Sorry, yes....it's another post about Killing Joke and the death of Geordie Walker. There might be a bit of this, for a while.
When I learned that John Lennon had died, I’m not sure, but I want to say it was a Monday morning. I remember life coming to something of a standstill. I was in Eighth Grade, at the time, and don’t believe classes at school were cancelled, but I remember every teacher abandoning the script and addressing the event in some detail. I remember a heated debate being waged over whether “assassination” was the right term to apply, given that Lennon wasn’t a titled political leader. I remember thinking, then as now, that said debate was pointless. He was clearly a leader to many. I also remember watching footage of the vigil that went down outside of The Dakota and how a certain teacher of mine commented on how people seemed to burst into tears conveniently right when the cameras hit them.
That point struck me as pretty damn cynical even then, but the whole bursting-into-tears thing over the death of someone you'd never met always did seem a bit strange to me. That said, John Lennon’s music and message clearly touched innumerable lives (and continues to). I certainly don't remember crying, although it did strike me as an incredibly senseless, unnerving loss. In retrospect, though, it seems easier to believe. When you consider how vast Lennon's influence was and, once again, continues to be, it's easy to understand how some could be moved to absolute tears. Hell, about two decades later (well, 2002), I remember getting genuinely misty upon learning of Joe Strummer's death, and I'd certainly never met him.
But the loss of Geordie from Killing Joke took me entirely by surprise. As I’ve recounted here many times before, I was 17 years old when I first heard Killing Joke, and that first taste of their music instantly made them my favorite band, and I mean that very literally. Like, not just my favorite punk band, or my favorite band of the moment or whatever -- my first hearing of "Eighties" in my friend Spike's living room in the Spring of 1984, indelibly marked me as a Killing Joke acolyte for life. Every other music I’d ever experienced was immediately rendered lesser than this incredible sound. I literally ran out the door and across the street to a tiny shop on Cornelia Street in Greenwich Village called Subterranean Records and bought the 12" on the spot, and then feverishly combed NYC's then-thriving network of indie record shops, snapping up every bit of their music that I could put my hand to.
I have loads of "favorite" bands --- bands I'm slavishly devoted to (you may have noticed several posts here about, say, a little beat combo called Cop Shoot Cop), but none of them -- N O N E – have ever come close to Killing Joke. Their music speaks to me like no other, and I have been sworn to them for 39 years. It sounds presumptuous to say, but they have become a part of my very identity. To have lost such an integral component of that life-affirming element that has enriched my 56 years like nothing else is a genuine, palpable ache in the heart.
I cannot say that I truly knew Geordie. I met him -- and interviewed him, disastrously -- a few times, but in the dizzy scrum of post-gig euphoria, I was usually just another sweary, overserved rock pig in a Killing Joke t-shirt under a black leather jacket. Geordie probably had too many of that crowd in his orbit already. I never had the lucky opportunity with him that I've had being able to befriend and genuinely get to know his bandmates Big Paul Ferguson and Paul Raven (I've similarly met Jaz Coleman several times, but I doubt he has the foggiest clue who I am). As for Martin “Youth” Glover – and one mustn’t forget Martin Atkins, I've interviewed both and spoken to them each quite a few times, and they are both incredibly affable, warm gents. While not technically in the band -- but as vital to the whole aesthetic of Killing Joke as its core members -- visual artist Mike Coles, whose iconic work graces the sleeves of most of Killing Joke’s most impactful work, is a gentleman I’m very proud to now call a friend.
As one of the devoted flock, I would be remiss not to also note that I have been blessed with a collective friendship with similarly inclined individuals in thrall to Killing Joke from literally all over the globe. There are “Gatherers” I can with confidence call genuine friends throughout the States, the UK, France, Germany, Australia and even Japan. I have been offered airport pick-ups and accommodations from certain members of the fold that I did precious little to deserve, and I would happily do so for them, should they ever require it.
The sound, imagery, ethos, mythos, lore, essence, and force that is Killing Joke has informed, enlivened and empowered me for literally every day since that day in the spring of 1984. To think that that's all over is almost too much for me to fathom. With that gone, the lattice-work holding the amazing community I was just invoking together could quite conceivably collapse. Not only can I not believe that I shall never watch the band conjure their alchemic brilliance onstage again, but I cannot believe I’ll never convene with all those like-minded souls again.
So, yes, tears have been on the menu, and that no longer strikes me as an odd or inappropriate overreaction. While many might dismiss it as silly fanaticism or a manifestation of a middle-life-crisis, music does matter. Maybe not to everyone. I’ve seen people weep openly about sporting events – something I’ll never comprehend, but I don’t condemn, dismiss, negate, or ridicule it. Sports, music, art, literature, cinema – these things do matter. It’s not solely entertainment. Killing Joke certainly wasn’t.
After a particularly fraught week involving the contentious fruition of a long-simmering project (it is now behind me, mercifully), I dialed up a playlist of Killing Joke standards I made for my son a few years ago as I walked home from the office, and I’ll be damned if right in the middle of Sixth Avenue in the harried crush of early-evening traffic that tears didn’t start streaming down my face. I am incredulous that this supernatural force that made the music that has enriched my life so much has been extinguished.
I’m going to feel quite sad about that for a long while.
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