Steven Wells R.I.P.

He gave my band our first major review in the NME.

Didn’t understand a word of it (I always suspected he hadn’t actually seen us), but fuck I was excited. Collaborated on several articles – mostly on comics and fanzines – with me for the same paper during the 80s, at a time when most his peers were making un-subtle digs at how crap I was. Had a knack for being simultaneously infuriating and hilarious: recall one genuis punch-up that occured in the offices after he’d been flicking paper clips at everyone all day, and one hit Neil Taylor in the eye.

Earlier on, I recall seeing him on stage in squats and pubs, mostly anarcho or Rock Against Racism-stype events, where he stunned me with his force of delivery. One time, while NME was still in Carnaby St, I recall a journalist coming over to sit at the table where me, Swells and Dele Fedele were huddled and making a great play of how he’d been moved to “the angry corner”. “I’m not fucking angry,” Dele immediately exclaimed.

Swells and Quantick were always great buddies: I was always somewhat intimidated by the rapidity of their banter and easy confidence, but – as I say Swells went out his way to support me, perhaps feeling we were fanzine comrades, or had a similar enthusiasm, ex-performers each…Christ knows, I was never up to his standard. His writing was genius, provocative, annoying, crap, hyperbolic – often in the same sentence, all stuff I thoroughly appreciated from a music critic. He had a heart as big as…well fuck, I don’t know…a very big heart. His politics helped give music journalism a conscience, his writing kept NME from floundering above the mire for too long a time. The fanzine cover story me, him and James Brown did in ‘86 is still one of my favourites ever.

I recall one time, down that Brixton pub round the corner from the police station, I was at Melody Maker by then, we’d both gone down to write about a trio of fiery, politicised noise bands – God, Godflesh and Terminal Cheesecake I think it was. I was rampaging hard at that point: he’d turned up early, and settled down in a cosy corner with a book. That impressed me so much, I can’t begin to say. He followed his own path -and that, to me, is more important than most anything.

Fuck it. He was so one of the good guys I knew I didn’t even need to be in contact with him: it made me happy that he was still somewhere out there, pricking away at the pompous, belligerent, challenging, argumentative, passionate and above all funny as all hell. And now he’s not.

Steven Wells says goodbye.