I was probably twenty-one years old when I first saw The Saints at the Trade Union Club in Sydney.
By this stage, the band had cemented their legendary status with “I’m Stranded”, released several albums and founding guitarist Ed Kuepper had already left the band.
I think it was the “Paralytic tonight, Dublin Tomorrow” tour. Front and centre was Chris Bailey, a sweaty, sneering, drunken poet, equal parts inspiring and terrifying.
By the early 80s the mythology of The Saints was firmly embedded with my group of music loving friends and we followed every incarnation of the band. We were equally devoted to Chris’ solo performances and spent many Sunday afternoons in a pub in Sydney’s inner west, listening to him sing sea shanties and twisted love songs, all the while cracking jokes and swigging wine direct from the bottle.
I was in awe of him and his talent. I paid a ludicrous amount to buy an imported vinyl of the songs from his weekly set. I went back week after week to watch him joust with hecklers, knowing that anyone foolish enough to take on Chris Bailey, while he was armed with his guitar, a wine bottle and a microphone, was destined to come off second best.
Like all earnest indie music kids, we had endless arguments about our favourite Saints song, which album was the best and even if The Saints should really exist without Ed Kuepper.
To us, Chris Bailey and The Saints were legends. They thumbed their noses at the mainstream and blasted out of Joh Bjelke-Petersen controlled Queensland. Chris Bailey was “the voice that tore across the world and changed the face of Brisbane,” said music writer Andrew Stafford this week.
He changed the face of Australian music too and we loved him for it.
Never meet your heroes they say. They were wrong. Years later, when I got to work with Chris, he was funny, charming and clever ... genuinely lovely and happy to spend time in your company.
I wished I could time-travel back and tell my 21-year-old self that one day, I’d sit in a wine bar until the wee small hours, drinking red wine with Chris Bailey while he reeled off hilarious tales of life on the road and regaled us with his thoughts on books and politics and favourite TV shows.
“Funny, erudite, brilliant, unstoppable (when on a roll) and way ahead of his time”, one of my friends described him. “He always seemed immortal.”
Chris Bailey died on the weekend. He was 65 years old and I am sad to my core that he is no longer with us.
Watching social media explode when the news started seeping through was a strangely gratifying heartache. To see how much he meant to so many music lovers from across the world. To see his musical legacy so comprehensively acknowledged.
My favourite was someone who posted that The Saints helped to “navigate some of the toughest years of my life. Chris Bailey was my voice when I couldn’t find my own words to say and I am eternally grateful.”
That’s what great music does. Gives us a voice. Helps us through the hard times. Changes our world.