RIP MARK HOLLIS

This isn't a post that feels like a particularly good fit for Digitiser - though I know I've gone "off-brand" plenty of times in the past - but I wanted to write something about the passing of Talk Talk's Mark Hollis.

It's hard to say I was a rabid fan of a band that hadn't released an album since 1991 (not counting Hollis' sublime solo album from 1998), but I certainly class myself a huge fan of the music they produced. Even their early period - pre-1986's The Colour of Spring, when they first took a step away from a more obvious commercial sound - has music I love. But it's those later albums, Spirit of Eden, Laughing Stock and the solo album, which really resonated for me (as they clearly did with many, judging from the outpouring of tributes). 

I'm listening to The Colour of Spring now, and it's taking me back to the late-80s, when it was the soundtrack to the brief window of my life I had between leaving school and becoming a father. That association with such a bittersweet time can't help but make me feel even sadder on top of the sadness I felt when I read the news yesterday.

Thing is, I can't really identify what that sadness is about, which I'm finding frustrating. It's not as simple as "Oh, someone whose music I loved has died". There's an element to it that I'm struggling to grasp hold of. Certainly, I lived in hope that one day he'd come out of retirement and produce new music, but it was a vague hope, one I never really believed would happen. 

Weirdly, I went on a Talk Talk binge only last week, and then went searching for other music which had the same degree of sparseness - and there simply isn't anything to match the power of emotion in the music and that voice. He was unique.

There was something desperately yearning and pained in Hollis' songs. Seeing the news of his death was like having a bucket of ice water poured over me. A genuine gut punch. Reading the words of his cousin-in-law describing him as a wonderful father and husband made me even sadder; he wasn't some acid casualty. There was no great scandal. He walked away to raise his children, and the music industry wasn't compatible with his desire to be the best father he could be. 

What's strange to me is I felt a similar sadness when David Bowie died - despite not being prone to such displays of grief over famous people, and despite not being the biggest Bowie fan ever. 

What I'm feeling is a slightly nebulous something to do with them both being artists who refused to compromise, who did things their own way, and then walked away without fanfare, without grand gesture, or a farewell tour. 

Their integrity, to want to live a life away from any spotlight - to let their art speak for itself - is so powerful and dignified to me. There are so many artists and creators who hunger for that spotlight, whose work is a means to an end - all for that ultimate reward of the applause - and I always find it distasteful. How many bands have announced farewell tours to scoop up a fix of their fans' grief, only to reform a couple of years later?

I can smell a mile off when somebody is being artificial, playing that game, when they're motivated by a hole inside them, as opposed to a need to create something outside that isn't tailored to the widest possible audience.

While I obviously wouldn't put myself in the same category as either Bowie or Hollis, it's something I wrestle with when it comes to my output. I've a day job where I do - essentially - try to write the commercial hits, and that pays the bills (some of the time), but I try to create work as Mr Biffo that has integrity and is true to who I am. Yet there's a tension there when it comes to the stuff I do under the Mr Biffo banner.  

I occasionally worry that by appearing on camera I'm somehow coming across as fame-hungry, displaying that need to be in the spotlight, when I know it's something I'm doing simply for the pleasure of doing it. Sharing it with others is about sharing in the enjoyment of it. 

Putting my face out there is a necessarily evil, but if I could do it all while also disappearing... then I would. It's something I think about a lot; I've vanished before, and there's a wonderful freedom in that anonymity. I'm not a natural extrovert, which is why I've spent most of my life hiding behind the written word and a fake name.

Having a public profile - even one as relatively minuscule as mine - does bring a degree of stress without it that I'd sometimes rather do without. Only yesterday I had to deal with a maddeningly exasperating issue to do with Digitiser The Show, while feeling that it wasn't meant to be like this; it was just meant to be fun. 

Few weeks go by where I'm not being "told off" by somebody for something I've done as Mr Biffo, or there's somebody wanting something from me. Or where they're taking out their crap on me. While I love the Digitiser fandom, and love interacting with people who enjoy the work I do, conversely... in my experience... having an audience can make you a target, and people have an opinion on you, they project, and they often have expectations that aren't compatible or realistic. People often relate to me as "Mr Biffo" and not as a person - and it was that which ultimately led me to retire in 2008. 

Sometimes it would be nice to walk away from that pressure again, that feeling of being misunderstood or - ironically - not being seen. Unfortunately, that would also deprive me of something I deeply enjoy, and which I'm profoundly grateful for. I'm so glad I came back. 

So maybe for Hollis the music brought with it all sorts of other little headaches which he ultimately felt he could do without. And perhaps I can relate to that; I'm only a couple of years older than he was when he released his final album, and sometimes I ask why I invite the additional stress of Digitiser and Mr Biffo into my life, when I just want to enjoy the doing of it. And then on the other hand... I know I'd hate to live the rest of my life not creating things, and having turned my back on sharing it with others. The Digi community is a profoundly wonderful and special thing, and I'm proud to be a part of it.

Hollis was a rare breed. He gave little of himself in interviews, preferring to let the music speak for itself. He retired from touring in 1996, and only ever did press as a contractional obligation. He didn't care whether his music was heard by a huge audience; he just wanted it to exist in the knowledge that it was the music he wanted to make. 

He hadn't released an album since 1998, and yet I'm going to miss him. I'm going to miss that hope he'd one day resurface, despite respecting his decision to stay away. I'm going to miss that potential. And maybe I don't want the same to happen to me. 

All I know is that this time yesterday I lived in a world where Mark Hollis was still alive, and now I don't. And that's crushing. 

Paul