Keith Girdler
One of the reasons I respond to music in the ways I do is because, growing up in a tiny village in a county where little happened, I'm driven to make up for what I felt I did without. When I first moved to London, not only did I try and see a band play every night I also began to see my favourite bands whenever they played, wherever they played. The first of these was The Field Mice, the second was Blueboy. Blueboy were on the same record label as The Field Mice and were even augmented by their guitarist Harvey Williams. I can remember playing their first single at my then-girlfriend's flat on her terrible portable record player. They sounded like The Smiths if they'd recorded for EL Records. I must have really liked it, as I then don't remember missing a single one of their shows from that point on. I also don't remember how we became friends. But I think it happened pretty quickly because I don't recall a time when we weren't.
I liked all of the band; gentle, charming and generous men (and one girl). But somehow the singer Keith was the one I got closest to. Significant because I so rarely have male friends who call up and chat on the phone, or make me tapes, or just not mind me being around. In my head, he and David Walliams have become the same person. Possibly because they shared the same camp, slightly dirty sense of humour and the way, with both men, I could never quite understand why they tolerated my company. And also because I fell out with both of them in emotional and regrettable ways.
I thought of Keith for the first time in years, this morning. I thought about him because I watched the refuse collectors coming to empty my bin. And I knew that inside it were a couple of Blueboy white labels, given to me by Keith, that I'd thrown out in a ruthless pre-move life laundry. The last official releases I had by the band (the rest having long gone the same way, as I attempt to live as unsentimentally as I can manage). But I still have all the home recordings he sent me. Every demo, no matter how rough. I treasured them.
I thought about the row I'd had with Keith, after I'd played a gig with an early version of Orlando and he'd stayed in the bar and not watched us. I thought about the last time I'd seen him, outside the Thekla in Bristol in 1995. I'd been thrown out by the bouncers and was wandering forlornly. He tried to smuggle me back in but we were spotted and I was ejected again. But I hope his efforts meant he'd forgiven my indiscretion.
I also thought about his relationship with my bandmate Dickon, and the lyrics I'd had to sing - knowing they were about him (and hoping my parents remembered that I didn't write them). I thought about how, on a tour of freezing Britain, he'd rescued a very ill me from sleeping on yet another stranger's floor and allowed me to travel with them and stay where the band were staying. I remembered waking up on a sofa in Leeds, at Paul's house, and Keith doing affectionate impressions of my sniffing (that had probably kept the whole band awake all night). I can remember being squashed in the back seat of their car on the way to another venue and making him laugh by reciting the Derek & Clive "I'll tell you one thing Tony Newley said to me..." routine. And lastly, I remembered how he'd been guest vocalist with my band Timbertoes when we supported Voodoo Queens in Brighton. He bashed a tambourine and sang: "Young, dumb and full of cum" repeatedly while holding up a picture of Keanu Reeves! I never knew why.
I learned of Keith's death only an hour ago, although he actually passed away from cancer on the 15th. I learned this accidentally from the internet. I guess it had been so long since I'd seen him that it didn't occur to anyone to tell me. I didn't even know he was ill.
If I still had the records I'd have played 'Stephanie' while I wrote this. It was and still is my favourite song of theirs. I wrote the band a fan letter just to tell them.
I liked all of the band; gentle, charming and generous men (and one girl). But somehow the singer Keith was the one I got closest to. Significant because I so rarely have male friends who call up and chat on the phone, or make me tapes, or just not mind me being around. In my head, he and David Walliams have become the same person. Possibly because they shared the same camp, slightly dirty sense of humour and the way, with both men, I could never quite understand why they tolerated my company. And also because I fell out with both of them in emotional and regrettable ways.
I thought of Keith for the first time in years, this morning. I thought about him because I watched the refuse collectors coming to empty my bin. And I knew that inside it were a couple of Blueboy white labels, given to me by Keith, that I'd thrown out in a ruthless pre-move life laundry. The last official releases I had by the band (the rest having long gone the same way, as I attempt to live as unsentimentally as I can manage). But I still have all the home recordings he sent me. Every demo, no matter how rough. I treasured them.
I thought about the row I'd had with Keith, after I'd played a gig with an early version of Orlando and he'd stayed in the bar and not watched us. I thought about the last time I'd seen him, outside the Thekla in Bristol in 1995. I'd been thrown out by the bouncers and was wandering forlornly. He tried to smuggle me back in but we were spotted and I was ejected again. But I hope his efforts meant he'd forgiven my indiscretion.
I also thought about his relationship with my bandmate Dickon, and the lyrics I'd had to sing - knowing they were about him (and hoping my parents remembered that I didn't write them). I thought about how, on a tour of freezing Britain, he'd rescued a very ill me from sleeping on yet another stranger's floor and allowed me to travel with them and stay where the band were staying. I remembered waking up on a sofa in Leeds, at Paul's house, and Keith doing affectionate impressions of my sniffing (that had probably kept the whole band awake all night). I can remember being squashed in the back seat of their car on the way to another venue and making him laugh by reciting the Derek & Clive "I'll tell you one thing Tony Newley said to me..." routine. And lastly, I remembered how he'd been guest vocalist with my band Timbertoes when we supported Voodoo Queens in Brighton. He bashed a tambourine and sang: "Young, dumb and full of cum" repeatedly while holding up a picture of Keanu Reeves! I never knew why.
I learned of Keith's death only an hour ago, although he actually passed away from cancer on the 15th. I learned this accidentally from the internet. I guess it had been so long since I'd seen him that it didn't occur to anyone to tell me. I didn't even know he was ill.
If I still had the records I'd have played 'Stephanie' while I wrote this. It was and still is my favourite song of theirs. I wrote the band a fan letter just to tell them.