I found out on Tuesday that my friend Paul, whom I’d known for over 30 years, had died. He was about the same age as I am.
I hadn’t seen him for quite a while – we’d had much more contact when we were younger – but his loss hit me hard nonetheless. You see, he was an absolutely unforgettable character – unique, incredibly funny, an artist, a showman… As I spoke to others who had known him, everyone said much the same thing. “Never a dull moment when he was around” and “There was no one else like him.” No truer words have ever been spoken.
A scouser through-and-through, Paul commanded a room as soon as he walked in the door – an impressive feat, considering the fact he was about 100 pounds dripping wet with a mop of hair that clearly eschewed taming products or implements of any kind. He just vibrated energy – all sinew, with the reflexes of a cat.
I first properly encountered him when we sang for ‘rival’ bands and, at some point, he moved into an apartment across the road from mine. Before he became the lead singer of Eggshell Blonde, I was in No Significant Features and he was part of the band EXIT. I later became lead vocalist of the latter, through a coup of which I was blissfully unaware. He showed up at one of the first gigs we had together (at Santiago’s Cantina, where Buckingham Square now resides), which is when I found out that the other band members had failed to tell him he had been replaced. That was a fun night. Grown men staring down at their instruments, mumbling something incoherent, while I tried to smooth things over.
The word ‘replaced’ is incorrect, however, as no one could replace Paul. I had a good singing voice and would dance a little with the microphone, but Paul was a Loki-meets-Keith Richards frontman. He writhed, he jumped, he wielded the microphone stand like a lightsaber – you couldn’t take your eyes off him.
The guy was a legend on the island, known for his wild performances that were not without their risk of injury. The bass player in his band at the time fondly remembered a gig at a house on the beach. Paul told the other musicians that he was going to get up on the roof, and once he was there, they were to start playing and he would begin the song high above the audience before jumping down on the sand. What an opening it would be! The thing was, the sand wasn’t very deep, and beneath it was fairly solid rock.
“He got up there and gave us the signal to play,” his bandmate said. “Sure enough, he jumped, and as he landed on the sand, everyone heard this sickening crunch. There was a collective ‘Oo!’, as it was clear at least one bone had been broken.”
Not to be deterred, and ever in the spirit of ‘the show must go on’, Paul kept singing as he dragged his damaged appendage to a set of steps, where he ended up remaining for the rest of the night, eventually finishing the gig without missing a beat.
On another occasion, he had the idea of building a box big enough to hold him, explaining to the band that they would carry it in, and then he would burst out at some point. I think that plan got nixed when it was explained that even as light as he was, by the time you started adding a goodly amount of lumber into the mix, it might take more than the combined strength of the other three members to get it in the air, let alone across any distance.
Paul and I became good friends over the years, and often when I was singing with a band, he’d happily jump up and join in… meaning he’d grab the mic and almost put me in a head lock so we could sing together. He could clear quite a few feet effortlessly if it meant getting onto a stage.
Beyond his prowess as a frontman, there was no one more naturally funny than Paul. I recall showing off my knowledge about the Empire State Building when I was in a bar one night (yeah… I know how to pick fascinating subjects to discuss in social situations), and talking about the plans someone once had to make the spire a mooring mast for dirigibles.
“Oo! Dirigibles, you say,” Paul piped up, in his thick Liverpudlian accent, while mocking my uppity tone. “From the Latin, presumably. ‘Diri’ meaning ‘balloon’; and ‘rigible’ meaning ‘hot air jobby’.” His off-the-cuff etymology had everyone in stitches – he was so quick.
For all my aspirations of being a performer or stand-up comedian, I recognised brilliance when I encountered it. He didn’t need a spotlight to entertain – Paul lit up a room and always had people wondering what he would do next. There wasn’t a mean bone in his body, so even as he forced you onto the dance floor or insisted that you stay and have another drink when it was well past your bedtime, you couldn’t stay mad at him. God of mischief, indeed.
He should have been with us longer, but there’s no question that he made his mark while he was here; a very bright burning light that will leave a trail for years to come.
Yup, no one could replace Paul. May we all live such a life without boundaries.
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