Do you ever wake up with a song on your mind, smile, think of a dear friend and how you enjoyed that piece of music with them, then remember that they've passed away and end up feeling rather sad and melancholic for the rest of the day. As a musician, this happens quite often. The basssplayer in my band, Paul Hircombe, passed away in 2012, having played in the band from 1980 until 2009, when he moved away from London. Paul was there for all of the bands best moments, which happened to be some of the best moments of my life. It never really occurred to me the band would or could have amazing moments without him. Quite regularly, I will dream about Paul. The dream takes the same format. We are having a cup of tea and a chat about music and he asks if he can rejoin the band. I then remember that he's passed away. I ask how is this possible. He will make a reply such as "In reality anything is possible if you want it enough Rog". Sadly it seems that is not true.
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| Some of the gigs we've done since Paul passed |
I'm sixty two now. How did that happen? Yesterday a really odd thing happened. I went to watch Hadley FC play at Real Bedford FC. I went to pay and I noticed that there was a concession for us pensioners. I asked for the discount and the bloke accused me of being too young! I had to produce my over 60's railcard. It was actually the first time I've asked for a discount. It felt odd. I was quite pleaed that the bloke didn't believe me and asked for ID. When we were kids playing in the band, I never thought I'd be this old. I've had a life of excess and risk taking. When the band was on tour in Sweden in 1982, we had a lot of time on our hands. I can remember asking Paul how he thought he'd die. He said "It will either be a car or bike crash or a drugs overdose". My answer? I joked that I'd be shot by my girlfriends husband, we laughed. Paul said "If it was my wife, I'd forgive you Rog, but don't get any ideas".
Sadly, Paul's end was far more sad and mundane. He died of cancer in a drugged agony. The saddest element of it all was that he wanted to live. We sat with him as his life ebbed away. he waited until he was alone, his girlfriend and a couple of friends nipped out for a smoke, he departed. Before life and cancer took it's toll, Paul was a hellishly good looking chap. In 2010, he was arrested and appeared in court for his role in a gang that robbed gaming machines. He lined up in the dock, with his fellow gang members. Paul was wearing a sharp suit. The rest of them looed like they'd knicked clothes left outside Oxfam. It looked like a scene from a film. He was the handsome superstar, he almost seemed to glow. He was sentenced to three years, and served one. He got out, determined to start afresh. Then he was struck down with cancer. Oddly, he was diagnosed at the same time as I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He was told he had a year at best. The last year was horrible.
The experience of watching him disintegrate shook me to the bone. I didn't want to play the songs that I'd written with Paul anymore. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to play in a band anymore. Fortunately, a collaboration with author Allen Ashley helped me get through this. Allen sang with the False Dots from 2012, when we reunited for a 'one off gig' to celebrate the survival of Friern Barnet library. Allen played in the band until 2019, appearing 24 times with the band. It took me that long to be able to play the songs associated with Paul again, although only Action Shock and Not All She Seems are ones in the set now that he played on.
I've lost many people in my life over the years, parents, friends and work colleagues. Each has left a void in some way. When they've lead a good life and are older, it is not so hard. When they are your age, you grew up with them and they are taken early, it is hard. On Friday, I was reminiscing with my studio manager about Ernie Ferebee, who was my business partner in the studio from 1994 until 2002, when he passed with pancreatic cancer. Ernie was twelve years older than me, but we were very close. Ernie left three children under six. It was brutal. We had worked so hard to build the studio up and Ernie never lived to see th fruit of his labours. Like Paul, I sometimes dream about Ernie, where he usually gives me useful advice about issues facing the studio. Ernie was the perfect partner for me in running the studio. He wasn't a musician and only ran it as viable business, that he believed would eventually provide a lucrative income. Our aim had been to develop the studio into a business that would generate a handsome income by 2004. We estimated that it would take ten years of hard work and investment to build this position. Ernie ran every aspect of the day to day operation. We'd meet once a month at the pub and work out the priorities for the next month. Ernie was lazer focussed on ensuring that any cash we spent on the business would bring a tangible return. We'd make a list of what we needed and we'd work out which one would bring the fastest return and be best for the business. Ernie was also very keen that our equipment was reliable. We chose brands that were known to not go wrong, Pearl drums, Peavey and Laney amplification. Ernie was also an excellent salesman and built up the retail side of the business. When he passed away, I lost all of that. Many people thought that without Ernie, the studio would soon fold. Although Ernie was no longer around, I'd do the same process and visualise what he'd be saying to me. Sadly, I'm far more seduced by sexy music products than Ernie and am not as good a salesman, so the business is not what it would be if he was around.
As I mentioned earlier, I awoke with a sense of melancholy around me. Without Paul, I doubt the False Dots would have lasted more than a couple of years. Without the band, the studio would have never existed. I owe him a huge debt. As for Ernie. without him, I'd never have been able to build the studio into what it is today. When he joined the organisation, we had two rehearsal studios built in lockup units. When he passed away, we had ten, a shop, a hire business and a recording operation. We did most of the renovation work ourselves. I'd finish work in town at 6pm and then put in a shift until 2am, with Ernie, when we were opening new rooms. As units became available, we'd take them on, fit them out, soundproof them and rewire and tart them up. The process would be around six weeks long, taking every evening and weekend. I couldn't have done it on my own.
A few years ago, I was chatting to a work colleague who was a bit of a hippy dippy lady. I remarked that I found it cruel the way two of the most important friends had been ripped away so cruelly. She ruefully commented "The Universe puts the people in your life that you need at the time that you need them and then takes them away when you can stand on your own two feet". As I was contemplating this rather profound statement, she added "That is why you must always appreciate the people you love when they are here". I'll leave you with that thought.
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If you want to know what a brilliant musician Paul Hircombe was, here is his masterpiece. This is Paul's song. He wrote this and played bass on it. If you like rock instrumentals, then I think you'll love this. This was the last song Paul recorded with the band. He originally wrote it in 1985, when I lent him my brand new port-a-studio for a week. In 1986, we recorded a version with lyrics that was called "All out of Love". The then singer Mark The Fascist wrote them. Paul and I hated them, and we called the song "All out of earwigs". When we started doing it again in 2002, we did it as an instrumental and let Fil Ross cut loose. You can see The False Dots at The Dublin Castle on Friday 13th December CLICK HERE FOR TICKETS
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