‘Oh yeah, the world's turned upside down’ - The Rainbow (1988)
Mark Hollis (Photo: Stephen Lovell-Davis)
‘What could I possibly say that hasn't already been expressed since the sad news of Mark’s passing broke? We must come to terms with having lost a guiding light of inspiration and hope, in a world that seems to get darker by the hour. Reading heartfelt expressions of grief by Talk Talk fans around the globe, as well as moving tributes from Mark's contemporaries and successors, is comforting me greatly. If only I could offer some comfort in return.’
I wrote these lines on a cold February night in 2019, a few days after learning of Mark Hollis’ untimely death aged 64. I already sensed that attempting to write a tribute to Mark would prove too daunting of a task. My belief that I had nothing of importance to say about him, that hadn’t already been expressed more eloquently elsewhere, stopped me from finishing this piece. I did wonder though, if maybe I should share a heart-warming story with other fans at this sad time, but I felt reluctant to do so as it was quite a personal anecdote. As the years passed by, I lost touch with the Talk Talk online community and this first draft faded from my memory. I wouldn’t look at what I’d written again for seven years - until now.
The story I’m alluding to, is how and why I approached Mark in 2011 with my proposal for a documentary film about him, and how his reaction shaped my outlook on life and DIY filmmaking. Bear with me, we’ll get to this part in a bit.
In the end, all that was needed to motivate me to finally finish and share this story, was a good old spark of inspiration. A spark that made me contemplate Mark’s musical legacy again and reconnect with other Talk Talk fans online.
I have to say, this inspiration came from a totally unexpected place: Space!
Let me explain.
A little while ago, I was flabbergasted to learn that First Contact had finally been made – but not where no man had gone before, but on YouTube of all places! The platform’s algorithm served up aliens Angine de Poitrine, a ‘Mantra-Rock Dada Pythagorean-Cubist Orchestra’, to me and millions of others. The brothers Klek and Khn Poitrine endeared themselves to music buffs around the globe with their mesmerising microtonal groove and distinct artistic innovation.
Excited about
this refreshingly uncompromising band that I had just discovered, I instantly suspected
that there must be some crossover between AdP enthusiasts, a cross-generational
bunch with wildly different musical tastes, with the equally eclectic Talk Talk
fan base. My hunch was proven to be correct when I enquired about this
perceived connection on an AdP Facebook group where, to my delight, I encountered
several Talk Talk fans.
Angine de Poitrine – where no polka dot has gone before. (Image: Paul Grace, Louder than War)
The ensuing exchanges with other AdP/TT fans reminded me of how relevant Mark’s music still is and how present he remains in people’s memories. Thanks to those recent encounters with fellow music buffs, I felt inspired to finally finish and share my anecdote about him.
‘The dice decide my fate’ - Such a Shame (1984). Have I found the secret connection between Talk Talk and Angine de Poitrine 😊?
So, here we are! Let’s pick the story up again where I had left it in 2019, shall we? This is how I continued:
It's ironic that although we haven’t heard from Mark since his 1998 solo album, his passing somehow feels more consequential compared to losing an artist who is omnipresent. This irony is perfectly summed up by Graeme Thomas in his piece for the Guardian A sacred voice: Mark Hollis sang the English gospel:
'Silence was his final song. For 20 years he sang it beautifully. I’m so sad that it has ended.'
We didn’t really mind Mark's silence, because he taught us that silence can be meaningful as well.
As I'm being comforted by the heart-warming tributes being paid within the Talk Talk fan community on social media, I wonder what I could possibly offer in return since everything meaningful about Mark has already been expressed. What I can offer, is my story about how Mark’s work inspired me at a challenging time in my life and how an exchange with him keeps encouraging me to this day.
‘Bring me salvation if I fear’ – Wealth (1988)
It's sometime in 2010; I've recently graduated from the London Film School. After the global financial crash, a graduate with an MA in Screenwriting is about as sought after as toothache.
I'm looking for a job, have no money, live in a damp shoebox on the outskirts of the capital, where I’m regularly electrocuted by the cooker (on a good day) or by the electric shower (on a bad day). After hundreds of unsuccessful applications, I still haven’t found a steady job but I'm as busy as ever – I’m producing several documentaries for my own production company, writing, making music, blogging, volunteering at my local football club. I busk on the London Underground once or twice a week to pay for my weekly food shop. I'm doing everything in my power to get by, and stay sane, in post-2008, austerity Britain. I'm grateful that despite being officially 'unemployed', I’m still able to do the things I love. But I'm worried about the future, scared of it even. I doubt I will ever be able to make ends meet, especially in perversely expensive London ('London never sleeps, it just sucks the life out of me, and the money from my pocket' as Cerys Matthews eloquently put it in the Catatonia song Londinium).
One evening, flicking through the channels, I catch 'Talk Talk Live at Montreux' and am totally captivated.
Talk Talk Live at Montreux (1986) remains my favourite concert film recording of all time.
My earliest memory of Talk Talk is hearing and seeing them on German radio and TV around 1985. I was only four years old, but I remember how their hit Such A Shame affected me - the moving melody and Mark's sad voice ingrained the song into my memory. However, it wasn't until that evening when I watched 'Talk Talk live at Montreux' that I began to discover the band’s music in its entirety.
Talk Talk around 1986 – Mark Hollis, Lee Harris and Paul Webb (Photo: Volkmar Walter)
As I've started to explore Talk Talk and Mark Hollis’ back catalogue, I realised that for me there's no 'good' or 'bad' music, but music that is either sincere or it isn't. A few exceptions aside, I struggle to relate to most contemporary artists as most of them seem hollow, repetitive and solely commercially driven. To discover Mark and Talk Talk’s work in 2010, at a time when music was still dominated by boy/girl bands and music talent shows, felt like taking refuge in an oasis of authenticity. As an independent filmmaker, I believed that a documentary about Mark's music in this context would not only make sense, but it would be necessary. It would give people who hadn’t been fortunate to discover his work yet the opportunity to do so. Mark and Talk Talk’s story of how they managed to stay true to themselves, by not giving in to external pressures or commercial considerations, felt as relevant as ever.
As much as I was convinced that a documentary about Mark was needed, I was equally certain that it would never happen and fail at the first hurdle – getting permission from Mark. But I was also convinced that if I didn’t at least try to make it happen, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I'm a firm believer in the old German proverb ‘Wer nicht wagt, der nicht gewinnt’ (If you don't dare, you won't win, or the English equivalent – who dares wins). Thus, I wrote a personal, yet professionally worded letter to Mark, politely proposing to make a documentary about him that would be guided by his input.
Of course, I feared that Mark could react negatively to my letter and the last thing I wanted was to upset him in any way. I expected that if he would say anything to my proposal at all, it would be ‘no’. He had completely withdrawn from the public eye since the release of his only solo album in 1998, so I knew that it was extremely unlikely that he would even respond in the first place.
Mark didn't reply immediately. Yet, despite knowing a response was highly unlikely, I couldn’t help but feel a slither of hope, that maybe, just maybe he would reply?
Then, as hope was wearing thin, one morning about three months after I had posted the letter, an email appeared in my inbox – it was from Mark.
I still remember how time seemed to stand still. My heart raced as I opened the email. Mark thanked me for my empathetic letter and said he was very happy to hear such an affirmative response to the band's music. He politely rejected my documentary proposal, stating that all had been said about his music at the time when the albums had been released and that those statements would be far more relevant and accurate than anything he could say retrospectively.
All of this made total sense. I wasn’t too disappointed about his rejection since I hadn’t anticipated him to agree anyway. At least I had tried, that’s all that mattered. In any case, I felt that it was incredibly kind of him to respond; I hadn’t expected to hear from him at all.
In my letter to Mark, I had politely offered to send him DVD copies of the two documentaries I had made by that point, should he be interested in watching them: a fly on the wall documentary about Hampton and Richmond Borough FC, my beloved local non-league football club, and a doc about the cross-generational Mod scene in London. Mark ended his email stating that he’d be delighted to watch both films and would very much like to see them – if it was agreeable to me to send them to him!
I think I probably had a glass of Schnapps (or two) just to calm my excitement. To say I was delighted about his interest in the films would be an understatement. Yet, I felt nervous too – at the time when making those two documentaries I didn’t have a professional camera yet, just a DV camcorder from my film school days, and I wondered if Mark would be put off by the sound and video not being up there with broadcast standards. Thankfully, I remembered something he once said that resonated with me, especially in the context of my perceived shortcomings as a filmmaker:
“Technique has never been an important thing to me. Feeling always has been, and always will be, above technique."
Hence, I convinced myself that I had nothing to worry about and posted both films to him a few days later, excited and happy. I wouldn't make a film about Mark, but his kindness and curiosity to show interest in my work deeply touched me. Despite his rejection of my documentary proposal, I could never have asked for a more encouraging and uplifting response.
Three weeks later Mark sent another email. He had really enjoyed watching both films and the choice of subject matter. I had read somewhere that Mark supported Tottenham Hotspur (clearly, he didn't know as much about football as he did about music😊) so football appeared to be of interest to him. Equally, an interest in the Mod scene wasn't much of a surprise either in the light of his eclectic music taste and admiration for Otis Redding's soulful voice. Mark ended his brief email wishing me every success for my future work.
It's difficult to put the gratitude I felt at this moment into words. In those challenging times of struggle and self-doubt, when I was just trying to get by and find my way in the world as a filmmaker, those kind and encouraging words from one of my biggest heroes was a gift I knew I would treasure forever. To this day, I still can’t quite believe this happened.
Mark and I exchanged a few more emails in the following months. As he had enjoyed my Hampton film and lived more or less around the corner in Wimbledon, I invited him to a charity concert me and a friend had organised at the club and to the remaining fixtures of the season. He expressed interest in attending a match and I remained hopeful he would turn up one day at the Beveree Stadium. As it turned out, having a pint with Mark while watching my beloved Beavers, would remain a dream.
‘Baby, life's what you make it. Celebrate it. Anticipate it. Yesterday's
faded.
Nothing can change it’ - Life's What You Make It (1986)
When I read about Mark's passing a few days ago, I cried and grieved as if an old friend had passed. My life was touched by the beauty of the music he left us. I'm blessed that he gave me the opportunity to share some of my work with him and I will forever cherish the kindness he showed me.
Who dares wins. If you don’t ask, you don’t get. The journey is the reward. Life's what you make it. Thank you Mark, for not only reminding me of this, but for making me believe in it.
Photo: Jan Goedefroit
This is how my first draft of this blog, written in February 2019, ended. I can add, that after being in contact with Mark in 2011/12, I reached out to him one more time. In 2015 I invited him to attend the premiere of a short film I was involved in about Steve Marriott. But I never heard from Mark again. Nor did we hear anything about him in general. Until the news of his untimely passing broke.
Of the countless irritating things about death, permanence surely ranks at the very top of the list. Go away death, no one likes you! In the depths of cold and grey February 2019, for those who loved Mark Hollis’ music so much, the thought of never hearing anything from him again seemed a truly dire prospect, including never hearing his silence again. Irreversibility sucks so fucking much.
When I picked up this blog again recently, I couldn’t help but ponder how much has changed in the world since 2019, in the world of music. In the age of AI, everything constantly changes at frightening speeds. Usually not for the better.
What hasn’t changed is my belief that Mark remains a benchmark for those striving to create something sincere that can withstand the ever-accelerating pace of life and without having to sell their soul, or lose their mind, in the process.
What has changed is that I’ve started to believe that, after all, there are artists who have knowingly or unknowingly taken a leaf out of Mark’s book. The family tree of music keeps growing despite the sour rain and Mark Hollis and Talk Talk will always remain a substantial branch within it.
I’m glad I’ve finally shared this story with
you. Thank you for reading.
Laughing Stock cover by James Walsh (1991)
