Lydia Lunch


March 10th, 2007

I still miss George Scott. Bigger than life. Beautiful. Baby-faced. A monster on bass. Big enough to pound the hell out of those four fat strings and make them sing like a beast in heat. On stage – dark, brooding killer intensity. Off stage – the same mania but with a wicked sense of fun, a contagious smile, and an immediacy that only hinted at how hungry he really was. Hungry for more of everything. And hot as fricking hell. Naughty rascal he was. Sometimes too damn naughty. I remember his penchant for ripping the receiver off of phone boxes. Pulled that stunt a few times. Amazing. Until he sliced open his hand. Massive gaping wound nearly severing his palm in half. Brute force. Little boy smile. He was dangerously strong when fueled by beer. And irresistibly sexy. Everybody was in love with George. Big bad boy. He loved to wrestle. Would throw me up in the air like a ragdoll on a number of rowdy occasions. I’d squeal like a lunatic drunk with delight.

George Scott and Lydia Lunch, live with 8-Eyed Spy

There was something so raw, urgent, real about who he was, how he played. The music he made. Slinky. Sinister. Brutal. Beautiful. Rough-houser. Hooligan. Heart breaker. His absence has left a crushing bruise, a small empty pocket filled with the ghostly whispers of memory. The memory of a rambunctious man-child greedy for more, who lives on to somehow remind us all to enjoy life with everything you got. Because no matter how much you’ve already done or how long any of us have left, it will never be enough. Never. I still miss George. I always will.

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