We mourn the passing of friend of the band Alan Passfield
Al and I rode to the CRAB fest in the year Safe Harbour/Rogue State came out. As the Cypher remix of ‘Sail Away’ ended, the CD stacker flipped to Rogue State and the electric version of ‘Pirouette’ came thundering in, we both simultaneously let out a whoop, 'Now that's how you do it' he said.
I’d been encouraging Al to come out from his midnight haunts, going as far as dragging him into the car. Al joined us on the weekend trip, getting blind drunk and making our guitarist cringe as Al swore and cussed his way through the meal at the restaurant the night before the festival, after popping two painkillers for a headache and following that up with a few bevvies.
Al was erudite, sophisticated and a music connoisseur. He did not bear fools lightly. Or at all in fact, as those who got on the rough side of him found. He had a tongue like a fireaxe. The flipside of that nature was his genuineness, directness, honesty and wisdom. Gaining Al’s respect as a musician was an achievement reserved for those he thought were worthy.
I learned a great deal from his insights into all things material, physical and spiritual. He was the one to tell me to chop wood and carry water, the one to tell me when I had missed the obvious the one to encourage me to be who I am, and not to be anyone else, all in the same sentence. Usually loudly, usually with added ‘Fucks’ for emphasis.
We as a band were his friends too. We bailed his drunken and belligerent ass out at gigs before someone boofed him, and yes he would curse me and damn me were I to spare him any truth as I write this. ‘What are ya, my fucking mother? Spit it out! Tell them the truth!’
Al had seen some pain, it was carved deeply into him, as if life had made of his crags a filigree.
And so he offered this hard face to the world and carried within a gentleness and an appreciation of beauty in the natural way of things.
10 o’clock in the morning at the Duke, Midnight at a gig after going to 3 others. Al was a towering presence on the local scene, this tall, black garbed, cursing warlock of a man, cane in one hand, omnipresent fag at his lip.
Thank you for everything you taught me mate, and I know in whatever manner it may be possible, you’ll be at a gig right now, telling them how things are. We’ll miss you Dr. Rock.
Godspeed, my friend.
