Ronnie James Dio died the other day, quietly succumbed to a relatively sudden onset of stomach cancer and up and left the planet in a blaze of stage fire, dragonsmoke and general metal awesomeness. Maybe you heard.

It was an abrupt end to a sort of stunning, nearly unprecedented 35-year career in hard rock megastardom, a shock that sent all flags of classic campy Bic-lighter rock n' roll greatness to half mast for at least a solid year, or until Ozzy Osbourne spontaneously combusts, whichever comes first.

It is quite possible you have no idea who Dio was, or you don't really care, or you think he and his various multiplatinum bands -- Rainbow, Black Sabbath, Dio -- were a bit of a long-haired crotch-rock musical circuslike joke. Or maybe you were all aswoon for Rick Springfield or the Go-Go's at the time when a post-Ozzy Sabbath 2.0 was cranking out some of the best hard-rock songs of all time ("Heaven & Hell," "Mob Rules," "Voodoo," "Die Young") circa 1980ish.

It's also possible you know just enough to know RJD was pretty much heavy metal personified, a tiny 5-foot-4-inch sorcerer with a mangy mane, demonic eyes and sly grin, all coupled to a simply huge, operatic voice, a diminutive powerhouse who prowled the stage like a feline elf and who was, it turns out, also finely intelligent and well spoken, an actual gentleman in a genre known all too well for its bombastic, monosyllabic doltbuckets. A rare thing indeed.

Metal is made up of many silly cliches, and Dio's songs rarely shied away from a good cheeseball lyric about medieval knights and crystal balls. But the amazing thing is, Dio the man never succumbed to the typical ravages of drugs, booze or hideous all-body tattoos. He never gained 75 pounds later in life or lost most of his voice through merciless shredding and ended it all playing county fairs for 19 drunk dudes in a barn before collapsing in a heap in a motel room in Jersey. There's a lesson in there somewhere. Or everywhere.

Hence, it is time for respect. It is time to raise the fist and light the lighter and, of course, make the sign. Oh, the sign. It is formidable indeed. It is the thing that will last forever. It has the power.

Of the myriad impressive notables related to Dio's passing, perhaps foremost is the fact the man was 67 years old and was still making quality hard rock records, still touring with a new (old) version of Black Sabbath, still singing his absolute heart out about dragons and rainbows, making the infamous devil horns hand gesture he swiped from his Italian grandmother and which has since became the universal, undeniable, completely badass symbol for true metal across all galaxies everywhere, and for which Dio deserves to be ensconced in the heavens forevermore.

The gesture, it shall not be denied. The gesture is all. The gesture is made to this day by any true fan of rock 'n' roll, even punk or glam or Goth. Thus spaketh the gods: If you do not know the gesture, you simply do not know how to rock. Perhaps you should try it now. Thumb in, middle and ring finger down, index and pinkie finger up, raised in defiance, awesomeness, true devotion to all that is heavy and pulsing and 4/4. See? The symbol makes almost anything better. It also makes it more metal.

Ronnie James Dio was even older than Mick Jagger. This is sort of amazing, doubly so because Mick Jagger's band hasn't written a good song since the Carter administration. Dio, in some ways, remained more true to his origins and his passion than Jagger & Co. Deny it at your peril.

It's also worth noting because, as far as I can tell, Dio is officially the first of metal's genuine elder statesmen to exit this planet, the first of its true legends to have contributed a lifetime of songcraft to the genre. Sure, you had your Jimi Hendrix and Bon Scott and John Bonham, guys who all died lifetimes ago and who didn't even make it much into their 30s. No one of Dio's stature has made the move to the great throne room in the sky. Until now.

It's a little disquieting. The lions of hard rock, guys like Robert Plant, Roger Daltrey, Brian Johnson, Rob Halford, these monsters feel completely timeless, iconic, eternal. They simply shall not, will not, do not die. It's almost impossible to imagine a musical world without Robert Plant. No metal fan of any stripe can imagine a day when, say, Iron Maiden shuts it all down because Bruce Dickinson turned 85 and suddenly can't remember the lyrics to "Hallowed Be Thy Name." Metal revels in the raw energy and unchecked phantasmagorical ridiculousness of youth. It is all fire and testosterone and rebellious fantasy. It doesn't go well with reality.

So it is for hard rock and a guy like Dio, an elfin titan with an undying love for lasers and sorcery, dragons and kings. The man wrote some terribly corny metal songs, but he sang every one with a ferocity and love and total honesty. He also wrote some of the finest hard rock melodies of all time, sang them with a precision and love unmatched by any hard rock singer since. It's a rare thing to give metal some heartfelt props. It is time. Raise your devil horns and salute.

Mark Morford's latest book is 'The Daring Spectacle: Adventures in Deviant Journalism'. Join Mark on Facebook and Twitter, or email him. His website is markmorford.com. For his yoga classes, workshops and retreats, click markmorfordyoga.com.

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