Tony Wilson died last night after a relatively short struggle with cancer. He holds, of course, a rather special place in both my life and my imagination as the father figure to the soundtrack of my life and more. Other than John Peel, Mr. Wilson had no peers as far as scope and influence. He allowed the world to see a little bit of what he saw, sometimes too early, sometimes too late, but always coaxing out something unexpected. Without Tony Wilson, we might never have heard the post-modern serenade that became "Love Will Tear Us Apart," and rave culture certainly would have appeared as something entirely different if it hadn't been born on the Hacienda floor. Far be it for me, though, who never had the opportunity to shake Mr. Wilson's hand, to write a proper epilogue, like in all of the newspapers. Instead, i offer a simple reflection on man's life in general and one man's legacy in particular.
When people die, others tend to gloss over their failures and flaws in order to create some perfect image, erasing all of the gray area, and sculpting a history that consists of only their visions and accomplishments. But those failures and flaws are the first thing to bring a smile to someone's face after the loss of someone dear. Those small stories of one's stubbornness or miscalculations makes one remember that everyone is human and that they should be celebrated as a sum of all parts, not as an entry in an encyclopedia.
So, Tony, i hope that you won't begrudge me this, and even more, i hope that someone guards my memory, screw ups and all, when i pass. Tonight, i raise my glass to you, the serious journalist forced to play charades, the music enthusiast turned impresario, the anarchist vis a vis failed capitalist, and maybe a bit of a wanker. Thank you, in short, for being you and doing things as only you could have done.
