Remembering John Martyn

Nick Drake was a genius. There's no doubt about it. But he was a tad too effete for my taste -- a private school flower sprung from the gardens of classic literature and fine poetry. That’s not my world. I’m a clumsy, sentimental dude who shakes hands firmly with phrases like "Be a man about it” and "You’re my girl." This is why I mourn the death of Brit folk icon John Martyn, who died from pneumonia on January 29, thus joining his old pal Nick. Martyn's was an art that spoke to me: funky blues music for lovers that reeks of sex, booze and tears. Here was a guy who once referred to marijuana as "mary jane" because that’s what he actually called the stuff.

I don’t want to say Martyn sang from the heart; that implies I somehow know his essence. But he definitely sounded as if he did. The man could emote like nobody’s business. And yet Martyn was a profoundly avant garde individual, far more so than just about any singer-songwriter of his generation. Anybody who digs What's Going On?, Astral Weeksand There’s a Riot Goin’ On has to track down cult classics like Solid Air and the harrowing Grace & Danger (recorded while Martyn's marriage to singer and collaborator Beverly Martyn fell apart). Both albums are the creations of an artist dissolving the lines between folk, soul, free jazz, ambient electronic music and even dub.

For a long time it seemed as if the only musicians who understood what Martyn was up to were fellow mavericks like Arthur Russell, Talk Talk and Portishead. Nowadays, however, just about anybody tinkering with acoustic guitars and programmed beats -- and there are a lot -- seem to be nicking tricks from the guy. That's cool and all. But in the end there will only ever be one John Martyn. Rest in peace.