Marvin, you were a friend of mine

It was thirty years ago today.

1st April 1984, Marvin Gaye died, at the hands of his father. 1984 was a strange year for me. I read somewhere last week that "all good things happened in 1984". Well, I was eight years old in the summer of that year, but for me, not that many good things happened. Both of my granddads died within about six weeks of each other, which meant that Easter was quite miserable, and although I recall happy summer holidays, I guess that my parents had a pig of a time.

But I did hear 'I Heard it Through the Grapevine' for the first time, shortly after Marvin died. I was seven years old at the time, and so I knew nothing. But I knew I liked grapevine. That was one good thing that happened for me in 1984.

It seems that Marvin was in a mess in 1984, warring with his father. He was formerly a big drug user, particularly cocaine, and a row with his father - Marvin Sr. - escalated, which led to him being shot, his father using a gun that was a gift from his son. Marvin died a day before his 45th birthday.

Marvin Gaye peaked before my time. He made his name with Berry Gordy's great Motown organisation (he married Gordy's sister Anna in 1964), scoring early hits with the likes of 'Hitch Hike' and 'Pride and Joy'. But his biggest hits were duets with others. 'It Takes Two' with Kim Weston made the US top twenty, and was his first hit in the UK.

He went on to have his biggest success with Tammi Terrell, on tracks such as 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' and 'Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing'. Disaster struck in 1967, as Terrell collapsed in Gaye's arms on-stage. She was rushed to hospital to be diagnosed with a malignant brain tumour. It ended her career as a live performer, though she continued to record.

Tammi Terrell's illness devastated Gaye, and he became disillusioned with the music industry believing himself to be nothing more than a "puppet" for Berry and Anna Gordy, though the following year, he had his biggest hit with grapevine, which topped the charts in many countries including the US, selling four million copies.

During the 60s, Gaye was seen more as a singles artist, churning out hit after hit for the Motown machine, but as the 60s drew to a close, Gaye was becoming more concerned by social and environmental issues. And when his close friend Tammi Terrell finally succumbed to brain cancer in March 1970, leaving Gaye heartbroken, and following her funeral, he isolated himself from the music industry for a spell.

He finally returned to recording in June 1970, putting together 'What's Going On', a song inspired by his friend Renaldo Benson of the Four Tops witnessing an act of police brutality, and his own growing concern with urbanisation and civil rights. Initially, Berry Gordy refused to release it as a single, believing the song to be "too political". Gaye responded by going on strike. 'What's Going On' was eventually released the following year, becoming a massive hit, and selling two million copies. He followed this by recording his first great album, What's Going On which became a major commercial and critical success.

The success of What's Going On saw Gaye secure a record-breaking $1million contract with Motown, which - at the time - was the most lucrative deal for a black recording artist. He followed the album with the soundtrack for the film Trouble Man. Again, this was well received, and in 1973, he released Let's Get it On to great acclaim, the title track becoming a big worldwide hit.

By the mid-70s, Gaye's relationship with Anna Gordy was deteriorating, but his star was soaring, the albums I Want You and Live at the London Palladium again selling millions, as did his single 'Got to Give it Up'.

Gaye and Gordy divorced in 1977, and the following year, he released Here, My Dear a suite inspired by the fallout from his marriage to Gordy, and intended that a proportion of the royalties would contribute to his alimony payments. Ironically, the album was a failure, and he fled to Maui to record a disco album, a project that quickly fell apart.

As well as dealing with a broken marriage to his boss' sister, Gaye was also fighting cocaine addiction and serious financial problems, owing the IRS over $4.5million in unpaid taxes. He relocated to London, and recorded the unsatisfying In Our Lifetime? which Gaye was unhappy with. He was outraged when Motown released it without his consent in 1981.

The same year, Gaye began a comeback tour, and he also began to relent on his use of drugs. He also planned a musical comeback, and successfully negotiated his release from Motown, signing with Columbia. In 1982 Gaye was back in the groove, and he made his first post-Motown recordings, releasing the massive single 'Sexual Healing', and in 1983, issued the album Midnight Love.

Gaye had rediscovered his mojo, but just a year later, he was dead.

*

In 2014, Gaye's music is as relevant as it has ever been. 'Got to Give it Up' has been sampled by many including the Bins, and the messages of environmental degradation, social oppression and violence he conveyed through What's Going On prove that the more things change, the more they stay the same: in 1971, Marvin Gaye sang, "how much more abuse from man can She stand?"; yesterday the IPCC published their latest call-to-arms on climate change, which suggested that She will not be able to stand much more.

Marvin Gaye was ahead of his time.

Following Gaye's death, he was much mourned, particularly amongst black musicians and artists he influenced. The following year, a Lionel Ritchie-less Commodores released 'Nightshift' which celebrated both Gaye and Jackie Wilson, proclaiming that Marvin was a friend of theirs.

He was also a friend of mine.

Death of the Cool

Sunday 27th October was dark and miserable. A superstorm was on the way which was threatening to destroy half of the country, and was dominating news channels. "Don't leave home unless you have to", was the mantra, and it was all that many seemed to be talking about. And then I received a message that simply said, "Lou Reed has died".

The words were as stark and simplistic as a Velvet Underground song. Four words. Probably double the number of chords that Reed used at times, but words that spoke volumes. Lou Reed has died. The news later that night was dominated by the coming storm, but Lou Reed's death also made the news. That was as unexpected as a rational Daily Mail headline. A singer whose biggest hit talked about transvestites and blow jobs made the ten o'clock news. Not really the fodder of mainstream news programmes, but who gives a shit?

I'm not going to lie and pretend that Lou Reed was the biggest influence on my existence, and go on and on about his impact, and blah, blah, blah. But I liked him a lot. I was a fan, and I just want to say a few words about what he meant to me.

When I was growing up, my musical tastes were influenced by what I heard my parents play, and whatever I heard on the radio. I'm talking before Manchester, Seattle, and before I became a musical snob. My parents played the Beatles and the Stones. Abba. T Rex. Occasionally Dylan. I also remember a song that at the time, I just knew was called 'Walk on the Wild Side'. I didn't know who sang it. That came later when I devoured musical history and dug through racks in HMV and Mike Lloyd Music in Hanley. 'Walk on the Wild Side' and 'Satellite of Love' were both regularly played on the jukebox in the pub where I spent many hours with two old friends. I knew a bit about the Velvet Underground. Everyone talks about them, and their influence on others, but although I liked some of their stuff, especially 'Sweet Jane', I thought they were overrated. But I liked Lou Reed.

Because of 'Walk on the Wild Side', I bought Transformer. People raved about David Bowie's influence, but I've always felt this was overstated, and that Bowie is overrated. This would be 1993, before 'Perfect Day' became a staple of crap 'talent' shows and a charity single. The same year I saw U2 at Leeds on their Zooropa tour where I again heard 'Satellite of Love', a duet between Bono and Reed, via a giant TV screen. At the time I'd quit college and was about to start working in a mill. I didn't know where life was going to take me, or what I was going to do. I fronted a band for a while, and had illusions of grandeur, a kind of Jim Morrison meets Dylan Thomas alongside hard rockers, but to be honest, we weren't very good. And so I went back to college, and took part-time work in a supermarket. The guy I worked for there was a real muso, and my own tastes were hardening at the time. As I well as my 'own' bands - the Verve, Oasis, REM, Manic Street Preachers, Nirvana - I was looking back at things before my time, and as a result, I really hit it off with my boss. It turned out he had an absolute mountain of old LPs, and he used to lend me armfuls at a time. This would be the summer of 1995. As well as records such as Sticky Fingers (which I knew anyway thanks to my dad), and stuff like Dark Side of the Moon, and Astral Weeks, I got a pile of Lou Reed albums. Berlin. New York. Magic and Loss, and others. New York became a firm favourite; I still play it from time to time. I guess I'll be playing it again soon.

As well as writing great songs - for me, it's always about the songs - Lou Reed also looked like what I always thought a rock star should look like. Lou Reed was my version of cool. Now I think it was a bit silly, a teenaged view on what represented cool. But Lou had it. At the time I watched The White Room, a Channel 4 music show fronted by Mark Radcliffe, which mixed live performances with old footage and videos. I remember Oasis doing a really fucking loud version of 'Acquiesce' one time. They played some great old black and white footage of Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac before Green lost the plot. But it seemed like I was the only person that paid any attention to the show. Whenever I asked people if they saw such and such on The White Room, I'd get puzzled looks, shrugs of shoulders, sometimes eyes would glaze over. I remember recording one show and playing it over and over again. The reason being was that Lou Reed played live. He played with Dave Stewart of all people. One of the songs they played was 'Dirty Blvd' from New York, which happened to be my favourite track from the album. And just to prove how cool Lou Reed was, he even managed to make Dave Stewart look cool. Now that takes some doing. In the end, I played the video tape so much, it was in the bin within a couple of months. During the summer of 1995, you could guarantee that before I staggered off to pass out in my room on a Friday or Saturday night, I will have watched Lou Reed sing deadpan about the "Statue of Bigotry".

Lou Reed touched a lot of people, and it is amazing how many other musicians have paid tribute to him. And not just those you'd expect to hear from. Ronnie Wood. The Who. Luke Haines. Even Miley fucking Cyrus. Most people judge musical quality on quantity, 'units' sold. Most of the time, that's bullshit. That is certainly the case with Lou Reed. I think it was Brian Eno that said although The Velvet Underground and Nico sold next to bugger all, everyone that bought it went on to form a band. If it wasn't for Lou Reed, you might never have heard of U2, REM, or the Smiths. Punk may not have happened. But although Lou Reed is dead, the thing is, musicians never really die. As long as you can pick up a record or a CD, or download an MP3, they will live forever. Lou Reed will live forever.

24 hours later, superstorm St Jude or whatever it was christened by a paranoid Met Office and a hysterical press has almost passed. Maybe now life can get back to 'normal', whatever that means in these screwed up times. It would be good to play a Lou Reed record. 'Dirty Blvd' would be a good choice. Or maybe get your hands on Berlin, or Coney Island Baby. Stick on 'Walk on the Wild Side'. Dust down some old Velvet Underground records. Pay a visit to YouTube. Stick them on, turn them up. And then you can say you know what cool sounds like.