I met Roy Orbison at the Club Casino in NH, covering him (seeing him for the first time live) and talking with him extensively backstage in the '80s. He was the warmest, most generous man and the music, it soared. Nothing sounded dated at all, it was timeless. I wrote this after Orbison died, 23 years ago Dec. 6. I had interviewed him just prior to his Boston shows. WFNX dj Julie Kramer took this photo backstage at the Channel.

And, now, it's over. Roy Orbison's life ended late Tuesday night, of a heart attack, at his mother's home in Hendersonville, Tenn., just when he was poised to reenter the upper atmosphere of a star-studded, star-crossed pop world.

Orbison -- the stocky, solitary guy in trademark dark shades and uniformly black garb -- was the world's most popular male singer from 1960 to 1964. Success came to him after he'd made a minor hit for Sam Phillips' famous Sun Records, the stable of Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash. Orbison's star faded when the Beatles and other British bands invaded the United States during the mid-'60s. His songs missed the top of the charts, yet he survived -- and prospered -- on the concert circuit.

In showcasing his multi-octave range last weekend in Boston at the Channel, during his next-to-last concert, Orbison again proved himself the premier pop balladeer, a man for whom heartbreak and loneliness were always a breath away, no matter how "dated" the songs. The man still felt it.

In the past week, Orbison entered Billboard's Top 10 album chart as a member of the Traveling Wilburys, a casual superstar group formed with Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne. Additionally, Orbison was about to release his first album of original songs since 1979, an LP slated for release on Virgin Records early next year a review of that album is on Page 98. "It's still matters of the heart," Orbison said of the album about 10 days ago on the phone from Paris. No surprise there.

During that conversation, Orbison also talked about faith, about being born again. "It's an overused phrase," he said, "and for some people it turns 'em off. But Jesus said, 'Lest you be born again . . .' It's exactly that kind of thing -- but I'm not fond of the phrase."

Orbison, 52 years old when he died, had had what he called "a spiritual awakening" about three-and-a-half years ago. Barbara, his wife and manager, had urged him to back off from expressing those born-again sentiments when doing interviews. Orbison, quoting his wife, said " 'You're being pretty specific here.' " Responded he: " 'I kind of have to be.' . . . In my case, you say, 'Father, I'm gonna let you have it. I've done what I can do, I'm turning my life and my will over to God.' "

Raised in rural Wink, Texas, Orbison always had the voice. A man who sang about timeless sentiments, his milieu was loneliness, isolation, heartbreak. In concert, he had an astonishing ability to re-create the dramatic ballads and midtempo rockers he'd written a quarter-century earlier, without sacrificing any of the emotion or any of the vocal range. Those songs -- "Only the Lonely," "Running Scared," "Crying," "It's Over" -- never seemed distant from the singer.

At the Channel last weekend, Orbison -- sporting a ponytail -- proved his mettle once again: There was a cathartic release that never faltered, a sense that, for this artist, "oldie" meant "classic." In the audience, people smiled, couples hugged.

"They are still very, very close to me," said Orbison recently of the old songs. "I couldn't hardly cheat myself and not do the best I could do."

Yet, he was very much looking forward to a new life with a new record. "This is the first time in a long time that I feel the old phasing into the new. . . . I think everybody's going to like this album; it's really got a lot of heart and soul." He'd hoped to play a couple of new songs at the Channel; however, he and the band weren't rehearsed well enough. Orbison preferred to wait until all was right with the arrangements, and he was planning a major blitz for early next year.

Orbison didn't care for the term "comeback trail," although he certainly appreciated the renaissance he had experienced during the past couple of years. It started with his election to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in early '87, extended through this year's "Black and White Nights" HBO/Cinemax special with Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello and others, and was continuing through the release of the Traveling Wilburys' LP.

Was he excited? In a manner of speaking. Rock stars from Bono of U2 to Springsteen had sung his praises. He was newly hip. "It's very pleasing, as you might well understand," Orbison said from Paris. "It's a nice thing that people say good things about you. I think it means more to me that they are in the business and a few of the poeple I've met said, 'I got in the business because of you' or 'You inspired me.' That makes me feel really good . . . it also tells you where you are. If you ever wondered if you're reaching anyone or touching anyone . . . "

Orbison was a shy, humble man who always spoke about his voice -- and his ability to maintain it -- as a God-given gift. Recently he said: "I've been developing a personal relationship with myself and with Jesus Christ, and it just kind of smooths everything out, puts everything in perspective." In '87, he said, "I gave it a good run. I fought and fought and fought and fought and I wasn't in charge." Jesus was his answer.

What about that voice? What techniques did he employ to maintain it?

None.

"I don't do anything particular to look after it," he said. "I think that if I had been wondering whether it was still going to be, it might not have been. But I always went right ahead . . . I'll never forget my father singing for me when I was a teenager. His voice still sounded very, very young. That's what struck me. He must've been 40, which I considered to be very old. I was blessed with his voice to some degree."

Flashback to that Club Casino concert in 1987, backstage: Orbison confessed that when he first started to record, he broke down and cried during a session. The emotion cut that deep. It was, he said, still true after years on the concert trail.

"If I think too much or go too far, then I start crying and get all stuffy."