If Tim Smith influenced you, he really influenced you. His legacy following his death aged 59 might be small in the wider realm of pop, but for many of us it feels disproportionately massive. If you ventured far enough into his chaotic world of sound – somewhere between pop, psych, punk and prog – it would inevitably become an all-encompassing love.
The music he created, primarily with his band Cardiacs, pushed the standard structures of rock music into bizarre patterns: resolutely British, with any hint of Americana cast aside in favour of hymns, marches and misshapen folk melodies. The idiosyncratic sequences of chords he assembled were, in any traditional sense, completely wrong, but through sheer buoyancy of spirit they became unwaveringly right. At gigs, his music inspired devotion of the like I’ve never seen before or since. Countless friendships blossomed as a direct result of his work; whole families of groups were formed, all radiating from Tim.
The last gig I was involved with before lockdown was a celebration of Tim’s lesser-known work, a project initiated by our mutual friend, Richard Larcombe, and performed by a somewhat nervous group of five of us. We worked for weeks on this one-off show, trying to get under the skin of his music, as its magic unfolded in a series of “ah!” moments. Tim admitted a couple of years ago that his intricate compositions were largely instinctive. “I had no idea; the tunes just happened,” he said. “They just come out of my stupid head. I am not one of these people what can hear a note and know what it is.” And yet their intricacy belies his modesty. One exquisite and deceptively complex piece, Dergo, became known as Fucking Dergo in rehearsals – but at the finale of the gig, we nailed it. Tim, who had been living in care homes since a stroke in 2008 robbed him of most of his movement and speech, watched us via the internet. After the show, the camera turned to the crowd, who waved to him, saluting his genius.
Cardiacs, formed in the late 1970s, were the ultimate high-concept band. The singular nature of the music was bolstered by Tim’s carefully constructed myth of an exploitative organisation, the Alphabet Business Concern, who dictated Cardiacs activities and held them to account. Their extraordinary live show was characterised by colour, chaos and (fake) cruelty. Early cohorts of the band tell of venues being transformed into psychedelic grottoes which took teams of people hours to assemble, all working for free in a typical display of devotion. Cardiacs would then perform their hearts out, dressed as filthy soldiers with smeared makeup. In an independent music scene where nonchalance was prized and effort derided, Tim and his band tried harder than anyone. And they never broke character.
It won them few fans in the media, but Tim wasn’t overly bothered. According to one legendary story, an unfortunate journalist was sent to meet the band on their Surrey home turf in the middle of summer. They dressed up in full stage gear, crammed into a Mini, kept the windows closed, turned the heating up and chain-smoked cigarettes. Tim instructed them to spray their clothes with water to create a hideous fug. The radio was tuned to static. The journalist was collected from the station and had to cram in the back for the duration of the interview. The car never went above 15mph. Cardiacs were undoubtedly awkward bastards.
And yet in person, Tim was the opposite. His bandmates speak of a generous hippy, a man who made everyone feel good about themselves. He was no extrovert, but was certainly a magnet. He ran an open house, welcomed you in, and offered limitless reserves of enthusiasm and support. He always said that his favourite music was his friends’ music. He’d go to your gigs, and he’d stand at the front.
After attending one of those gigs, a My Bloody Valentine show in June 2008, he was felled by a stroke on his way home a few hours later. He spent the next 12 years wrestling with his condition, with the support of friends who’d play him music and converse with him as he painstakingly spelled out letters on a specially constructed board. A fundraising appeal to help with his care, launched in January 2018, raised more than £125,000, and it led to sufficient improvement in his condition for him to plan a move back to his old house in Wiltshire. Sadly, he never made it.
“He was always looking forward to being in Cardiacs when he was old,” said a friend and colleague. “Twenty years ago or more he was saying that this absurd music would be so much more impressive emanating from a bunch of old men.” But there, Tim was wrong. It was impressive then, and it will be forever.