Cherished Forever

Primal forces compel my limbs to contort in anarchic poses suggesting magnificent sexual prowess. To a man simmered in poetic juices since ’75, it is hardcore, but giving even less of a shit than it’s possible to give.

At seventeen, and a privileged white kid, there was nothing sexier, more depraved, nor more compulsive than a frothy-haired girl’s voice growling, soaring, straining, urging her man playing bass to throb up the volume. Imploring her man on guitar to finger the sweetest fruit from his burning strings. Her man on drums to rip out bone-pulsing rhythms from submissive skins. Music born of hardship, lost love, and living pain. These were the images that fired my love for the Blues.

But it got complicated.

Weedy chaps in roll-neck sweaters, banging away on creaky typewriters, their desks cluttered with overflowing ashtrays and well-thumbed stacks of Viz, Mad, NME, and Melody Maker, sought to justify their existence. With nothing better to do, they dreamed up words and categories for the intangible—Rhythm and Blues, Psychedelic Blues, Blues Rock, Blue Blues, Progressive Blues, Hard Rock, Street Punk, Drunk Punk, Pink Blues, and Dinky Pop. Dammit, they could complicate a butter dish!

Just like people, music is either good or it’s not. I don’t care if it has a beat or a blush, a rush, or a tremble — whatever! I couldn’t give less of a damn what label they stick on it.

I won’t embarrass Trev Turley with a eulogy, mainly because I have only recently come to know him, and I’d have to Google and copy other people’s words. And I also sense he’s just not that kind of guy. So, all I can say is that his passion for music, of almost any variety, is boundless, and his own music speaks for itself.

Trev was the bassist with Mojo Preachers and, frankly, too many other set-ups to mention. He’s played at many prestigious venues, including Ronnie Scott’s and the 100 Club. His heritage is long, with a distinguished legacy dating back to 1968.