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The following account relays my sadly tenuous, yet ultimately thrilling, dalliance with the late (never early) Tony Wilson, a man whom I never met, but wish I had. A one off alpha gentleman that many accredit with the placing of Manchester on the starmacadam’d road to its cultural resurgence; the lion’s share of which was mostly achieved through the highly entertaining conceptual insurgence employed by one Factory Records (1978-1992). The oft regaled tales of which, needless to say, have become the ever so finely embellished stuff of bona-fide legend. A label which has since emitted decades of impudent influence with its eccentric and honest logic, initiating its ethos grandly with the unique generosity of Wilson’s blood scribbled non-contract, which stipulated that ‘The musicians own everything. We own nothing. All our bands have the freedom to fuck off.’ The label’s visionary and genre refining design ethics, came courtesy of Peter Saville, Central Station Design and 8vo; graphically defining an era with effortless panache.
My friend Neil was up from Edinburgh to take part in a panel discussion entitled ‘Drawing: A Clearer Picture’ at the College of Art: a discussion in which he proceeded to intellectually expound on the theoretical merit of drawing freestyle with handheld lasers, and the establishing of colleges on the moon which would specialise in such progressive mark-making techniques. The Piper was safely ensconced at the back of the gallery, shielded by seated students; because owing to the lingering dregs of an evening out I happened to be suffering from a severe bout of muteness. I was also having a ‘Blue Thursday’ (the 29th of March 2007), because I’d just read in ‘The Guardian’ that Tony had been diagnosed with cancer of the kidney, and being one of my heroes, this delivered an underhand and emotive sucker punch to my spirits. It had much the same effect on Neil when I relayed the bad news; he texted him immediately, gravely concerned as to his wellbeing, and bummed out to boot. With typical inspired foresight, Neil had invited Tony up to Edinburgh College of Art a few years prior, to deliver an inspirational and no doubt comedic ‘fuck peppered’ talk to his students; some of whom may have taken this one off opportunity for granted, missed it even, un-blissfully ignorant as to Tony’s provenance. Latterly Wilson fought the petty bureaucracy of the NHS like a true socialist, and tackled his illness with gutsy resilience (his Local Health Board refused to pay for the life extending Sutent he urgently required, his Factory friends instead had to set up a Wilson drug fund). Yet despite the extensive and expensive treatment, which included invasive surgery, his renal cancer ultimately transpired to be his terminal curtain call, he passed away on the 10th August in hospital from a massive heart attack. He was afforded a true funerary Factory send-off, suited up in a stunning silver and black Savillesque casket, which bore a numerical resemblance to my Levi’s, as it possessed its very own Factory catalogue no’, FAC 501 to be precise; just not at all turned up at the bottoms, blue or machine washable (like my Levi’s). Peter Hook described Tony’s passing as an experience akin to losing his father all over again; he was a much loved dandy with foppish tendencies who was always dressed up to the (Pen)nines, a grand and eloquent manager, inspired mogul, cognoscente and generous friend, whose loss to many was nothing short of devastating. He really did put the (big) Man in Manchester.
Pre-Piper and during my musical youth, I had Bezzed it about with the best of them to the inspired narcotic noise of Happy Mondays’ ‘Wrote for Luck’, ‘Hallelujah’ and ‘Loose it,’to name but just three of Factory’s immediate classics. You see, through Tony’s ‘through speakers’ presence, he had been astutely orchestrating the soundtrack to my life for many years, and will undoubtedly continue to do so for decades to come (hearing permitted of course). An impresario’s impresario come potent force of northern nature, whose texted words (by sad coincidence) Star Trekked their way from Manchester to Dundee and beamed their (always optimistic) way into my living room at about 11 o’ clock during the morning of the 30th of March 2007: to beep beep onto my occupied couch with a startling Nokian timbre, whilst digitally manifesting in my friend and biographers inbox.
“Who’s That Neil?”
“It’s Tony.”
“Wilson?”
“Aye.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He says he’s on the mend.”
And so it goes; Anthony Howard Wilson, forever the consummate optimist, to whom that cheeky bugger called Death, was just another of life’s little and unknown pleasures.
The Lonely Piper 2008