143
by sparky
When I first heard Big Black on Peel I thought “this is how it is meant to be”, the “it” some refined intangible I’d been groping towards. I bought Pigpile, read his sleevenotes, and thought “this is how to say it”, a scarifying manifesto trailed by laughter.
I kept track, met him, once got his permission to pinch his words, saw Shellac around a dozen joyful times. 30 years on, we’re kinder, mostly. I learned some of that kindness from him. Of the handful of idols I chose in my teens, he is unique in that he matured into something greater as we aged: he was a role model for my excitable youth, and became one for when my oversights, ignorance and cruelties unintentional and meant humbled me - he reflected. He became gentle.
His bands are among my favourites, obviously, but he’s also one my foundational writers: first, the Big Black sleevenotes, the startling critiques, and that scabrous tour diary; later, I sought out bootlegs for his trippy improvised monologues during the Billiard Player Song or Wingwalker, or his ingenious hysteria over The End of Radio. At ATP 2002, I heard him say “she had eyes like a house on fire”, only better. A half-composed letter to him lies useless in my head suggesting he compile his writing, all of it, seen and unseen. I wish someone would do this.
I interviewed Shellac on my twentieth birthday, the only interview I’ve ever done. All three of them were tremendously kind and - that word again - gentle. As I walked up to the dressing room, I heard Steve, out of sight but instantly recognisable: “…he must have worn his dick down to a stump!” This trembling kid walks in, they pull a chair between Bob and Todd, noticeably softened, and answered my mumbles thoughtfully, humorously and clearly, answers far better than the questions deserved. I was so happy!
I hoped to one day take my son to see Shellac - he’s currently two - and give context to a clutch of values I will share with him. I’m so sad. We lost my youngest brother 11 months ago, and while this is of a different order, the unhappiness of the passing of irreplaceable good has decked me again. Some of my dearest friendships I owe to him. Many of you are old hands at this, I know.
I told my wife, this will sound weird, but imagine you had a public dad - that was Steve. My actual dad was one of the first to send comfort on the news, my mum too - a measure of how much I banged on about Steve.
He’s left a lot with us; we were lucky to have had him. Unlucky to have lost him so soon. Cheers, Steve, cheers to you all. Salut.
Gib Opi kein Opium, denn Opium bringt Opi um!
