A lot of people in our industry have passed over these past five years. Too many. But this death today has cut particularly deep.
In between incredulous tears, I have been asking myself why that is.
There are some people in this world whose presence quietly makes the world feel safer.
He was one of them.
I recently wrote about bullying in the Australian music industry. About the aggression. The egos. The power plays. The people who mistake intimidation for authority and bad behaviour for strength.
But, every now and again, you meet someone who is none of those things. And he was one of them.
A true gentleman. A consummate professional. An extraordinary resource for the artists he managed over many years. Someone who fully grasped the business, understood people and, perhaps most importantly, completely fathomed the psychology of what all of us were dealing with every day.
He would call the office and, if I happened to answer the phone, whatever we were supposed to be talking about could wait. There would be a good twenty-minute chinwag first. Grandchildren. Ageing parents. Health. Politics. The industry. The latest madness. Life.
He was one of those rare humans who made you feel safe around him. And safe working with him. In an industry where so many people spend their energy establishing how important they are, he never seemed to need to. His professionalism spoke for him.
But there was one experience we shared that cemented my respect for him forever.
My children were very young and still at school. One day, I received a text message. “I know where your children go to school.” It included specific threats against their lives.
That moment - I will never forget. Terror. Rage. Horror.
The police were called. An investigation began. The message had been sent from a burner phone, but eventually the person responsible was tracked, located and charged.
The circumstances surrounding it were desperately sad and complicated. We had been booking an act whose work had begun to dry up because venues were repeatedly refusing to have them back due to a series of incidents. There were serious substance abuse and mental health issues involved and, ultimately, tragedy struck. It was just awful for everyone involved.
I could understand grief. And anger. And someone desperately needing somebody to blame. But threatening children? That crossed a line that could never be crossed.
From the first phone call, through the investigations and out the other side, there was a car sitting outside our house. It stayed there for weeks. Protection for our family.
He had organised it.
He didn’t make a performance of helping us. He didn’t need applause for it. He just saw that a mother was terrified and he did something about it. I will never forget that. He helped make my family feel safe again.
Perhaps that is why today’s news of his loss has shocked me to the core.
Over decades in this industry, you accumulate thousands of conversations. Contracts. Deals. Arguments. Shows. Tours. Problems. Victories. Disasters. People arrive loudly and disappear just as loudly.
And then there are the quiet constants. The people whose phone number appears on the screen and you’re genuinely pleased to see it. The people you trust. The people you know will behave decently when things become indecent. The people who don’t have to tell you they have your back. They just do.
He was one of those people. And there aren’t enough of them.
Today I keep thinking about all those twenty-minute phone calls that probably should have been five.
I am thinking about his family, whom he spoke about so often and loved so deeply.
I am thinking about all the artists whose careers were steadier because he was standing beside them.
And I’m thinking about a car sitting quietly outside our family home many years ago, placed there by a man who decided that our safety mattered to him.
There are people who leave behind careers. There are people who leave behind achievements. And there are a rare few who leave behind something much more difficult to measure. The memory of how safe you felt when they were in the world.
Today, the world feels heavier without him.
And, for me at least, a little less safe.
Rest in Peace now Sir. Thank you. I will never forget you.
love, Nic xx