What was most poignant for me was that the person the writer interviewed for the story was Kirkwood's brother Curt, who is also a band member. I thought this passage was a great example of the magic of detachment:
When Curt is able to clear his mind of trouble, to forget about Cris just for a little while, the transformation is remarkable. When he puts on a tape of his new music, takes off his glasses and closes his eyes, he looks for a while to be at peace. When he spontaneously dances a mad jig in his faded jeans and burnt-orange cowboy boots, declaring "this is some Lord of the Dance shit," or stalks a fly for 10 minutes before he snatches it from midair, Curt's eyes are bright, his face smooth, his limbs loose. He looks like he did and should. Intense. Free. Weird. And loving it. But always, the pall settles back over him like a shroud.
I like that, "the pall settles back over him like a shroud."
I wish both guys well.