The Fallen

2016 has been a frankly terrible year for humanity. It is disturbing to reflect on the awful scenes in Aleppo, the appalling increase in terrorist attacks at home and abroad, an increasingly intolerant domestic social atmosphere and the truly terrifying potential for devastation on an unimaginable scale by those post-truth elephants in the room: Brexit and the Trump Administration. It almost gets to the point where you can understand Stalin’s comment that the death of one man is a tragedy; the death of a million is a statistic.  

Bearing this in mind, I would accept that we have seen the deaths of a disproportionate number of those in the public eye. Demographically, this makes perfect sense as the definition of “celebrity status” and access to it, exploded exponentially in the 1960s with the advent of pop music and popular culture. The basic fact is, as Andy Warhol predicted, a whole load more people became famous, sometimes enduringly and sometimes briefly, about half a century ago. These days, those baby boomers are reaching their three score and ten Biblical allotment, meaning we will be seeing the regular departures of those we have loved.  In no particular order, and with the greatest respect to Cliff Michelmore and Terry Wogan, here is a list of 10 celebrities whose deaths affected me the most in 2016, because their work has touched my life at some point.

David Bowie: The quintessential 70s musical maverick. From The Man Who Sold the World to Lodger, he spanned the glam decade like a colossus. The first album I bought was Diamond Dogs in summer 74; tracks like We Are the Dead and Big Brother still compel with their beguiling, louche insouciance.

Johan Cruyff: The greatest midfielder I’ve ever seen. A dazzlingly talented, footballing genius who stole my heart with Holland at the 74 World Cup, as he moved from turning Ajax into a superpower to reviving the beating heart of Catalonia, FC Barcelona, where he also managed with conspicuous success. The Cruyff Turn is only equalled by the arrogant shrug of the shoulders he performed with such distinction when asked to explain his genius.

Dave Swarbrick: The finest fiddle player to come out of the 60s Folk Revival. He served with distinction and panache in the classic Fairport Convention line-up. An irascible old drunk, he was remembered with almost as much affection for his legendary short temper as his virtuoso violin pieces. Go listen to The Banks of the Sweet Primeroses to understand his appeal and legacy.

Fidel Castro: Not just a man, not just a politician, but an icon for those of us who refuse to cower to authority and imperialism. Castro oversaw a crime-free state with the world’s best healthcare, in the face of a near 60 year blockade by the US, acting as a beacon for all those who strive for freedom and self-determination.

Andrew Sachs: Aged 11, I can still remember the debut series of Fawlty Towers in September 1975. Every episode had me bad laughing; they still do and this must be the greatest legacy for a wonderful actor. The tragic thing to remember is, were his family seeking Asylum from the Nazis now rather than in 1938, Theresa May wouldn’t have allowed them in. Just think about the implications of that for a minute…

Muhammed Ali: I’m no boxing fan. I find it barbaric and frightening. Just look how all those repeated blows to the dead affected Ali. However, what I admired about him was his cultural importance. Everyone loved him when I was growing up. When Eldon Square was officially opened in 1977, the city didn’t ask The Queen to do the honours, despite the fact she was touring the country as part of her Silver Jubilee. Instead, Ali got the gig and a mate of mine got his copy of Pretty Vacant, released that same July morning, signed by the Greatest. The stuff of dreams and legends.

Barry Hines: The author of Kestrel for a Knave enriched the educational experiences of thousands of working class, northern kids, who learned that every school had the Billy Caspers, the McDowells and PE teachers like Sugden. What empowerment came from that knowledge, eh? Hines also penned the chilling Threads, imagining a post nuclear holocaust Sheffield. It was grim as it sounds.

Harper Lee:  As above; how much did we learn about tolerance and respect from To Kill a Mockingbird? The book and the film killed racism stone dead among my generation, allied with what punk taught us. Love brings unity; hate brings division and Harper Lee made sure we understood that.

Prince: Now I wouldn’t claim to be an expert on the bloke’s music, but nobody else quite managed that synthesis of James Brown and Mick Jagger quite like the Paisley Park fella. When Doves Cry, Sometimes it Snows in April, Raspberry Beret, Kiss: solid gold classics every one of them. The finest ever exponent of down and dirty sexy soul and funk.

Leonard Cohen: Musically, the death that has affected me above all others is that of the wonderful Leonard Cohen. While Bob Dylan remains my first and most enduring singer / songwriter crush, I adored much of Laughing Len’s output. I first heard him aged 12, in early 1977, when my older cousin Grahame gave me an old CBS compilation album, The Rock Machine Turns You On, which included The Sisters of Mercy. I immediately fell in love with Cohen’s voice and the atmospheric sparsity of the sound. Having, at that time, already embarked on a process of collecting all of Dylan’s early albums following my exposure to Highway 61 Revisited some months before, I did the same with Len. Then, as now, Songs Of and Songs from a Room were my favourites. Suddenly punk happened for me and the frankly baffling Phil Spector produced Death of a Ladies' Man stopped me in my tracks, as did Dylan's subsequent Christian bilgefest Slow Train Coming. I’ve never bought any subsequent product by either of them, but will adore until my grave the work they produced from 66-74 and 63-78 respectively.

Of course, like David Bowie, Leonard Cohen had penned his own musical epitaph, in the shape of You Want It Darker, which came out a month before his death. Unlike those awful jazz-tinged live albums he churned out, replete with hysterical backing singers and unnecessary alto sax waffling, this was stripped back, solemn, funereal and hilarious; the title track and the marvellous Treaty would go in a top 10 of my favourite Len moments. It is a fitting, self-penned obituary to a unique talent. Goodbye Chuckles; your work will endure. Incidentally my favourite cover version of all time is The Jesus & Mary Chain's go at Tower of Song.

Obviously the deaths of all these celebrities are deeply saddening, but it shouldn’t detract from the fact that the passing on of many ordinary people is an equal, if not greater, cause for sober reflection. In the last couple of years, a few of my very aged aunts and uncles have started to rest in peace, but as I didn’t really know them, their deaths haven’t affected me unduly. Instead, I looked to the 1,313 “friends” I have on Facebook and was quite startled to discover how many people I knew, directly or indirectly, whose presence remains on that list are actually no longer with us. Suspended like relics in amber, their profiles remain unchanged and unchanging, except for the occasional incongruous spambot or in memoriam post on their anniversary or birthday.

You may see it as trivial, but my Laura’s wonderful cat Prince who left us on 4 August 2012 still has his profile up there. He was a brilliant lad was Prince; spoiled rotten by Laura and firmly of the belief he needed 5 square meals a day, plus a bite of supper. He lived until the age of 16 and every day he breathed, he was Laura’s devoted companion. Still his memory lives on.

Tom O’Grady was a larger than life Teenage Fanclub devotee. Raised in Mitchelstown, County Cork, he made Luton his home and music, Spurs and socialising, his life. I met him twice at the 2006 Bandwagonesque gigs and he was superb company. Cancer claimed him in 2010. We TFC boarders talk of him fondly and with great regularity. Simply a fabulously entertaining bloke.

Joe McGinniss shot to fame with the new journalistic account of Nixon’s 68 election victory, The Selling of the President, a book I read at University and adored. He next crossed my path when, in early 2013, I read his account of the most unlikely of Serie A contenders The Miracle of Castel di Sangro. So impressed was I by his writing, I dropped him a line on Facebook and he replied the day after he’d seen Newcastle stutter to a 0-0 away to Norwich -:

Geordies are woeful.  And yesterday?  The cup?  Ouch! Pardew's got his tit

caught in a wringer.  8 year contract, with seven in Championship was not what he envisioned a high-flying year ago.  Italy is wholly corrupt on every level, but nonetheless I'd live there if I could. 

Joe was exceptionally knowledgeable about football and he read (and enjoyed!) my book about Percy Main Amateurs, Village Voice. For about a year we exchanged infrequent emails and messages about football and politics, before prostate cancer took Joe in March 2014. I am delighted to have been in contact with him, however superficially.

Karel van Bergen was a mad, camp, crazy New Zealander of Germany ethnicity, who played violin in the Band of Holy Joy; he was simply beguiling to watch.  While he moved away from the band to live in Munich, he kept in touch and was a regular Facebooker, where we became pals. I only ever met him twice at BOHJ Newcastle gigs, but he was charming company.  He left us at the end of August 2013.

Jackie Leven was the driving force behind Doll By Doll, whose 1979 magnum opus Palace of Love still makes it onto my turntable. He had a lengthy solo career, where his artistic integrity was sometimes hampered by his liberal to excessive reliance on drink and drugs. Like his fellow Scots John Martyn and Bert Jansch, his expert guitar playing, both fluent and beautiful, kept him going through the hard times. I sent him a message explaining how much I admired him and received a two word reply; Cheers Pal.

Finally, Jo Wallace. Jo taught English Literature at Carlisle College and I knew her when I worked on the Higher Education Foundation Certificate programme at Northumbria University. She was a hard working young lass, always bright, always positive, who made ends meet by working at a variety of colleges across the North West, from her home in Runcorn. Less than a year before she left, she secured a full-time, permanent job in her home town and when I saw her last in July 2014, I wished her all the best for the future. We kept on touch on Facebook regularly; griping and moaning about bullying managers, insane admin tasks and the general feelings of being undervalued and underappreciated in FE. I knew she was due a neurological operation in May 2015, but it stunned me when she passed on during surgery, leaving a young daughter. Her death was a tragedy undoubtedly, but she touched so many people’s lives and did such good, I feel proud to have known her. Rest easy Jo x

And to you all; I wish a better 2017 than 2016 xxx