This is a story about brilliance.
This is a story about pain.
This is a story about a man whose talent reshaped modern music—and whose mind unraveled in silence.
His name was John Francis Anthony Pastorius III. But the world knew him as Jaco.
In the 1970s, the jazz-fusion powerhouse Weather Report was already making waves, led by titans Joe Zawinul and Wayne Shorter. But when their bassist left in ’76, a brash 24-year-old walked into the room and declared: “I’m the greatest bass player in the world.”
And here’s the thing: he wasn’t bluffing.
Jaco’s 1976 debut album didn’t just introduce a new sound—it demolished expectations. Not only did it redefine the bass guitar, it redefined jazz.
The opening track, a blazing, funk-drenched take on Charlie Parker’s Donna Lee, was played on a fretless electric bass. No horns. No guitars. Just Jaco—and percussionist Don Alias. It wasn’t just jazz. It was punk. It was poetry. It was defiance.
Legend has it Jaco couldn’t afford a fretless bass, so he took a butter knife to a Fender P-Bass, popped the frets out, filled the gaps with wood filler, and created what he called The Bass of Doom. He made it cry, sing, howl. It became a voice—an extension of a restless soul.
Jaco was a genius. Full stop—the man was a genius. But genius isn’t armor. Sometimes, it’s an open wound.
Behind the swagger and undeniable talent was a man waging a silent war with his own mind. Jaco lived with bipolar disorder. He self-medicated. He chased highs in music, in substances, in life—and he crashed…hard.
In 1987, he showed up at a Santana concert in Miami—confused, disoriented, unwell—and tried to sneak on stage. Later that night, after he was turned away from a nightclub, he kicked in a glass door and got into a fight with a bouncer. He was beaten so badly he never recovered. He died of brain injuries. He was 35.
But Jaco’s music? Immortal.
There’s a video on YouTube: Joni Mitchell, live in 1979. She’s radiant, backed by a band of jazz giants—Pat Metheny, Michael Brecker, Don Alias, Lyle Mays—and Jaco. He plays like he’s trying to put God Himself in the Sharpshooter. There’s joy. There’s fire. There’s life.
But joy didn’t save him. Because genius doesn’t provide immunity to your darkness.
It’s easy to see men like Jaco as outliers. But we’ve lost too many brilliant men to the darkness they felt they couldn’t share.
Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd helped invent their early sound. But mental illness and drugs pulled him into seclusion. He never returned. “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” wasn’t just a tribute, it was a living eulogy. Barrett died in 2006…alone.
Robin Williams was a personal hero. He could make you laugh until you sobbed, or cry until your heart broke open. In 2014, we lost him to the battle in his mind and Lewy body dementia. Even eleven years later, I still can’t bring myself to watch Dead Poets Society or Good Will Hunting.
And just as I was writing this piece, news broke that John Brenkus, the brilliant host of ESPN’s Sports Science, died by suicide. He brought science and joy into sports—he made physics cool. He was like Bill Nye for sports fans. And now he’s gone.
Mental illness—especially in men—is still wrapped in stigma. We’re told to “man up.”
To bury it.
To be strong.
But we all crack.
We patch those cracks with workaholism, sarcasm, sex, alcohol, or just going quiet.
But it doesn’t have to be that way.
Healing can start anywhere:
- In a garage, rebuilding a transmission with your best friends.
- On a dock, holding a fishing rod and talking about life.
- Around a fire, with a story and a friend.
- In the bleachers at a baseball game heckling the outfielders.
- In a therapist’s office, yes—but also in moments of brutal honesty between two men.
Healing doesn’t always look dramatic.
Sometimes it starts with: “I’m struggling.”
That’s not weakness. That’s strength. And we’ve seen the winds of change start to blow.
When Dak Prescott spoke out about his depression, the trolls showed up—but so did the love. When Jarren Duran spoke about anxiety in pro baseball, it created space for others to relate. When Mauro Ranallo, the dynamic sportscaster and MMA voice, had a documentary film about him called Bipolar Rock ‘n’ Roller, I cried—not because he was broken, but because he told the truth.
And that truth matters.
June is Men’s Mental Health Month. And as a man who’s fought many battles with my own mind, I want to say this loud and clear: Men’s mental health matters.
We can’t keep waiting until the obituary. We need to talk before the breaking point.
As the old saying goes, I’d rather spend two hours listening to your story than ten minutes giving your eulogy.
Because your story—mine, Jaco’s, Robin’s, Anthony Bourdain’s, Chester Bennington’s, and the stories of countless others we’ll never see in headlines—isn’t weakness. It’s strength. It’s power.
Here’s what you can do:
- If you’re struggling, talk to someone. Call a friend. A counselor. A brother (blood or no.)
- If you see a man hurting—reach in. Don’t wait. Buy him coffee. Ask the second question. Stay present. Listen.
- Start a men’s circle. Join a group. Share your truth.
Connection saves lives. Vulnerability builds strength. Healing happens in community.
Think about this, what are the strongest three words that a man can say? “I need help.”
Let’s change the story. Let’s honor the men we’ve lost—by helping the ones still here.
Because you are not broken. You are not alone. And your story matters.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
