The following titles were considered; The Old man’s gone, We’re on our own again, It’s raining today,  Fallen Hero of the War, The Sun ain’t gonna shine anymore, My Ship has sailed, They Called Him Scottie. etc. But they would have been terrible, wouldn’t they?

I’m truly saddened to hear of the death of Scott Walker today. I’ve previously harped on about how upset I’d been after the death of Scott Hutchinson but this is different, something I’d half expected, eventually. I’d expected this news or to have bumped into him surreptitiously somewhere in East London. Both on our bikes. A fleeting glimpse of genius. I say I’d half expected to hear of his death as he was 76 and I doubted that the universe would ever grant me the privilege of meeting him.  I was right.

I suppose there will be a new crowd of Scott Walker fans born today and in some respects that is fitting. They’ll start with the Walker Brothers and Scott I-IV and then, they’ll hear Damon Albarn or Thom Yorke or Jarvis Cocker mention the others and they’ll put on Tilt or Soused or The Drift. And that will be that. They’ll either stick with it out of curiosity about what it is to be human or they’ll not listen to Scott Walker much again.

When I moved to London I listened to him fairly obsessively. I was the farmer in the city. And I was the great romance of his baritone on a train. But mostly I was comforted by his microscopic vision of the world, whether it was the grand, opulent joys of his earlier work or the sparse, demonic atmosphere which came later, there was comfort in each. It is music which understands life and understands the feeling of being. There is a notion of awe which runs through it all, something which is very human and truly artistic.

You may have noticed the tag line for this blog is one of his lyrics. And as I said earlier, I’d thought I’d bump into him, that I’d have my own Scott Walker story, like the ones he’s sang to me only with me in it.  In fact I’d googled his address several times, not in a threatening way but just to see… On the off-chance that I’d see the relaxed smile, the pulled down cap and unparalleled-in-all-of-rock sunglasses in the flesh. That our paths may have crossed and I’d have got a glimpse of someone who understood and was still discovering. I never found his address and if I had I would have probably not made time to go and seek him out. I wanted to hear a story, be a story,  crack the enigma, or be flummoxed by it like everyone else. When I consider these fantasies, I don’t feel a sense of deluded embarrassment (slightly), I just feel as though I was a fan andI feel as though I’ll not be the only one in London who’s done the same.

In the future, when I need to tap into the feeling of sorry teenage woe I’ll listen to the Smiths. When I need to tap in to the feeling of Scottish misery and depression ( and heartbreak ), I’ll listen to Frightened Rabbit. But when I need to listen to anything else, and all of the above I will continue to listen to Scott Walker. He offers a tangential slice across human emotion and served it up in glee soaked agony, bemusement and joy.  All through cigarette smoke and teary eyes.

I can’t really do justice to such an amazing, enigmatic artist. It takes listening to him to understand his genius, I can only elaborate on the same sentences over and over; he took joy in feeling, he was a true artist, he was enigmatic. These platitudes will be repeated endlessly over the coming days as his radio friendly hits air out to an audience which is not ready to hear him. But then nobody really is, you’ll know if you’re ready to listen, however.

Extensions through dimensions.

Mr Hummels

P.S. To all those recording artists I’ve mentioned on this previously, I do not know where you live.

Yet.

P.P.S. Sorry if this got a bit Mark Chapman; I’ve got The Childhood of a Leader on as I write and Scafolders banging irregularly outside my flat (and an over-arching sense that this is totally intentional and somehow guided by a presence which I’d rather not elaborate on).