Mark E. Smith died on January 24. A lot is being written about him at the moment, which is to be expected on the death of a man who was the driving force for—and indeed, the only consistent member of—a rock band with a career that spanned 40 years and 30-something albums. The tributes will have a lot of words in common, such as ‘maverick’, ‘unique’, ‘difficult’, ‘legendary’ and ‘curmudgeon’. Other pieces will say ‘genius’. Some of the more thoughtful ones may mention Smith’s intelligence, wit, humour and occasional uncanny prescience, or even place him among visionary artists like William Blake. This, then, is another tribute, but it is personal one, written in the numb aftermath of loss.

There have been three great musical epiphanies in my life, experiences that irrevocably altered my world. The first was in a student house in Lyneham ACT, in 1976. I was well-fuelled with flagon wine and weed, and heard Brian Eno’s Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy) for the first time. It was as though music was simultaneously taking itself apart and rebuilding itself, and a world of possibilities opened up before me.