In a post shared to his Instagram page, management has confirmed via Belgian media that Tucker Zimmerman and his wife Marie-Claire have passed away. Tucker was 84 years old, and his death date is listed as January 17, 2026: “There are very sad reports from Belgian media this morning regarding a tragedy,” the post reads. “They report Marie-Claire and Tucker have lost their lives. Our love and prayers go to their family. When there is more news from the family we will post again. Love to all.” This morning, I located and translated a Belgian news article posted on January 17 that reports Tucker and Marie-Claire “lost their lives to asphyxiation after a fire broke out in their home.”
I had the great honor of writing about Zimmerman when he released his last album, Dance of Love, in 2024. He was a kind, patient man who graciously spoke about his life in music. During our conversation, Marie-Claire (who Zimmerman lovingly called “Bear”) would roam in the background, pulling books off shelves or tidying up their “cubby hole.” She sang on “Leave It On the Porch Outside,” a stroke of normalcy for her and Zimmerman. “We sing a lot together around the house,” he told me. “In the ‘70s, when I was doing many of those gigs across Belgium and Germany, she was driving me—because I don’t drive—so I asked her to come on stage and we would just reproduce a couple of songs—what we’d done at the house, singing together, harmonies. She sang quite a bit with me in public during the ‘70s, and she’s even on a couple of the albums from during that time.” And, as I wrote two years ago, through their shared music, we got to step into their lifetime and share that intimacy with them.
Most people knew of David Bowie’s feelings about Zimmerman, that the Thin White Duke thought of him to be “way too qualified for folk [music]” and considered Ten Songs by Tucker Zimmerman to be one of his favorite albums ever. But Zimmerman was more than that. I wrote in 2024 that “because his music was a little off-the-nose and zany 55 years ago, some folks—even Bowie—used to say that Zimmerman wanted to be like another Zimmerman, Bob Dylan. His body of work supports the opposite, as he walked on as a cult troubadour particularly drawn to scuffling drum beats, steel guitars gleaned from busking resonance and a magic wreathed in well-worn obscurity.”
Zimmerman was born in San Francisco during World War II. He took violin lessons as a child but liked the piano better. He hated taking lessons, preferring to copy Little Richard and Fats Domino instead. He went to school for composition and even got a Fulbright Scholarship to study theory under Gofreddo Petrassi in Rome. Zimmerman dodged the Vietnam War draft, left America, and didn’t come back for years and years. While in Rome, he realized that he cared more about writing songs than composing for orchestras. “I used the scholarship as a free ride, but I made use of it. I didn’t waste it,” he told me. “I wrote a lot of songs, and my head got around to the right place—as to what I wanted to do with my life.”
He and Marie-Claire moved to London, where he met Tony Visconti and struck up a musical partnership. Zimmerman wrote the song “Droppin’ Out” for the Paul Butterfield Blues Band and Visconti had been working with Marc Bolan. Visconti helped Zimmerman get on. “He helped me a lot, more than just getting me on record and getting me into a studio, taping. He supported me financially in many, many ways. I owe so much to Tony. Not only was he sneaking me jobs under the table in the studio, as a studio musician, but we became good friends.”
Eventually Zimmerman and his wife settled down in Belgium. He made a living playing gigs around there and Germany. He found a niche in being the “lonely American” who Belgian and German audiences would look to for insight into American culture. When the cultural apogee of Woodstock made it to Europe in 1970, he was summoned to Switzerland, France, and Holland. ““They really wanted to have some American to hang onto, and I was one of the very few that came and played for them,” Zimmerman said. “I had really good audiences. They were mostly students, especially in Germany. I was accepted really very warmly.”
After Big Potato Records reissued Zimmerman’s 1974 album Over Here in Europe in 2023, he made Dance of Love with Big Thief serving as his producers and backing band. Big Thief took care of everything: recording sessions, arrangements, label stuff. “I think, for the first time, I really trusted everybody around me,” Zimmerman said. “I let them make the decisions. There’s definitely a spiritual bond between us; I enjoyed the vibrations of the moment. Nobody was in charge, nobody was telling anybody what to do. We just did it, and it was very, very special. It was mystical, because all I had to do was sit back and not cause any trouble.”
Adrianne Lenker had long championed Zimmerman’s work, calling him “one of the greatest songwriters of all time.” “I have a great affection for her as a person, as a writer,” he said. “I’ve learned from her, and she tells me she’s learned from me.” Dance of Love was like a memoir interwoven with mythology and gratitude—all done live with no overdubs. Whether it’s a 12-bar blues melody or a piano-based melody that conjures the styles Zimmerman was trying to copy nearly 70 years ago, the record arrives full of anecdotes reconstructed into timeless tales. My favorite song from that record is still “Lorelei,” a duet with Lenker. He takes the tragedy of the titular Germanic legend and makes her perspective a tranquil, revisionist still of triumph. “Sing my siren songs,” Lenker declares, before Zimmerman finishes her thought: “But only as a guiding light to better times and safer shores.”
Zimmerman was as gentle as they come. “I would really, really be so happy if a lot of people could listen to this album,” he confided to me, “because I feel good about it. Really good.” “I have a good feeling about it, Tucker, I really do,” I responded. “That’s good to hear, because I don’t pay attention,” he replied. “I would like it to go out into the world and make its way, but I don’t even listen to music anymore. I have no idea what’s going on in the world. [Laughs] I’m in my little cubby hole right now, and I have been for many, many years. I like being alone, I like working alone.”
During our conversation, I asked Zimmerman if making Dance of Love taught him anything about the vocation of music he’d so deeply studied, pursued, and serenaded all his life. “I probably will discover more things later than I know now,” he said back. “All I have now is a great desire to do it again, to make another album. I could probably come up with an answer for you in ten years.” It was 7 p.m. in Belgium then, nearly time for us to depart one another. “I think we’re saying goodbye, aren’t we?” he said, after peering at the light over his shoulder. He had a couple of shows in Europe coming up, so I wished him well on his travels and told him how lovely it was to see him. “I might need a little luck, because it’s going to be a long one and I get tired pretty quickly,” he responded, before taking a beat and looking around his room, giving off a smirk I know I’m gonna miss. “But, you know, I think we’ll make it. We’ll make it okay.”
Read my profile on Tucker Zimmerman here and listen to a really lovely song of his below.
Keep scrolling for more great stories.