It’s long been said that you should never meet your heroes, as, more often than not, they can frequently fail to live up to your expectations. This was never the case when I was lucky enough to meet the mighty Paul Raven of Killing Joke at some point in 2000.
Though I’d been a massive fan of the bass player since first seeing the video for “Eighties” in 1984, Raven and I became chatty on The Gathering (an online community of Killing Joke fans) and he rang me up during a quick visit to NYC. In very short order, Raven put to rest any standoffish rockstar bullshit, and we became actual friends. I’d frequently come home to find his big laugh roaring out of my answering machine. His was one of the first calls I managed to field in the strange hours after September 11, 2001. He also left a giddily profane congratulatory message upon the birth of my first child. We’d get together whenever he came to town and he looked after me when I was in London.
The last time I saw him was when he was playing with Ministry at the BB King Blues Bar in the spring of 2006. We went out for dinner afterwards, and I remember him seeming a bit more tired than usual. He passed away on this day a year later and has now been strangely gone for 15 years. Lots of folks tell very comparable stories to mine, but it’s all true – despite the bluster, the reputation of alleged pugnacity and his imposing physique, he was a truly big-hearted gent.
I wish all the pictures I have of us together don’t involve being, well, drunk, but that can’t be helped.
Rest in peace, RAVEN.
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