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When I heard that John Entwhistle died (in bed with a prostitute, on coke, natch) the night before the Who kicked off their tour at the Hollywood Bowl (to which I had tickets) I was so upset that I interrupted a painting series I was working on to create an image of him as the Ox, which I then pasted onto some devotional candles and set up at the entrance to the Bowl when the remainder of the Who played their rescheduled show. Also, when I heard on the car radio that Mark Sandman of Morphine had died on stage I had to pull over because I was crying too much to drive. And Jerry Garcia's death was, of course, the death of so much more.
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