My grandfather was a lifelong musician. In his younger days, his polka band would perform in swanky New York nightclubs such as the Copacabana, where they’d often share the stage with future celebrities like Joe Pesci and Frank Vincent (who Grandpa once described as a “lousy drummer”). By the time I was born, however, he was a solo act, touring more modest venues in Florida. I can still remember listening to his demo reel on cassette tape as a child:
Hello, my name is Eddie Dee. I play the electric keyboard and I sing.
And the grand finale of that recording? Harry Belafonte’s “Jump in the Line”, which he jokingly introduced as “the song from Beetlejuice.”
Edward Dainiak passed away in the early morning hours of September 5, 2024. That same afternoon, I caught a screening of the sequel to Beetlejuice, for which I’d already purchased a ticket the previous evening.
Sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish between mere coincidence and a message from the universe.
In a strange way, seeing Beetlejuice Beetlejuice under those specific circumstances was a great comfort: the film’s irreverent attitude towards death made the loss significantly easier to process. By finding humor in the concept of mortality, Burton and his collaborators give the audience permission to laugh at a subject that would otherwise inspire grief—reminding us that we should celebrate the joy of life, rather than simply mourning its end.
But I digress. This isn’t a review of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice—just my clumsy attempt at a eulogy. Rest in peace, Grandpa Dee. I know you’re tickling the ivories in the Great Beyond.
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