Fan Tributes

 

 Artwork
These are both courtesy of Caroline Pearce, completed during her A-level days. The original painting of the Alan Rankine one (on the right, of course) measures 21.5" by 14.5" !

 

 

Memorabilia


Ticket care of Libbie Stokes

These tickets and badges are care of Ross MacAskill.

 

 

The following was composed by William G Wilson,shortly after the death of "The voice of velvet",Billy MacKenzie

BILLY MACKENZIE. R.I.P.

"Billy is dead!!!"
I read in the paper
Don't know why I bought it
On impulse I guess

Couldn't believe the headline
"Pop star kills himself"
Can't believe the voice of velvet
Won't be heard again

I met him many years ago
A fine lad if I may say
The best voice in the business
With that there was no Doubt

I sit here listening
To the music he once made
And still can't believe
That he has departed this earth

One day I'll look back
And be grateful
Of the contribution he made to my life
And with thanks...I'll salute him.

 

 

 

 

To download Ian Nipper's short version of 'Those First Impressions' on ZIPPED MP3 format RIGHT CLICK and select 'SAVE TARGET AS'.

 
Both of these are care of Egon: A ticket from Paris and a great money mock-up.

Here's a tribute from the Associates Mailing List's moderator Francois Marckmann, strange I seem to recognise that pose :)
The two thumbs below are of a fan's bedroom (it should be noted that her bedroom doesn't look like this anymore as she is now a pub landlady!). Click for fullsize.

Below is a poem by Jane Barribal who knew Billy through his Whippets. Jane's an artist and draws Whippets and things for greeting cards and such. Jane wrote this the same day she found out Billy had died. So this was written with a very sad heart.

For Billy.

You didn't call to say goodbye.
But curled yourself up, in a kennel, to die.
The rest of the world is wondering why ?
And so do I.
Did nobody listen to what you said ?
It's too late now, because you are dead.
Was I just another who didn't see
Your need for a life that was wild and free ?
I knew of the pain inside your head
But turned attention to my life instead.
Did none of us really understand
Your gypsy soul and love of the land ?
The mountains, moorlands and hunting hounds
Ignored for more of the musical sounds.
Your songs were seemingly heaven's score,
Written, recorded, we cried for more.
Did that drive you away ? Did you shut the door
Because we demanded, bled you to the core ?
Did we not understand you had to be
Alone in the highlands, wild and free
With only your Whippets for company ?
Tears tumble from our blinded eyes
And broken hearts can not disguise
Our wish, if only we had thought
This sorrow might have come to nought.
Our memories are all that's left
And we feel victims of a theft.
Denied the chance to put things right.
Dreams of the future put to flight.
Look down upon us and forgive
Our not understanding your wish to live
Away from us, in another land,
In Peace, with God, to hold your hand.
Although we really do not know
If heaven is a place to go,
We only pray it may be true
And one day we will walk with you,
Free from this sorrow and all pain
To share our happiness again.
So, bravely trying not to cry
For now, I have to say goodbye,
Knowing that you are wild and free.
I thank you for being a friend to me.

(c) 1997 Jane Barribal

 

The following is a poem in response to Billy's death. It is written with heartfelt feeling and not intended to cause offence.
Billy Mackenzie in the whippet shed

When he killed himself on that frigid January day,
he was sure he’d seen God behind the rakes,
winking at him from the rotting gray wood beams, beyond the termites.
A grand, celestial finger beckoning, “C’mere kid, I got something I wanna tell you...”

So, one by one, he counted out the sleeping pills, such crisp blue and white.
Disgusted by the intrusive black writing on the their clean gelatin carapaces,
crude registry and service marks. The necessity of details.
The necessity of grief and regret.

So, one by one, he dropped them down his throat,
little jewels sprinkling his esophagus, the Judas viaduct.
Then he sang, one long, slow final note, “aaaahh...” that died as he died.
What an angel he would make! His face, carved ivory; his voice, the voice of God.

(c) 1998 Liz Sentz

 


(c) Sue Sermbezis 1998

This was drawn by my Auntie! Sadly the ability to draw passed me by.