse City (a cyberpunk dystopian concept album written after a Thomas Pynchon binge) and Mr Bad Example were patchy enough, but he was back on form in the late вЂ™90s with Mutineer, LifeвЂ™ll Kill Ya and My RideвЂ™s Here, the latter featuring guests such as David Letterman and poet Paul Muldoon, that were among the best of his career. Most of all he survived himself, making the mother of all rehab albums in the form of Sentimental Hygiene in 1987, backed by REM. But nevertheless, he survived the booze, the broken marriages, the loaded guns and the interventions. Like Tom Waits, those early LPs sounded like quintessential west coast singer/songwriter recordings, but the core content was altogether more Chandler-esque: the barfly soap opera of вЂThe French InhalerвЂ™ the strung out junkie writer in вЂCarmelitaвЂ™ the sex вЂ™nвЂ™ drink вЂ™nвЂ™ death vignettes of вЂRoland The Headless Thompson GunnerвЂ™, вЂWerewolves Of LondonвЂ™, вЂExcitable BoyвЂ™, вЂLawyers Guns & MoneyвЂ™ and вЂPlay It All Night LongвЂ™ (containing the classic Warren line, вЂњThere ainвЂ™t much to country livinвЂ™/Sweat, piss, jizz and bloodвЂќ).ДЄnd of course, there were unbearably vulnerable alcoholic ballads such as вЂDesperados Under The EavesвЂ™ and вЂAccidentally Like A MartyrвЂ™ that were ZevonвЂ™s speciality. The son of a Russian fighter and gambler, and a piano prodigy who as a child knew Stravinsky, his first couple of albums contained expertly observed portraits of the beautiful and the damned among the вЂ™70s LA coke and champagne set. Scott FitzZevon could scarcely have been more apposite. The singer was as comfortable with writers like Carl Hiaasen, Hunter S Thompson, Jonathan Kellerman and Thomas MacGuane as fellow musicians (although he had no shortage of distinguished fans and collaborators, including Bob Dylan and Neil Young). Jackson Browne dubbed him вЂњthe first and foremost proponent of song noir.вЂќ Bruce Springsteen called him вЂњThe good, the bad and the uglyвЂ¦ a moralist in cynicвЂ™s clothingвЂќ. Zevon coined so many brilliant lines that when his peers came up with quotes about him they tended to speak above even their own abilities. When Warren Zevon passed away on Sunday, September 7, rock вЂnвЂ™ roll lost one of its great ironists and men of letters. In the 2003 article below, Peter Murphy reflects on Warren ZevonвЂ™s legacy, and shares a transcript of a phone interview with the singer from 2000:

Warren zevon enjoy every sandwich album