On
Thursday the 22nd of February, the music world was rocked by the news of the
death of one of its most beloved singer/songwriters, Simon Walsh.
Simon had recently completed a long spell in the studio and was returning home when his vehicle left the road. Police forensics experts have determined that he rejoined the road several miles further on, but by then the damage had been done, and he was pronounced dead less than an hour later.
Tributes to the cult figure have been pouring in for many days but out of respect for such an inspiration figure and in keeping with his now famous attitude towards utility bills, none have been opened or indeed kept.
Walsh’s life was a strange and ambiguous tale of a man and his muse. Indeed, it was his love of stopping strangers in the street and showing them his muse which both defined and ultimately destroyed this seedy little pervert of pop. Most people who professed to know him seemed reticent to be interviewed or even quoted, preferring to pay tribute to him using well known hand gestures. Maybe this is the truest measure of the symbolic place he has in the hearts of many.
Walsh was born in the mid sixties to British peasants close to where he was eventually to meet his doom. He was a happy, if demanding child, preferring the company of dogs to that of humans and, due to this feral upbringing, he developed a fierce loyalty to friends and a familiar odour that took weeks to wash off.
By the time he left school, his reputation (and smell) had preceded him and was snapped up by teen idols ‘A Scottish Band’ (ASB). It was while he was in ASB that he had his first fleeting taste of the fame and notoriety that was to elude him for the rest of his adult life. ASB’s blend of heavy touring and shit songs honed his skills as tunesmith, developing his eye for a catchy melody and his ear for a mean riff. Unfortunately, this left him mostly blind and deaf in other situations and many of his physical deformities date from this time.
ASB split after the band’s mascot (cryptically known as Spooner) left to join an obscure money worshipping sect known as ‘The Superior Children Of John Collier’. Spooner’s loss threw the band into a creative confusion which resulted in their one and only period of unadulterated happiness. Naturally, the band split without releasing another record and the benefit of this decision is still visible in the self satisfied, shit eating grins on the faces of surviving members to this day.
Walsh then formed ‘The Dead Men Are’ and cultivated a writing partnership with fellow pervert Rob Ramsay that was to last the rest of his life. Walsh respected Ramsay’s long body and his ability to mutter incomprehensively while Ramsay understood that his partner’s pervading smell kept the flies off his watermelon. With their trademark beige trousers and matching bass player, 'The Dead Men Are' gigged non-stop until they stopped.
Going solo after ‘The Dead’ dissolution, Walsh hit the big time with a succession of benefit frauds which enabled him to finance many recordings and a lead a short lived life as the UK’s chief importer of dolphin semen. All seemed rosy for a time in the garden of Walsh but after a sequence of poorly advised concept albums and a venture into whale porn, lady luck eventually left both the man and the aquatic mammal jizz market in her cruel wake.
Overall, it is the small things that people might wish to remember about the man. Jumble sales were an immense influence in his writings and nearly new clothing makes a thematic impact in much of his later material. Maybe it is because of such little gems of information we might be reminded of him whenever we visit a Cancer Research shop to drop off brass ornaments or maybe even a partially complete set of Risk.
At the remembrance service, the crowds gathered in small groups and sucked on the many helium filled balloons provided by the Walsh Estate. The air was full of high pitched sobbing and impressions of the mice from Bagpuss as the cardboard casket containing the great man’s body was carefully removed from the rear of the rental vehicle and carried to its place of rest in the Mortlake Memorial Firing Range (nr. Mortlake).
Mourners made rude gestures while clutching candles and listened to Walsh’s private collection of municipal roadwork recordings which were then auctioned off to help fund the purchase of parking permits for those who had come by car. His body, clothed in a red velvet smirking jacket with matching jelly tassels, lay virtually motionless as he was loaded into the barrel of the burial cannon to be shot into the sky and forever remain a guiding star in the glittering heavens above us all. It is almost certain he would find it comforting to know that his body’s impact with the caravan crossing Chiswick bridge caused only a minimal delay to northbound traffic making it’s way towards the Hammersmith flyover.
As the masses dispersed, his songs were played over the municipal public address system along with a warning that the Memorial Range was private property and the groundsman's dog ‘Phillip’ would be turned loose if people weren’t gone in half an hour.
Finally and above all that Walsh has achieved in his pitifully short time upon this earth, people will simply remember him for his cheery disposition and that underlying smell of stale tinkle. None can deny this.
He remains; a collection of remains.
Not Simon Walsh.