Past, present, and future, are all the same to me
‘cause I can’t tell what is now, what was, and what will be.
I first met Simon in 1984, when I was just 16.
I had put together a band with some school friends. We'd written some stuff and made some home recordings on a cassette deck. We called ourselves Three Dead Crows, but in reality we were clueless about what it meant to be in a band. One day, Kris, our guitarist, came across a news flyer for a band called M's Telegram, and, although we had no idea who they were or what they sounded like, the burned-out black and white photocopied image of the singer laying in a park seemed crazy exciting to our teenage post-punk sensibilities. It was a doorway to another world, where even we could be a real band. On the reverse of the flyer there was a contact number — a call out for any new bands looking for management or gigs. Could this be our big break?
We called the number and spoke to a nice-sounding guy called Pete, who suggested we meet up in a pub. At the arranged time, we nervously arrived clutching a home recorded 'demo' cassette, and hid in a snug. We quickly identified a massive, intimidating, punk rocker as Pete. He sat with a chubby guy who wore a beret and National Health glasses, looking more like a train-spotter than the anticipated rock star.
We dithered for ages, trying to find the courage to go over. Eventually, Pete just got up and introduced himself to the obviously underage, make-up wearing weirdos, who couldn't possibly be there for any other reason. Inviting us over to their table, he introduced the singer of M's Telegram: Simon.
We chatted. We floundered. When Pete asked about my influences, I said Thomas Hardy, irrecoverably blowing any cool I might have aspired to. We couldn't possibly have looked any more naïve, but they took the tape anyway and said they'd let us know.
A couple of days later Kris called, bursting with excitement. They liked the tape!
Things moved fast from there. The management deal we'd hoped for evaporated, when Pete joined The Nightingales soon afterwards, but they helped us to get our first proper public gig, booked us into a studio to record a proper demo, and offered far more encouragement than we probably deserved.
We were astonished to find that Simon seemed genuinely excited about our stuff. He compared us to cool sounding bands that we had never heard of — Wire and The Prats — noticing and praising details of arrangement that we probably weren't all that aware of ourselves. He made us feel like we genuinely had something to offer. His passion, and his ability to instantly 'get' what we were doing, in ridiculous critical detail, was inspiring and infectious. Soon we were gigging regularly and feeling like a real band.
Following the dissolution of M's Telegram, Simon had joined a band called Future. They quickly became more important to me than anything played on the radio. Simon’s swirling keyboard was hypnotic and sounded somehow dangerous, the afro-haired (white) guitarist played twiddling nonsense which bore little resemblance to the song, and the (female) singer was hot. It was a very exciting time. Simon seemed to be at every gig we played — down the front even if he was alone — cheering us on, dancing without reserve, calling for encores, yet always willing to offer advice after the set if something wasn't as good as it could’ve been. When our bass player left, he offered to join. He could already play all the songs, without even asking the key.
I had started to book rooms and draw posters to promote our gigs, DIY style, when Simon mentioned a 'side project' called Dog Food. I put together a bill with Future, us and Dog Food, calling it A Night Of Simon. Astonishingly, he was quite happy to play all three sets, variously on vocals, bass, and keyboards.
I had no idea what to expect from Dog Food. That night changed my life forever, and irrecoverably established Simon as my friend, mentor, inspiration — absolutely central and irreplaceable in my life.
Since they were on first, Dog Food sound-checked last. After checking basic levels, they played a run-through of a tune called The Song of the Mackerel. It was like nothing I had ever heard. I mean, at the time, I considered Gong to be the pinnacle of weirdness in music. Hearing a honking Farfisa organ, underpinning a cacophonous Charleston, with punk-rock vocals assuring me that Mr. Simon was, contrary to appearances, a grinning mackerel driving a car, imploring me to accompany him into mackerel-hood (mackereality?), all delivered in two minutes of manic pop, was too much for me.
I began to laugh — at the absurdity, the humour, the sheer bloody audacity, and most of all, an overwhelming incredulity that it somehow worked and sounded great. I continued laughing in the dressing room as punters filed in. I laughed throughout their bizarre set as Simon, in dressing gown and straw hat, Farfisa perched on an ironing board, painted bizarre Dada soundscapes. The audience were introduced to otherworldly wonders, such as the Waxy Muscle Tree, a donkey called Dobbin, who went shopping for custard, but required a piggyback home from a tadpole named Terry, whose diet consisted of oranges and string. Through tears of laughter I watched my entire idea of what music was shift from under me.
Nothing would ever be the same again. My band continued, but my musical sensibilities and lyrics changed. Songs of loneliness and decay gave way to puns about beer tasting notes and fantasies about utopian planets where the people wore only bubbles. Musical in-jokes sidled into my compositions. Dog Food became an obsession. I started turning up to every gig, then showing up at their rehearsals. I became more than a fan. I was a stalker. A fixture. Until finally Simon caved and decided maybe they needed a bass player.
And so began the next 30 years of my life, riding Simon's amazing wave of absurdist pop, lunatic visions, ridiculous in-jokes and most of all a sheer love of life and everything off kilter, strange and surreal, delivered in a chaotic, self-aware lo-fi deconstruction of all that is cool and pretentious in rock and roll. It became my personal quest to help deliver Simon's thoughts and visions to a bewildered world. Often disarmingly serious, even dark, but rarely malicious (and on the couple of occasions malice did enter the scene, Simon managed to disarm even that by pushing the limits of what anyone should dare, with such humour and skewed sense of reality as to make it beautifully harmless).
Without Simon, my life would have been a far more monochrome and depressingly serious affair. His sheer honesty, dramatically individual vision, and utterly uncompromising individuality never faltered. It forced anyone who worked with him to up their game, and drop their pretences. At the same time he never failed to support and encourage the ideas and art of those around him. His contributions to any work he was part of both complimented and transformed the piece — always for the better.
I remember many musical differences over the years. I can't think of an example where Simon turned out to be wrong. He could be very difficult to work with at times, but it was always worth it in the end. Genius is a word thrown around all too easily, but it's hard to find a better word for what he did.
Like all human stories, in the end, this one is a tragedy.
Simon was a light in the darkness for me and many others. A bizarre light refracted through rapidly changing filters for sure — projecting images of bad footballer's haircuts, cars with faces and obscure French movies — but always there, burning bright. Though we didn't work together much in the final decade of his life, I find myself drifting without direction since his passing. I still can't imagine a world without Simon in it, and yet here we are.
I can only be thankful that I had the good fortune to know him, work with him, and share his journey to some extent — that I witnessed him finally find his soul mate, and watched love transform his life into a bright shining magnesium beacon of happiness in his final years. There will never be another like Simon. My mentor, my inspiration, my guide, and most of all my friend — and yes, I really did like that green.
Rest well Simon. I love you. With Sleep Comes The Awesome Dream.
The Magnificent Mr. Vincent
by Richard Temple
As we wander through this world, it may seem madmen hold the reins — half the populace is starving, and their leaders are deranged. The rich exploit pandemics, and now bigotry’s systemic, and the future’s feeling futile, in our fetid flaccid brains. But when we close our eyes, we find a better world inside, where lovers ride in bumper cars and drink formaldehyde. Here plastic bags of clothing hide in wardrobes and divide, and secrets can’t be trusted to the honest master-spy. If your parents’ treacle omelette starts to ooze a bluish pigment, if your outhouse sports a banjo, and your hair is reminiscent of Ian Britton or Rodney Fern, and your legs become translucent, then you’ve joined me in the mind of the most marvellous Mr Vincent! This world’s a place where happiness and darkness co-exist – where a donkey’s main concern is with a mislaid shopping list – where muscle-trees are waxy, and the people reminisce about the band of Yogi Trumpet, in a Francophilic bliss. You can see the smiling faces of the mackerel’s shiny car. Aunt Lucy’s in a frenzy, since the dance is Reservoir. If things get truly wretched there’s no question where you are: it must be Metrasonic Monday, so all hail Mr Bizarre! We must emulate the Bollard Man, no fool, more of a Saint. Celebrate his love of life, embrace the innocence. If you would be my friend, we could dispense with discontent. We’re powered by Sonic Pineapple! We’re all magnificent! Incandescent! Effervescent! We’ll remember Mr. Vincent.
-x-
This moved me to tears. Thank you so much for summing up Simon in this beautiful piece and the times he influenced with his unique personality and worldview. We were good friends in the early days of Dog Food, as my brother Jim played with them.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful...much like Mr Simon himself. Bravo xx