You get older and by
the nature of the game, people fall around you, go before. It doesn't mitigate the shock and the loss, of
course. Given my rackety health (no doubt mainly a consequence of:
'Drinking and gambling, night-sporting and rambling,' to quote the
words of one of my favourite songs, 'The Banks of the Bann,'), it is
an ongoing source of amazement that I have out-lived so many friends,
bloodbrothers and sisters. But it still hits hard when another close
one goes, very close, almost the same age and as far as I knew a damn
site fitter than this old boy. But we are taken... this is the
nature of things and we deal with it according to our various
beliefs. I was in Liverpool a few days ago, having booked a very
cheap hotel deal way back when I saw that the Tate were putting on
their triple wham: 'Turner, Monet and Twombly.' Late paintings by
these three, the latter of whom is a big favourite so I had decided to
go up north for a gander. Liverpool is a place I don't know very
well but had good times in on a previous trek to see the mighty
fire jazz saxophonist Charles Gayle a couple of years back. The exhibition was very good
and I could see how they yoked it all together to grab late works by
these three painters into the frame, as it were. But another story.
Later, I was in a pub checking my emails and flicked onto Facebook,
saw some odd posts about my old friend John, caught a message from
his eldest son to put up my phone number. Rang my daughter for her
to check what I suspected. Which was that he had died the day
before. Later I spoke to his youngest son and then his wife who was
obviously distraught. The rest is private stuff. But it was a
fucking shock.
John Ware and I go
back, as they say. I met him over forty years ago, early 70s, when I
was ensconced busking in London and he arrived in town. We met and got talking - he was stuck for a kip
so Barbara and I put him up. Oddly, we hit it off straight away, as
it has to be said that in those days John could rile people, because
of his speed of thought, his intensity and his manner. Interesting
people have grit which can rub the wrong way for the unwary (no pun
intended). We started playing together and at this distance of
years, after all the many musicians I have worked with, I can still
say that there was something very special between us. I loved
playing with him, really enjoyed his music and we managed to pull
together an act very quickly. By that time, the London busking scene
was getting overcrowded and many of us had already developed other
circuits. So we played in the declining years of that phase –
which I would measure from Don Partridge's Busker's Concert in 1969
as the high watermark – everything started to fall off after that.
A few months after the Albert Hall gig, for example, I was travelling
around Europe, in 1970 I went to Dublin for the first time and
subsequently visited it frequently, at some point taking John over
with me, a year or so after we met. He moved there eventually and
even though he travelled extensively on the continent as all buskers
did, Dublin became his base. Mine too for a few years but when I
moved on at the end of the 70s John was happy to stay, especially as
he had met his wife to be by then. They stayed together through all
the vicissitudes and craziness that will come down on relationships
with musicians and buskers especially. The road can be merciless and
John had his demons, as did many of us. His courage in facing them
down a long time ago now and choosing a life with a family - three
boys, now men, a strong and beautiful wife - over cheap and easy
thrills, has always impressed not just me but all who had the fortune
to know him.
In later years, after
finely honing his musical craft, he took a sudden turn and started
painting. This was a man with talent and an urge for expression that
now came out in exquisite and unusual watercolours. Some people have
a special gift. He was one of them, whether playing and writing
music (he was an underrated songwriter), or exploring this latest
passion, art. He even founded his own gallery to flog his work –
ever a busker!
The last time I saw him
was at our mutual friend Don Partridge's funeral a couple of years
back. I had been planning on visits over to Dublin to see him and Anne but never made it
due to illness and circumstance. That's the way of it. I am still
coming to terms with the fact that this brilliant, annoying, sparky
and sparkling man is not around on this plane of existence anymore.
He was always vibrant, alive. Now he has moved on.
And in writing this: I
cannot alleviate any of the grief his family will be feeling. But I
can bear witness to someone whom I knew very well and a friendship
that lasted from the first day we met and is still strong in my heart. A small remembrance is the
least I can offer up... My daughter Amelia and I offer our
condolences to Annie and the boys, to all the family.
