Cynthia Sley


April 30th, 2007

George Scott, III.

First remember seeing George on stage with the Contortions at a small club on Bleeker Street. He was like a baby monster on stage with huge feet and floppy hair, attacking the bass with big hammering thrashes. It made me feel like I was finally home, this wacky planet NYC. Because I knew Pat Place, I got to spend some time with George. It was a very small scene back then. One night we all squeezed into someone’s car (a real novelty for the eighties), and stopped by to pick up one very drunk George. He got into the back seat, leaned in to take a big bite on my bony little shoulder. Unwarranted, mind you, and it spoke to me like an ancient love cry. I wore sleeveless shirts for days, flaunting my bruise until it faded away.

George was the kind of person to really sink into your psyche. Wild with abandon. That vivid image of him on stage in love with his bass, finger stroking the strings, head buried in the music. At home, playing me endless surf LPs, indoctrinating me into his world. He heard things I didn’t, and was able to really make those things come alive. He didn’t give a shit about hit songs, fame, (I don’t think any of us did, though) but did give a shit about the music. Music was our kindred spirit, what connected us.

I have an old post card sent from one of his tours with Eight-Eyed Spy, I think. One side shows a naked vintage ass in the drawing, the other side telling me of good times, playing every night, that love of life. That’s how I like to remember George. There was plenty of dark, but there was more light. And I miss him.

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