My dear friend Jerry Hadley put a bullet into his head yesterday. He had been having a very rough time recently. He confided in me that he was filing for bankruptcy and was taking medication for depression. He also had some pretty severe family problems stemming from a bad divorce.

But even even with all that, I think it’s almost impossible for anyone who knew Jerry to believe that he would do this to himself. He seemed brimming with, for lack of a better term, life force. He was ferociously interested in many, many topics, ranging from music to the Alamo to eastern religion. He had so many friends. He was deeply spiritual. He not only studied religion, he lived it, felt it. Jerry was my only friend who could speak Aramaic.

About fifteen years ago, when I was living in East Berlin PA, I was asked to be a guest on a radio show called “Desert Island Discs.” As its title suggests, it was one of those deals where you pick ten pieces of music which you would take with you to a desert island that miraculously came equipped with stereo equipment. One of my choices was a song from the then-new recording of the complete “Show Boat.” The song was performed by Frederica von Stade and Jerry. I loved that CD and listened to it repeatedly for a long time, and still listen to it often with great pleasure.

That recording of “Show Boat” was my introduction to Jerry but once introduced I discovered him all over the place. He was a protege of Leonard Bernstein and performed memorably in Bernstein’s “Candide” and “Mass,” to name only two. Before too long, I was a genuine Jerry Hadley fan.

So you can imagine my (eventual) shock when one day I got a fan letter — from Jerry Hadley. Of course, at first it didn’t sink in who it was. I figured it was just another Alamo guy. And he was, in a way. It turns out that he had a fierce interest in the Alamo and actually owned all of my books on the subject. We corresponded for a few weeks before he mentioned opera in one of his emails and the lightbulb went on — oh! That Jerry Hadley. Yikes.

We met face to face, appropriately enough, at the Alamo and from the moment we started talking it was as if we’d been friends forever. What kind of conversation can range from John Wayne to Charles Ives to Paul McCartney to a seemingly endless stream of dirty jokes? A conversation with Jerry. He had been chosen by McCartney as the lead in “Liverpool Oratorio.” I’m a lifelong Beatles fan, so he loved to regale me with one McCartney story after another. His delight in having had the opportunity of working with McCartney was apparent.

For a long time, I struggled to make a documentary on a pet subject of mine, the Star Film Ranch, the first moving picture studio in Texas. One day out of the blue Jerry called up and said, “Would you like me to do a benefit concert for you?” Indeed I would and pretty soon it was set up. Sadly, in what seemed like a good idea at the time, we joined forces with another San Antonino-based group which turned out to be run by a liar and thief — and I actually came away from the benefit poorer than I started.

But that had nothing to do with Jerry. He did a great concert that night and we had a wonderful time in San Antonio over the course of that week. It happened to be just the week after Hurricane Katrina had devastated New Orleans and other coastal areas and San Antonio, like many Texas cities, was filling up with refugees. In his spare time, Jerry went over to a couple of shelters and gave impromptu concerts. That’s the kind of guy he was.

This past March, our mutual friend Joan Headley was giving the tenth of her lavish annual Alamo parties. Unbeknownst to her, it was being turned into a surprise tribute to her. I suggested to Jerry that we write a song for her and sing it to her at the party. He agreed immediately. The result, “Joan of the Alamo,” might not be an enduring classic — although I think it’s darn catchy — but it was great fun to write with Jerry. And even greater fun to perform it with him that night.

We had a great Alamo weekend in Texas over the High Holy Days, traveling down to Brackettville to visit Alamo Village and then up to Dripping Springs to tour the newer Alamo set with a group of friends. And we attended an Alamo descendents ceremony inside the shrine and then toured the Alamo grounds by night. We spent almost every waking minute together for four straight days and not once did I see even the slightest cloud cross his expression. He was full of life, laughing often, making others laugh almost constantly. He liked being the center of attention – and you have to admit he was really good at it.

Last Thursday, I got a dark email from him, talking about how badly things were going for him. I wrote back a letter that was as encouraging as I could make it without falling into hollow platitudes. I told him how loved he was by so many people and how much joy he still had in him — and had coming to him. But I guess those were things he was no longer able to believe. I don’t know what led him to this inescapable despair, to this sense that things were so very bad that they could never, ever get better. I guess I never will know.

I’m so angry with him for making such a bonehead move. And I’m so grief-stricken at the light that he’s suddenly pulled out of my life, and the lives of those of so many others who loved him. As I write this, I’m still in a kind of shock. I haven’t shed a tear yet. I think this is because the whole thing still seems so preposterous to me. Even though it has been reported in the New York Times, I’m still half-convinced that there’s going to be a retraction tomorrow and it’ll turn out that Jerry is just fine and singing away and getting ready to tell one more filthy and hilarious joke.

But in my heart of hearts, I know he’s gone. It’s just not fair. He left far too many songs unsung. I’ll never forgive him for leaving us so very prematurely. And I’ll never stop missing him.