Saying goodbye to Andy Kershaw…
As we say goodbye to Andy Kershaw, it’s time to offer a personal anecdote about a passionate man. I’m not going to pretend he was tidy, easy or remotely manageable. He wasn’t. That was the point.
We first crossed paths when he was working with the legendary manager Pete Jenner, who managed Pink Floyd and The Clash. One of those figures who quietly stirred things up, he had set up Sincere Management, whose roster included Billy Bragg, Eddi Reader and Robyn Hitchcock. Andy down from Leeds was hired to wrangle the talent, even though he had the look of someone who’d rather be digging through a crate of obscure records than organising tour riders.
Pete had taken on The Hank Wangford Band; fronted by Hank Wangford, aka Dr Samuel ‘Harley Street gynaecologist’ Hutt. Formed in the 1980s, Hank’s band blended authentic country music with sharp, ironic humour and a touch of social activism. Who can forget Joggin with Jesus or my favourite Never Wear Mascara (When You Love A Married Man) Trust me, it was a live show to behold.
Hank was heading to the Edinburgh Fringe, and I was hired to provide creative PR support and show Andy the ropes at the Festival. It was a smaller festival world in 1985. Their Edinburgh run, Hankie Goes to Holyrood, was a success, a proper Fringe event. It picked up a Perrier nomination.
During the run, Andy was heading down to London to audition for the revamped The Old Grey Whistle Test. But he never wavered in his loyalty to the band. That mattered to him.
Before the reviews, we had a bums-on-seats issue, so I did what I tend to do: engineered a publicity stunt. We imported the Texan tradition of cow-pat flinging for Fringe Sunday stunt. A local radio campaign went out to source the turds. “Send us your finest.” A farmer turned up at our flat with a trailer full of them. Only problem: Scottish cow pats havent been baked by the Texan sun. Too soft. No flight.
So there we were, Andy and I microwaving cow pats. One by one. Well, we baked 109 of them. Turning cow waste into brown-dirt Frisbees. The smell, let’s just say, would have breached several modern Airbnb regulations.
Andy was complicated. Troubled, yes. But none of that should airbrush what made him essential: he loved music from all corners of the planet without filter or agenda. Proper love. He played music you didn’t know you liked, the kind that sends you off into corners most people can’t be bothered to explore. Andy delivered authenticity, like John Peel before him, from the same BBC super-producer stable run by the mad, great John ‘once met, never forgotten’ Walters. Andy had his demons that sadly cut short his career; however, for a time, the world got to enjoy the man I knew at that crazy time in Edinburgh.
Rest in peace, Andy. Let Satan go skating his sin-spinning way. The place will be quieter and less interesting without you.
