Warren Zevon was described as an ‘‘artist’s artist’’, perhaps damning him with faint praise. Photo: GETTY IMAGES

We saw another election the week before last, one beyond the frontiers of electoral boundaries or party lines. And it gave long overdue acclaim and recognition to an artist, whose field is music, and thus inhabits that world with no frontiers.

Twenty-two years after his death, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has acknowledged singer-songwriter Warren Zevon. One could say better late than never. Or one could say what kept them? Zevon is an inductee in this year’s category of Musical Influence Awards. Two years ago, he was nominated in the Performers category, but didn’t make it.

On being inducted into the Musical Influence category, the Rock Hall, said this of him: ‘‘Warren Zevon was an artist’s artist. One of the most talented and significant singer-songwriters to emerge in the 1970s, Zevon wrote poetic but offbeat songs, often with darkly humorous and acerbic lyrics, and delivered them with a dry wit and a twisted energy like no other performer could. Throughout his career, Zevon built a devoted fan base and earned the respect of his greatest peers, including Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and Neil Young.’’

A few days after Zevon’s death in 2003 Springsteen, during one of his concerts, paid tribute to him as a ‘‘great, great American songwriter’’ and then sang Zevon’s song My Ride’s Here. Dylan has also covered Zevon’s Mutineer in concert.

It’s not uncommon for fans of an artist to feel aggrieved at what they see as a lack of recognition by the artist’s peers, industry groups, and indeed the wider world. Given that not everyone can be instantly inducted into the Hall of Fame, it is obviously going to take time to consider who should be included. But it is more than a little grating in that it has taken more than two decades for Zevon to be acknowledged and considerably more from the date when he was first eligible. And yes, I’m a fan.

To describe someone as an ‘‘artist’s artist’’, as the Rock Hall did, can been seen as damning with faint praise – for sure he was an artist, just not a popular one. The description, however, holds some truth for Zevon’s career. Zevon, to put it coldly by the numbers, that is chart success, peaked early. His name became known through Linda Ronstadt covering his songs Poor, Poor Pitiful Me and Hasten Down the Wind in the 1970s. He had a radiant time of popularity in the wake of that with the chart success of Werewolves of London, and to a smaller degree with Excitable Boy and Lawyers, Guns and Money.

And then he became an ‘‘artist’s artist’’. Not from his own volition. The tide simply went out. The waves of success became ripples. His songs and the public parted ways. Zevon became that popular death knell epithet, a critic’s favourite.

For every large production moment, for instance the albums Sentimental Hygiene and Transverse City, there would be times when Zevon would take to the road on his own, playing clubs in the United States, Europe, New Zealand, and Australia in the early ’90s in such celebrated venues as the Woy Woy RSL Club on the NSW Central Coast. The ensuing live album was called Learning to Flinch.

One of the major factors in setting Zevon apart from other songwriters was the literary frame of mind in his lyrics. It was almost fiction noir mixed with Hunter S. Thompson’s gonzo journalism style. Indeed, Thompson was a friend of Zevon’s, as were various crime writers.

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As his longtime friend TV host David Letterman, said admiringly, ‘‘He’s the only songwriter I know who could put the word brucellosis into a song.’’ It was from the song Play It All Night Long, a riposte to all the good ol’ boys Southern rock songs.

Zevon released 13 albums over three decades: Wanted Dead or Alive, Warren Zevon, Excitable Boy, Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School, The Envoy, Sentimental Hygiene, Transverse City, Hindu Love Gods, with members of R.E.M. (excluding Michael Stipe), Mr Bad Example, Mutineer, Life’ll Kill Ya, My Ride’s Here and The Wind.

In 2002, in what Zevon would surely have admired for its ironic cruelty, the universe dealt him a lethal blow. On the advice of his dentist (he never went to doctors), he made an appointment to see one. Despite feeling in fine shape (this after years of alcoholism early in his career), he had developed a chronic cough. He was diagnosed with mesothelioma.

He gave his doctor the albums Life’ll Kill Ya and My Ride’s Here, and reportedly said: ‘‘These are my last two albums. Maybe now you’ll understand that eerie acceptance of death you keep asking me about.’’

Zevon died the following year.

Jackson Browne, who had helped him through his drinking and in recording, said on learning of Zevon’s cancer, ‘‘He is a standard-bearer; he’s very adventurous and there’s a confidence and power that translates to effectiveness. There’s a literacy, not just of words but also an emotional literacy. The coin of that realm is honesty and vulnerability. But then, you know, there’s a berserk quality to the whole thing when it’s done. For him, it was all about trials by fire.’’

Early in his career, Zevon had printed on his records, ‘‘Thanks always to Jackson.’’

His last album The Wind was released two weeks before his death. Browne, Springsteen, Emmylou Harris, Don Henley and Tom Petty played on it with their friend. It was the sound of a man knowing mortality was a man’s constant companion, who can come visiting at any time. It now had come for him. He sings Dylan’s Knocking on Heaven’s Door on it. The final song is Keep Me In Your Heart. It is of a pair with the heartbreakingly Don’t Let Us Get Sick from Life’ll Kill Ya. The Wind won two Grammy Awards.

An anthology of Zevon’s music is titled I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead. For his fans, may his music never sleep.